Read Online No Christmas Like the Present by Sierra Donovan - Free Book Online Page B

lecture?” The carriage stopped. Fred climbed down ahead of her, then stood at the curb below, offering a hand up to her.
    He hadn’t worn the top hat tonight, but he didn’t need it. With his charcoal black overcoat and bright red scarf, illuminated by the old-fashioned street lamps, he fit perfectly into the bustling holiday scene behind him. The hand he held out to her was bare. Lindsay hadn’t thought to wear gloves; she suspected Fred didn’t need them.
    Sure enough, his hand was warm when she put hers into it. As she stepped down to join him, a blend of harmonized voices reached her ears.

    Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat
Please put a penny in the old man’s hat.

    Lindsay glanced down the sidewalk to the left. Carolers, in full Victorian costume. None of them looking as authentic as Fred did, even without his ruffled shirt and top hat.

    If you haven’t got a penny then a ha’penny will do
If you haven’t got a ha’penny, then God bless you.

    Fred kept Lindsay’s hand in his to steady her until her feet made solid contact with the sidewalk below. It had to be close to freezing, so patches of ice were a distinct possibility. But the concrete under Lindsay’s feet was gritty and solid. She felt an annoying pang of disappointment when he let go of her hand, but his smile still held her fast, even as the winter chill stung her cheeks once again. People shuffled around them; Lindsay moved closer to Fred to let them pass.
    â€œWhich way?” he asked her.
    At a loss, Lindsay looked around. The carolers had stopped, to a smattering of applause, and Lindsay heard the clink of coins as they collected change in a tin cup. A pleasant confusion of aromas wrapped around her senses: the sweet smell of baked treats, tinged with the always-enticing scent of chocolate; hints of meat, bread, and spiced apple cider; and one very familiar scent that Lindsay couldn’t quite identify. Smoky, sweet, slightly acrid . . . it niggled at her memory but wouldn’t let go.
    â€œWhat’s that smell?” she asked, as if he could possibly know which one she meant. A wooden cart loaded with pastries threatened to roll over her toes, and Lindsay stepped back, this time closer to the window of a closed shoe store.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’ve never had roasted chestnuts.”
    â€œThat’s what it is!” She giggled. “I tried to cook them once.”
    The corners of his mouth quirked up. “And?”
    â€œIt . . . didn’t work out.”
    Fred’s mouth widened the rest of the way, into another of his ready smiles. “What went wrong?”
    â€œI guess I should have found out how to cook them first. I figured, how hard can it be?” Lindsay stepped aside for a toddler swathed in a fat blue coat, closely pursued by a protective mother. “So I just popped them in my oven, a couple at a time, to see what worked. Nothing did. After a few minutes they’d explode. Sometimes they were dried up, sometimes they were smushy, but they all looked like monkeys’ brains.”
    Fred laughed. “Well, then, you don’t know what you’re missing.” He took her gently by the elbow—a habit she had to admit she was beginning not to mind—and steered her to the right. “Let’s find out what you think of the real thing.”
    He guided her unerringly toward one of the street’s many pushcarts. Clearly, it was the right one; the closer they got, the stronger the scent grew. “You do a lot of cooking, don’t you?” he said.
    â€œNot exactly. Baking, mostly. Cakes, cookies, fudge . . . then I’ll heat up a frozen dinner. I’ve never learned to cook anything that’s good for me.”
    â€œThat makes us even. I never eat anything that’s good for me.” They reached the vendor, a short, swarthy man who probably would have been freezing if it weren’t for the