Once more his bad attitude seeps through.
“Which one has a TV?” He points between them.
Winnie jumps to my aid. “Here at Willow Brook Inn, the rooms are more of a sanctuary.”
Evan turns his glare on me. “What’s she trying to tell me?”
My patience is wearing thin. “No TV’s in the rooms. There’s one in the living room downstairs.”
“Fine, I’ll have one brought in.”
“No,” I step between him and the room, “you won’t. This is my place of business, and I don’t care who you are, or how much money you have, I won’t let you walk all over me. The rooms are a sanctuary, and I plan to keep them that way long after you’re gone, Mr. Skruggs.”
“Evan.” He glances toward the navy blue interior of the room I selected for him. “Clearly I’m going back in time. Can I expect a sponge bath every night, or am I supposed to rinse with a bucket in the yard?”
My face glows hot for a split second. “As I said before, your room is one of the few with its own personal shower. Hopefully, you’ve learned to clean yourself.”
Evan meets my eyes, burning straight through me. “Only just recently. I’m up for a refresher course if you’re offering.”
I roll my eyes and shove his bag inside. “I’ll send the rest up with one of your burly men.”
His hand catches my arm, strength pinning me in place. “You got my list?”
The shopping list his agent sent over, a long list of supplies he requires for the kitchen.
“I received it, yes,” I tell him. His eyebrows lift as if to confirm the rest. “It’s a bit extensive, don’t you think? You’re really going to need one hundred pounds of flour in the short time you’ll be here?”
“I have habits I need to maintain. I live a certain way, and I don’t plan on changing. I’ll also need access to the kitchen twenty-four hours a day. Free rein to do whatever I want.”
I pull my arm from his grasp, fully regretting every choice that’s led me to this moment. “Well it’s still my house. If I need the kitchen—”
“For all those guests you don’t have?” His smile twitches like a naughty child.
“We’ll make every accommodation we can, Mr. Skruggs.”
“Evan.” He makes sure to correct me before Winnie pulls me down the stairwell and cuts off any retort on my part. She doesn’t stop dragging me until we’re back in the main dining area. She drops her hand, and I let out an aggravated groan.
“He’s nothing like Granny McPherson. I own those cookbooks because it’s all about love and kindness, and where on earth does he come in? No way did that ogre write any of it.”
“Yeah.” Winnie runs her fingers through her short hair. “That’s my problem. He’s nothing like the image we made for him. Now that little Crack McP has exposed his real identity, I have to make the country love him.”
“Good luck. I doubt that’s possible.” Another drill shakes the house and my nerves jar along with it. My grandparents must be rolling in their graves. It was bad enough when I updated a few of the rooms, but now this chaos? I’ve betrayed everything they stood for at this point.
“Look,” Winnie takes me by the shoulders, “I need you to help me make him come off agreeable. If he goes down, I do too. He’s my top paying client I never knew I had. If he looks good, I look good, and then you’ll make money.”
“But the inn, Winnie. This paycheck from the network will help, but without guests booking rooms…”
“Trust me. When word gets out that he’s here, you’ll be so booked up, you’ll be turning people away.”
“And when I burn down the kitchen again?”
Winnie shrugs like it couldn’t happen. “You heard him, let him cook.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Brooke
I keep to my office the rest of the night. Since I wasn’t expecting my guest until morning I don’t feel bad not feeding him. Besides, it’s a bed & breakfast, not bed and any meal he wants because he thinks he hung the moon and every other celestial body. Up until five days ago, no one knew who he was anyway.
Winnie’s wager seems to be right. Word leaked that Evan Skruggs will be staying at Willow Brook Inn, and the phone is ringing for the first time in weeks. Most people don’t want a long stay. They’re opting for a peek at the madness I’ve landed in, instead of staying for the full celebrity meltdown I’m expecting.
Around one a.m. I push back from my desk, flip off the light and head for my bedroom in the east gable. I still have calls to return. After the Thanksgiving disaster, it’s good news, but none of it will matter if my bad luck keeps chasing them out the doors.
