A New Year Marriage Proposal (Harlequin Romance) Read Online Free PDF Page A

wearing a cotton apron covered in hearts over her skirt and shirt; it made her look younger and much more approachable than she’d seemed the first time he’d met her.
    ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Dinner’s almost ready.’
    He handed her the bottle and the box. ‘The box needs to go in the fridge,’ he said. ‘The wine’s already chilled.’
    ‘Thank you—though you really didn’t need to bring anything. Come up.’
    He closed the door behind them and followed her up the stairs to her kitchen. She’d laid her kitchen table, he noticed, with a white damask tablecloth, solid silver cutlery, very elegant fine glassware and a white porcelain vase containing deep purple spray carnations.
    ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked.
    ‘Given that you waved a pizza menu at me, can you actually cook?’ she teased.
    ‘I make great toasted sandwiches, I’ll have you know,’ he protested.
    She just laughed, and again he had a vision of the way she’d laughed on his doorstep, tipping her head back.
    Down, boy, he told his libido sharply.
    All the same, he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she stood by the hob, stirring vegetables in a wok. Did she have the faintest clue how gorgeous she was?
    The radio was playing a song he really loathed: ‘Santa, Bring My Baby Home for Christmas.’ A super-sweet Christmas song that always meant the festive season was on its way. Quinn’s least favourite time of year. Funny, he’d expected Carissa to listen to opera or highbrow stuff, not a singalong pop station. Which just went to show that you shouldn’t assume things about people.
    ‘That song’s so terrible,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Talk about cheesy. And sugary.’
    ‘Rather a mix of metaphors,’ she said drily.
    ‘You know what I mean.’ He sang along with the chorus. ‘“I wish, my baby, you were home tonight; I wish, my baby, I could hold you tight. Santa, bring my baby home for Christmas; Santa, bring my baby home to me
.
”’ He grimaced. ‘It’s terrible!’
    ‘Well, hey.’ She spread her hands. ‘Meet the original baby.’
    ‘What?’ He wasn’t following this conversation. At all. Or was she teasing him, the way she had about the wheatgrass shot? Did she just have a weird sense of humour?
    ‘My dad wrote that song,’ she said. ‘About me.’
    He blinked. ‘Your dad?’
    ‘Uh-huh. Pete Wylde. The Wylde Boys,’ she expanded.
    He was silenced momentarily. Carissa Wylde was the daughter of the late musician Pete Wylde. And Quinn hadn’t made the connection. At all.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I...um...’
    ‘You hate Dad’s music.’ She shrugged. ‘Each to their own taste.’
    ‘No, I do like some of his stuff. Just not the Christmas song. And I’m digging myself a deeper hole here.’ He blew out a breath. ‘I really don’t mean to insult you, Carissa.’
    ‘It’s OK. I won’t hold it against you.’
    Her voice was neutral and her face was impassive, and he didn’t have a clue what she was thinking. ‘So your father actually wrote the song for you?’
    ‘My first Christmas,’ she said. ‘I was only a few weeks old. I was in hospital for a week with a virus that meant I couldn’t breathe very easily, and I had to be fed by a tube until I was better. The only way Dad coped with it was to bring his guitar to the hospital, sit by my bed and play me songs. That’s why he wrote “Santa, Bring My Baby Home for Christmas”.’
    And now Quinn understood for the first time what the song was actually saying. Pete Wylde had wanted his tiny baby daughter home for her first Christmas, safe and well and in his arms. It wasn’t a cheesy love song at all. It had come straight from the heart.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. And not just because he’d insulted her. Because he was envious. What would it be liked to be loved and wanted so much by your family? It was something he’d never had. His mother had been quick enough to dump him on his aunt and uncle, and he’d always