The Christmas Cookie Chronicles: Carrie by Lori Wilde Read Free Book Online

been nineteen again. He possessed deep brown eyes a girl could bathe in. Dimples that her index finger ached to caress. He was long and lanky and sexy as sin.
    Stay strong.
    There was no backtracking. No repeating the past. What was done was done. Hmm, how many more tired adages could she drag out to convince herself that it was well and truly O.V.E.R. between them?
    Raylene came over. “What’ll you have, Mark?”
    “Beer will do.”
    “Slummin’, huh?” Carrie couldn’t resist the dig. “Beer is quite a comedown from Dom Perignon.”
    Another guy might have taken offense, considered that putting up with her barbed tongue wasn’t worth the effort, but Mark just laughed. “Actually, Dom Perignon is way overrated.”
    “Aha, so you have drunk Dom.”
    “I have,” he said mildly.
    “You know what, I’m happy for you,” she said, finding that she meant it. “You got everything you ever wanted.”
    “Not everything.” His voice deepened.
    Carrie darted a glance his way, saw dark emotion in his eyes. Was it regret?
    “I wouldn’t blame you for hating me forever,” Mark said.
    “I don’t hate you.” She splayed both palms against the smooth wood of the bar. I still love you, you clueless nimrod.
    But there was no way in hell she would ever tell him that. She’d only quietly admitted it to herself right that very moment. She would always love him in a way, she supposed. Her first love. Her high school sweetheart. But so what? They were ninety thousand reasons they could never be together. She’d just have to live with the hole in her heart until one day when she found a new love who had the power to wipe Mark Leland from her memory.
    At that moment, the music shifted on the jukebox, going from Christmas melodies to The Rolling Stones playing “Memory Motel.” Okay, what joker put that song on?
    “That means a lot to me,” he murmured. Then he moved his hand ever so slightly and lightly touched her right thumb with the pinkie finger of his left hand.
    Barely there, but that tiny touch lit her up like the Fourth of July sky. Move your hand! But instead of jerking away—instead, oh instead—she curled her thumb around his finger. Instantly, a brick of tears log-jammed her throat.
    Do not cry! Under no circumstances are you to cry.
    Mark’s hand covered hers and he leaned closer. “Dance with me, Carrie.”
    It was a terrible idea. She opened her mouth to tell him no, but he was already off his stool, her hand clasped in his, dragging her toward the dance floor.
    And just like that, she allowed herself to be led.
    He slipped his arms around her, his gaze locked on her face. “What’s wrong?” he murmured.
    He could read her so well. Even after all those years. His gentle voice prodded, urging her to tell him everything. The tears were in her mouth now, salty and so close to slipping down her cheeks. She would not let him know how much he affected her.
    “You mean besides the fact you highjacked me into dancing with you?” she sassed and gulped down the tears. There. She’d won.
    “Uh-huh.” His grip tightened around her waist as he two-stepped her around the other dancers. He moved with instinctive grace, never once taking his eyes off her face.
    “I don’t want to dance with you.”
    “I know.” He pulled her closer still. “You can tell me anything, Carrie. I want you to know that.”
    Oh, yes. Just open her mouth and say, I love you. How well would that really go over?
    He guided her head to his shoulder, and like a fool she just kept it resting there, breathing in the manly scent of his cologne.
    Her stomach gave a shaky, vulnerable quiver. He was so much more than he once was. Masculine as ever, but now all the rough edges were polished off. He was on a whole different plane. A Hollywood big wheel. She was only Carrie MacGregor from Twilight. But Mark? He was a star.
    From the jukebox, Chris Issak was singing “Wicked Games.” She had to agree with the lyrics. She did not want to