A clatter downstairs sharpens my senses. I pause, waiting, but I hear it again. I imagine a bandit in the kitchen, or at least a pudgy raccoon with its furry mask. I pull my baseball bat from the hall closet at the top of the stairs. I don’t play, but I’m better with it than a handgun. Inching down one stair at a time, I creep to the main entryway. The house remains still.
Pumpkin spice catches my attention like fingers pulling me by the chin. The noise comes from the kitchen. I lace my fingers around the bat, tightening my grip. Raising it over my head, I push back the swinging door far enough to catch a peek through the sliver of an opening.
Certainly not a masked bandit, but I feel like a raccoon might make less mess. Flour dusts almost every surface, including his face, shirt, and two handprints on the seat of his flannel pajamas.
Not that I was looking.
Evan stirs something while humming what sounds like Deck the Halls. Two trays of cookies are shaped and ready for the oven. I count three separate bowls with something in them scattered around the kitchen. The air is heavy with cloves, cinnamon and caramelized brown sugar. The biggest surprise is the change in Evan. I wouldn’t call it happy, I doubt he’s capable, but at peace is closer to the truth.
I let the door fall shut, not wanting to kindle his anger with me in the middle of the night. I don’t have the energy to fight back, and I suppose I gave him permission to use the kitchen as much as he wants. I lean my bat against the banister knowing there’s no danger, just a madman with a spatula. I don’t know if all celebrities are this odd, or if I lucked out, but hopefully I’m up early enough to clean before the crew arrives for the first special.
Chapter 4
Brooke
Maybe he comes with elves. I know he’s not Santa Claus, but when I wake in the morning to clean up the mess I’m sure he left, the kitchen is spotless. My only thought is elves. Or a team of housekeeping assistants who are used to his strange habit of late night baking. When you have as much money as Evan Skruggs, I suppose you can pay anyone to do just about anything. I can’t complain. It would’ve taken me hours to clean the mess he made.
Maybe I imagined the whole thing.
Maybe I was dreaming.
The doorbell rings. I sigh. That’ll be someone, either an agent, or a publicist traitor I used to call my cousin, or someone else needing to impede on my little world. I hold my breath, taking a moment to remind myself that this is a blessing. My goal is no room at the inn this Christmas, but maybe I thought there’d be less network filming.
“Good morning!” A tall blonde pushes the door back the second I open it. “You must be Brooke Cratchett. Thank you so much for having us today. I’m excited, are you excited? Oh John, look how excited she is, she can hardly speak.”
She’s got that part right. Though I’m sure the hardly speaking part has more to do with her talking over me than my excitement, or even lack thereof.
“Go on and set up in there. Then three in the kitchen. Let’s get makeup in the entry. Move that table and it’ll open up this room.”
The woman, who never bothered to introduce herself, goes about rearranging my home, perfectly at ease with her lack of manners, while I stare on open-mouthed, not at ease at all.
✽ ✽ ✽
Evan
I wondered if they might rattle her. Yesterday she seemed li
ke the type of woman who kept all her objections buried in a deep hole, like sunshine and butterflies might conquer all. Watching Mona Montague and John Johansen rearrange her dining room has Brooke nearly unhinged. I’d wager this kind of excitement doesn’t come her way very often.
Two men start to carry a china hutch, complete with the china still displayed inside, but Brooke throws herself in their path like a mother trying to stop a runaway train.
“Wait a dagburned second!” Her arms shoot out to stop them. “That’s my grandmother’s china, and if you think you’re going to drag that like it’s common day dishes, you’ve got another thing coming!”
I should stay out of it, keep my head down until someone asks who the glowering guy in the corner belongs to, that’s the perk of my anonymity after all, but a dish falls to the ground, bounces once and snaps in half.
“Why you little—”
I step in before Brooke goes atomic. “Hey, what’s the problem here?”
“They’re breaking my Grandmamma’s dishes.” Brooke shoves the shards of china into my face like it’s the crime of the century. I doubt they’re irreplaceable, unless that department store has gone under. They look clearance rack knock off. I could have something real here by tomorrow to replace them. But tears well in her eyes, and it weasels under my skin like a sliver. Curse my still-beating heart.
