Guilt tells me no.
Self-preservation tells me it’ll be fine.
Chapter 6
Brooke
I’m glad I keep snacks in my office. It saves me from crossing paths with Evan the rest of the night. I don’t even sneak a peek when he starts binge baking around one. I fall asleep to the clatter of pans and smell of spiced oranges.
Orange rolls are ready for breakfast when I wake. Not to mention a clean kitchen. My brain immediately calls to mind all the rotten words I sent his way the day before. I don’t know what possessed me to write him off. He didn’t deserve it, not really. Especially not when he was coming to thank me in the first place. But moments like that are prime time for foot-in-the-mouth syndrome. I should apologize. After all, I feel like he was just as blindsided as I was.
I grab an orange roll and report to the registration desk up front. I’m licking icing from my fingers when the first guest walks in. I smile the best I can with a mouthful of sticky dough. I feel like I know the man and his companion, but it’s a faint memory. I gulp down my bite without choking and wipe my hand on my skirt, hoping icing remnants don’t leave a stain.
“Welcome to Willow Brook Inn. Do you have a reservation?”
The man removes his designer glasses and flashes a row of teeth too perfect to be natural. “Rex Miller and Adriana Ross, checking in.”
It clicks instantly. An annoying giggle pops from my throat. Rex smiles because he understands. Being an A-list celebrity, this sort of star-struck behavior must happen to him all the time. I’m not one to follow tabloids or go gaga over the film industry, but he was in the movie I watched last weekend. And now he’s standing in my entryway, checking into my inn.
“Yes, of course.” I try not to trip over my own feet. “I have you set up in the west wing. You have a shower between the two rooms you requested.”
“Fantastic.” Rex leaves the bags by the door to follow me. “What time do we need to be downstairs?”
“I’m sorry?”
Adriana speaks for the first time, face still hidden by her long black hair and enormous sunglass frames. “For filming. We’re part of the panel today. What time do we need to be in makeup and wardrobe?”
“I’m not sure—no one has said anything to me—”
Adriana sets one of her gloved hands on my arm, though with her delicate touch, I barely feel her. “Darling, surely you’ll be involved. I caught the tail end of you with Hot Granny yesterday, and I can’t imagine doing any of this without you.”
“Hot Granny?”
Rex laughs, if you can call it that. It might as well be one of his lines. It’s perfectly rehearsed. “That’s the hashtag on social media right now.”
“Glad we made it in before this stops trending. Best to keep ahead of the curve for optimum effect.” Adriana looks around as though to take in the farmhouse for the first time. “It’s quaint, rustic, has a real simple life feel.”
I’m not sure if she’s complimenting it or insulting it, so I breeze past without acknowledging her words. “I’ll check on what time you should be where. I would wager it’s this afternoon.”
“Eleven-thirty.” Evan’s voice catches me by surprise. I whirl to find him leaning against the doorway to the dining room. How long has he been there? “They’re setting up in the solarium this time.”
“Solarium?” I wasn’t aware I had one of those. “You mean Grandmamma’s sewing room?”
“The gabled one with all the light.” Evan looks me over, head to toe. He has a way of slowing time down, erasing everyone else in the room until all my focus rests on him.
It’s infuriating.
And exciting.
I might be drooling.
I press my lips together to ensure I’m not.
“I heard they want you there too, Miss Cratchett.” Evan’s eyebrows bounce once as if there’s some hidden meaning.
“You must be Evan.” For the first time Adriana removes her glasses. “Adriana Ross and my paramour, Rex Miller, we’re huge fans of your work.”
Evan brightens. “You cook?”
Rex releases one of those perfectly manicured laughs. “Oh, no, not fans of your cookbooks. We love your style, the way you hid from fame all these years, it’s tragic and yet heroic.”
“Thanks. I try to be tragic and heroic at least once a day.” Evan manages a half-smile, but it fades as fast as it comes. “If you’re hungry, I made some sweet rolls. They’re in the kitchen.”
Adriana squeals under her breath. “Self-serve, so provincial.” She looks over her shoulder to me. “Sweetie, you’ll take care of the bags?”
It’s formed like a question, but issued like a command. I force a smile identical to Evan’s. Evan waits for them to be out of earshot before he says, “Looks like you’re well on your way to saving this place. Celebrities, morning shows, now an afternoon special, won’t be long before you’re A-list all the time.”
