Grace walked out of the bar with the vodka buzzing her head and the chicken filling her belly in search of something festive.

Half of the mall was outside, with hundreds of white lights strung between the buildings. An explosion of red and green, gold and silver adorned every possible open space to remind shoppers that it was time to help the businesses get into the black. Maybe not in such an obvious way. More by way of encouraging people to spend more money than they should to make others happy one day a year.

Her family did a Secret Santa and a white elephant gift exchange. One where they picked a name and the other didn’t know who got it . . . and another where outlandish, crazy gifts were bought and wrapped without names. That was always a good time. Everyone was given a random number, and the person with number one opened any gift of their choice. From there a person could steal the gift from number one, or open something new. It became quite a fight and often ended up with a tug-of-war over the best, or funniest, gifts in the mix.

Grace was on the hunt for a gift for Erin.

The woman could buy whatever she wanted for herself, so the gift had to be personal and thoughtful. And that was hard. But Grace was determined.

Inside Pottery Barn, Grace found holiday pillows to pump up her space. She browsed the store, attempting not to knock over the many breakable items while maneuvering around other customers. She set the pillows on a nearby table to check the price of a battery-operated candle.

No sooner had she picked up the glass holding the candle than her phone rang.

She fished it out of her purse and lifted it to her ear. “Hello?”

Forty-five bucks? Seriously?

“Grace?”

Smoky voice filled with sexy could only be one person.

The glass in her hand started to slip. She managed to catch it, but as she did, the glass bit into the waxy surface of the candle, completely screwing up the stupid thing. “Dameon?”

“So you do remember my voice.”

Standing in the middle of a traffic pattern of customers, Grace held the glass vase to her chest and candle in her hand while juggling her phone. “It’s not exactly forgettable.”

“So I’m told.”

Grace moved aside for a woman with a huge bag filled with stuff. “How did you get my number?”

“Facebook. I’m calling you from Facebook.”

She pulled her phone away from her ear to look at the screen, put it back. “Seriously? Who does that?”

“I could call you directly, if you like. What’s your number?”

Another shopper walked by and picked up one of her pillows. “Those are mine,” she shouted.

The lady dropped it with a scowl.

“Where are you?” Dameon asked.

“Christmas shopping. Like everyone else in this town.”

“You sound frazzled.”

“You called me from Facebook. No one on the face of the earth does that.”

“I’m unique.”

Her vision was starting to clear. “Why are you calling, Mr. Locke?”

There was a pause. “I like it better when you use my first name.”

Grace unloaded her armful of overpriced goods made in third-world countries on the table holding her pillows and purse. “This is highly inappropriate.” Erin would call him a stalker and confirm it with facts.

“You accepted my friend request.”

“Are you listening to yourself right now? I thought it was a corporate gesture.”

“It’s a personal page,” he said.

“That’s filled with your corporation’s accolades.”

He paused. “My mother does think I’m married to my work.”

Grace placed one hand on her hip. “If that’s your personal life, then your mother isn’t wrong.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.”

This conversation was bordering on ridiculous.

“Why are you calling, Dameon?”

“That’s better.” He sounded so smug.

“Mr. Locke,” she corrected herself.

“We’re back to that?”

Grace closed her eyes and shook her head. “We never got past that.”

“I want to take you to dinner.”

There were few times Grace found herself without words.

This was one of them.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“I’m here.”

“So?”

“No.”

Silence filled the line.

Finally, he said, “I didn’t know you worked with the city. Not at the hotel when we saw each other through the window. Not at the coffee shop. You felt something.”

“I didn’t.” Her denial was too quick. Even she heard the lie in her voice.

“You were scattered and blushing in the meeting. Don’t try and pretend.”

Grace licked her lips and ignored the stares of those around her walking by. “This isn’t appropriate, Dameon.”

He paused, and she knew she’d let her true feelings be known. “Maybe not. But it is.”

This conversation needed to end. He was doing a very good job of getting things out of her she didn’t want revealed. “I have somewhere to be, Mr. Locke. Why don’t you try calling during business hours, since that’s the context in which I know you.”

That husky voice rumbled when he laughed.

It was the first time she’d heard it, and it made quite a dent in her belly. “Okay, Grace. I’ll call you on Monday.”

“That’s better.”

“I’ll talk to you then,” he said.

“Not on a Facebook phone line.”

“I’ll call your office.”

“Good.”

He laughed a second time. “Good night.”

Why did that sound personal? Like something a lover would say sheepishly over the phone.

“Good evening,” she said instead.

Even as he hung up, he was chuckling.

Five minutes later, she exited the store with a half-broken overpriced candle and the desire for two pillows she couldn’t afford.

“It’s called practice,” Grace told Erin as she tugged on a pair of bowling alley–issued shoes.

Around them, lanes were filled with families and couples and even a few single bowlers who were obviously born for the sport.

“Our league doesn’t start until January.”

Grace had talked her brothers and their significant others into joining a league. Because there were an uneven number of them, they decided to have the girls on one team, and the boys on another. Matt was trying to convince one of his friends to join their team, but if he didn’t succeed, they’d do without and use a blind player score.

“I know.” Grace plopped her foot down on the ground and stood in her awkward shoes. “But I like to win. Or at least beat my brothers.”

“Then you probably should have invited someone else to be on your team. The last time I bowled had to be at a birthday party when I was ten.”

Grace moved to where the house bowling balls sat and started sifting through them. “There’s a thing called a handicap.” For the next ten minutes, Grace explained how league bowling worked so that everyone had a chance to win. Obviously, the better bowler you were, the chances of you winning increased so long as your team improved as the weeks went on.