“Guys,” I step between the soon to be wailing innkeeper and the network muscle, “does this have to move?”
“Mona wanted the room clear for makeup.”
I shrug. “It’s against the wall. I doubt she meant this one. Maybe leave it, okay?”
The thicker of the two nods and drops the curio cabinet. I cringe at the clank of glass dishes in surround sound.
“Thank you.” Brooke watches them leave. The vengeful glint in her eye makes my skin crawl. Sunshine and roses most of the time, but clearly I don’t want to cross her. Or her china.
I’m about to try to comment on the chaotic state of things, or apologize for ruining her life, but some pink-haired woman catches my arm and shoves me in a chair to do my makeup. Brushes attack my face like I’m stuck in a carwash. Powder goes up my nose, triggering a sneezing fit. They don’t stop through all six sneezes, determined to win the battle in the end. Someone else applies gel and slicks my hair back. This whole ordeal is a violation of my rights and privacy, I’m sure of it. This is why I hired someone to take my place. I’m not meant to be around other humans.
“That’s enough.” I say it, but no one seems to hear me. They keep pawing at me.
“That’s enough.” I try again. The artist in front of me splashes pink over my cheeks. I push her hand away. She frowns and snaps the black clamshell of rosy powder in my face. My chest tightens. The smell of pine overwhelms my senses. That innkeeper put boughs of trees on every flat surface, I swear. I’m living in the middle of a freaking forest. The world spins. Brushes jam against my face. I clench my hands over the armrests to try to quell my temper, but I don’t like any of this. “That’s enough!”
They fall back from me as if I’m dangerous. I can’t catch my breath. My chest heaves with each inhale as if the oxygen has been sucked from the room. One glance in the mirror and I groan. I look like a clown.
“Wet wipe.” I stick my hand out, expecting compliance, but no one follows direction. “Wet wipe, now!”
But no one gives me what I’m asking for. Instead Mona ‘Morning Glory’ Montague breaks through my circle of terrified make-up artists and makes that awful tsk-tsk sound I know too well from my childhood full of easily disappointed foster moms. “Aww, someone doesn’t like getting his face done, does he? Remember when you used to be like that, John? Always fighting them every step of the way?”
John laughs from the other side of the room, sipping a cocktail at nine in the freaking morning. “Yes, and now I just lay back and enjoy the torture. You’ll learn, my boy, you’ll learn.”
I clench my jaw, wanting to call this whole thing off. I’m no one’s boy, that’s part of my problem.
“Get him in wardrobe.” Mona motions for someone in the crowd to find me. “We’re on in ten minutes. Chip chop, we need our Santa Claus.”
My eyes go wide at what she’s insinuating. I glance around for an answer, but all I find is Brooke Cratchett still holding her broken china plate. I open my mouth to ask, but receive a face full of red and white fur instead.
Santa Claus.
They want me to dress up as freaking Santa Claus.
“No.” I shove the costume away. “Not happening.”
“Oh,” Mona holds a cocktail of her own, “then just the hat sweetheart.”
“No.” I’m not their stage dog. I won’t do tricks. I cook. Santa makes toys. There’s no connection. I hate Santa Claus. No chance am I dressing up like that coal dropping liar.
“Listen, honey. We’ve got a segment planned. It’s live. We’re on in eight minutes. I need you to cooperate.” Mona’s dropped the happy voice, showing her true colors as the emasculating control freak that she actually is, and I refuse to break.
“I don’t care what you have planned. It’s not happening like this. I’m not wearing a costume.” I pull at my t-shirt. “You want people to know me? This is me. Jeans and tee.”
She actually rolls her eyes. “No one told me you were going to be difficult. Fine. Whatever. We’re going to start with you baking in there, then come out here for the exclusive interview. I hope you’re ready to spill your guts.”
Panic clenches my chest again. In the same second, some man starts jamming something into the back of my pants. I reel around, fists clenched, ready for a fight. His hands go up like I’ve done something wrong.