“Lucky me.” I should be more grateful, but if this is my future, rubbing elbows with the hoity-toity types, I’m not sure I want it.
“Did you like the sweet rolls?” Evan erases some of the space between us with a couple steps.
My cheeks flush before I have a chance to control my emotions. “No,” I lie. “I’ve been too busy.”
“Are you sure? I saw one was missing. I figured you took a bite.”
“Nope. I have business to run. Some of us have real jobs, and do real work.”
If I meant to hurt him, he’s not showing a wound. “You’re sure you didn’t have any? Not even a taste?”
“Maybe Winnie ate it? She’s been around this morning.”
“That’s your final answer?”
I lick the sweetness from my lips, relishing the lie on my tongue. “Of course.”
Evan moves within my personal bubble. My hands tighten to fists, but not because I want to fight him. On the contrary, I don’t trust the plans my hands have for someone like Evan Skruggs.
Slow, with deliberate precision, Evan takes my jaw in the curve of his palm. His thumb catches the edge of my lips. My eyes fall closed, lost in the sensation of his touch. Pressure deepens as he rubs the corner of my mouth with his thumb. Leaning close, his whisper tickles my ear.
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s bit of orange icing at the corner of your mouth, Miss Cratchett.”
I freeze in place, captive to his touch.
“I had a little bite. Nothing remarkable. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Your skirt tells another story.” Evan pulls back until we’re eye to eye, nearly nose to nose. “I’m glad you liked them.”
“Hey, Brooke, are you back here?” Winnie’s voice catches my ears.
Three more seconds, and I fear I’ll succumb to the silver-tongued devil.
“Back here, Winnie.” I mean to shout, but sound barely escapes my throat. Evan backs away, once more leaving me scrambling for a comeback. Thankfully, my cousin rescues me from bad retorts and worse decisions.
“Oh here you—” Maybe she trips over the building tension between Evan and me, because she stops short like she’s hit a wall. “Mr. Skruggs, I was looking for you too. They’re prepping things in the solarium. They’ll take you first, if you’re not too busy.” She casts quick glances between Evan and me, as if she thinks she’s interrupted things.
“Just talking about food.” Evan smiles back at me. “Brooke was telling me how much she liked the orange rolls this morning.”
“In your dreams.” Not my strongest quip, but better than staring at him like a gaping trout.
“Yes,” Evan’s eyebrows quirk, “you were.” He makes his exit with the last words.
Winnie’s eyes widen to saucers. She has the decency to wait until he’s out of earshot before she gets to gossiping.
“He’s so into you.”
“He’s so not into me.” I shake my hands out to relieve the anxiety.
“You’re so into him.”
“I’m not. He’s
my meal ticket. Wasn’t that what you said yesterday?”
“All I’m saying is—“
“What do you need, Winnie?” I cut her off before she can match-make any further.
“Papers to sign.” She waves me to follow her. I stay on her heel, taking careful notice of the work continuing around the inn. More cameras. More crew. Soon more guests. It’ll be worth it to save the inn. It has to be. A drill whirls, and I swear I hear my Grandmother faint in the afterlife.
Winnie pushes the door to the kitchen and slaps her stack of papers on the table. “Sign please.”
I point back to the dining room. “What’s going on out there? I thought they finished yesterday.”
Winnie taps the papers. “That’s what this is about. Network decided you two are quality filming. They want to stream you to the website. Keep things spicy.”
“Because of one cooking show?”
“Honey, you haven’t seen the footage. Chemistry oozed from the screen. People are losing their minds. It’s only a matter of time before you’ve got some cute celebrity name like, Brevan, or Evrooke. Oh, I like that. Maybe I’ll start the hashtag.”
“Stop. No. There’s no relationship. Why would I give up even more privacy?”
“To save Willow Brook, obviously. More screen time is more publicity, more publicity makes more money. Trust me, this is my business.”
“Streaming all the time? Who wants to watch me sleep?”
“No, don’t worry. No cameras in any of the rooms. Only filming in common areas.”
“Great. I’ll hide in my room until this whole thing blows over.”
“No,” Winnie sets her hand over my arm, “I can’t always be here. I need you to keep Evan friendly for the cameras.”
“Are you kidding? No way. That’s impossible.”
“You did it yesterday. I saw you do it just now in the hall. You’re like a lion tamer for that stunning beast. Run interference. It won’t be that bad, I promise.” She taps the papers again. “You didn’t look like you were being tortured, dear cousin.”
