He didn’t want to know if that was true. Picking up her jacket and duffle bag, he started to shove all evidence of her inside. The scented candles waiting to be lit, the pile of inventory papers tucked away on an end table… It all had to go.

“I don’t want you here.”

“I’m also non-negotiable. Contract says so. I’m the foreman.”

“You can’t stay here.”

“Why not?” She scoffed, pulling the duffel out of his hands and returning it to its place in the corner of the room. “Don’t you have a guest room or twelve?”

“Because you can’t, all right? You just can’t.”

The last thing Clark was inclined to do was examine her question. Why can’t I stay here? The question was more thorny than she probably gave it credit for, and he wouldn’t prick himself on the brambles just to satisfy her curiosity.

“What? You’re going to kick me out in the snow?”

“It’s not snowing.”

She clucked, leaning back on the couch, as comfortable and at ease as if she were in her own house.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

He didn’t know what possessed him. His rational mind knew it wasn’t snowing. Better still, he knew it couldn’t be snowing. In Texas, even as far north as they were, the worst they usually got was the occasional cold wind, frosty pond, or hypothermic cow. Yet, his raging heart shoved him towards the window, where he threw open the curtains to reveal that, indeed, not only had the entire front yard of his home been covered in a thick layer of snow, but there was a gentle snowdrift passing by the window.

In a small, private humiliation, Clark’s breath caught at the sight. Then, he remembered himself. Snow in Texas wasn’t beautiful. It couldn’t be beautiful because it wasn’t real. He remembered the town square, which had been similarly covered in a layer of snow so thick and so realistic he’d almost reached out to touch it, and his awe dissolved.

“Fake snow?”

“It’s not a Dickens Christmas without snow. Lots of it.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He slammed the curtains shut, a gesture which resulted in little more than an impotent swaying of fabric. “I’ve never read it.”

Back turned, he couldn’t see the shock play on her face, but he did hear the genuine gasp of surprise she let out at this declaration. He shouldn’t have expected any less from this Christmas freak.

“Never read A Christmas Carol? Well, thank goodness you’re letting me stay.” He turned in time to see her rustling about in her bag, determination written on her soft features, but even the softest, sweetest, most determined face in the world couldn’t deter him. “I think I’ve got my copy in here somewhere.”