“I’m just fitting you for a mic, buddy.”
“No.” I tear the pack from my body, throwing it on the ground. “No, this is over. I’m not doing this.”
“What?” Mona looks like she might throw her wine glass against the wall. “You can’t quit.”
“Just did. Get out.”
Her eyes flash. One of her talon-long nails points in my direction. “I’ll ruin you, Evan Skruggs. I’ll watch you burn, never to be seen again. No one embarrasses me on my show. Do you how hard it is to get a spot—”
“Wait. Hold on.” Brooke sets her broken dish on the window ledge. “I have an idea.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Brooke
Do I really have an idea, or am I worried this is about to blow up in our faces? Winnie told me good publicity for him will save my inn. If he self-destructs, then I lose this place, and I’m not willing to go down over a Santa hat.
“Let’s go at it from another angle. Teach me. Teach me to cook whatever it is that you want to make.”
“What?” Evan squints like I’ve lost my mind.
Way past you buddy, it’s been gone for years.
“You’re not comfortable with this idea, I get that. Maybe you need to warm up to it? I’m a horrible cook, so maybe you can show everyone that even a hopeless screw up like me can cook with a little help from Granny McPherson magic.” I have a habit of talking too fast when I’m scared. I yank the Santa hat from Mona’s hand and jam it on my head. “I’ll even wear this. How about it?”
“What about the interview?” Mona turns her wrath on me.
I straighten the hat, hoping she’ll still take me seriously. “Ask a couple questions while we bake. If he wants to answer them, he will. If not, I’ll drop a spoon or set the place on fire for a distraction.”
They think I’m kidding because everyone laughs. If only they knew my track record.
“What do you say, Evan?” John tries to smooth everything over. “Do we have a deal?”
Slowly, Evan nods. “I can work with it.” His finger comes up to point at the two of them. “Nothing about my past, or might set the place on fire myself.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Evan
I still can’t figure out why she did it. Was it because I stopped them from breaking all those dishes?
No one helps for free, at least, no one helps me for free. She must have an ulterior motive, or at least she feels in debt to me over that curio cabinet. There’s something, I can’t see it yet, but I doubt she’s doing this out of the goodness of her heart.
She straightens the stupid hat one more time and smiles over her shoulder. There wasn’t time to get her in makeup, or wardrobe. The woman is facing national television with a red reindeer sweater, jeans and that stupid hat. She’s either brave or crazy. Possibly both.
“Smile,” she whispers. She gives me a big one like maybe it’ll help me find mine. I can’t smile on command, and definitely not when I’m about to freak out on national television. I can play the part of Casanova with a couple drinks in me, but when it comes down to it, I’m a social recluse with anxiety issues.
I didn’t think about what that publicist meant when she said cooking specials. I’ve never done this on camera before. I haven’t cooked in front of anyone in years. Every recipe is tested in my penthouse kitchen. When I’m happy with it, I forward the recipe to the staff. I don’t know what happens after that. Eventually, they all end up in my books. The idea that people are about to watch me in homes across the nation has me breaking out in a cold sweat. This was why I had Hattie. I don’t do well under a microscope. People don’t like me.
“Rise and Shine, America!” Mona laughs a horrible, rehearsed laugh. “Isn’t it a great morning? We are sure excited for our first guest, aren’t we John?”
“I’m so excited, I’m gonna wet my pants!” John laughs his ill-timed joke off, but I have to admit we’ve at least got that in common.
“By now you’ve heard the news that the woman we all came to know and love as Granny McPherson was actually a stand-in for the real Granny. You’ve all been dying to meet him, and ladies, let me tell you, he’s a heartthrob and a sweet treat. Introducing, Evan Skruggs.”
She waves her arm in my direction, and it’s only seconds before every camera in the kitchen points at me. This is what a deer feels like facing down a semi-truck. These people expect brilliance, they expect star quality, but there’s a reason I’ve been hiding in the background all these years.
Christmas With Granny McPherson Page 3