Signing my life away takes on new meaning. Maybe not that extreme, but every stroke of my pen, every rattled wall being drilled, all of it slowly etches away at my privacy.
Winnie snatches the signed papers at the last swoop of ink. “I have to get these turned in. Let’s get you into makeup.”
“Makeup? Why?” I mean to plant my feet into the floor, but my cousin won’t hear of it.
“You’re back on camera today. Yesterday was a nightmare. Social media called you the ghost of Willow Brook Inn. The lighting washed you out. We need you looking up to par with Evan.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. Have you seen him? He’s gorgeous, and I’m me.” I straighten a sprig of holly buried in one of my pine boughs as Winnie haphazardly drags me from the kitchen to a woman with cotton candy hair.
“You agreed to help me, right?”
I take the seat under the lights despite my reluctance. “Yes, I guess I did.”
“And you want to save your little inn, right?”
“You know I do.”
Winnie nods her head to the artist. “Then sit here, get beautiful, charm Evan, and make a gingerbread house.”
“Make a what?”
Winnie waves me off like it doesn’t matter. I call her name once more, following her exit, but she doesn’t even slow down. Not until she stops at the door, pats the chest of Evan Skruggs, and walks into the falling snow outside.
Evan. How long has he been there? For someone as popular and rich as he is, the guy blends into the background too well. I should hang a bell around his neck. He catches my eye across the room, a smug smile teasing at his lips. His left eyebrow twitches.
My heart hitches.
He heard me.
Evan takes his time making his way toward me, never looking away. Forget cooking, the man is skilled in this seduction thing.
Worrisome at best.
I’m no match for someone of his caliber. I accidentally flirted with the mailman last month, and Berny’s in his eighties. He still looked at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Getting up to par, huh?” Evan takes the chair next to mine. All his reluctance toward the makeup chair from the day before has vanished.
I clench my eyes closed, happy that my artist has started working. “Those were Winnie’s words, not mine.”
“Oh, I know. I heard what you said though.” Warmth captures my arm for a second. I wish I wanted to pull away from his touch, not lean into it. “I don’t think it’s impossible. I’m sure they’ll work wonders.”
He’s mocking me. Heat flames my cheeks. From embarrassment, frustration, or something else, I’m not sure. I open my eyes to fire a scathing retort, but Evan’s already left.
“You’re saving the inn,” I whisper to myself. “This is all for the inn.”
And it’s enough.
For now.
Chapter 7
Evan
I hope Andrew is happy with the work I put in today. Though I have to say, flustering Brooke is easily the best part of living this life. I smirk at the memory of what she said to my publicist. Compliments like that improve my chances at pulling this off. The money and fame doesn’t seem to impress her. At least she thinks I’m hot.
I check in on the kitchen. It bothers me how much I want to watch her try a sweet roll. I infused the icing with orange oil, hoping for a better flavor. In the past, I never wanted to know if what I made was good or not, not until her comment about everyone lying to me. Now, I need to hear her opinion because I feel like it’s the only one I can trust. A rush flows through me at the thought of her lip under my thumb. I should’ve taken the icing off with a kiss. That would have rattled her and proved my point.
“The gingerbread all ready to go?”
I turn to see a gray-haired man poking his head into the kitchen. He must be a producer or something. Today’s segment is part of the Gina! Show. Typical viewers are stay-at-home moms, bored housewives, and the basic shut-in types, all well within my demographic.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” I couldn’t sleep and started making the gingerbread forms at three a.m. The recipe is a part of my holiday cookbook and the only reason I’m willing to participate in something like this.
“Let’s set it up then.”
He takes the tray from me without another word. I reach to take it back, but the kitchen door swings into my face, blocking my way. I was more confident with it in my hands, like a shield between me and the rest of the world. Without my baking, I feel naked. I’ve hidden behind it for years. Now, I have nothing to shelter me from public view.
I push the swinging door open a crack to peer in on my future. At least it’s not live TV.
A woman with neon blue spiked hair waves me over with enthusiasm I remember from too many failed foster moms from my past. “Hey! It’s the man of the hour! Come on over here!”
I’d rather stay in the kitchen. That’s where I’m comfortable. It was easier yesterday, even if I didn’t appreciate it. Over the woman’s shoulder, I spot Brooke watching me with vested interest. The last thing I want is for her to see me crack at this point. She’s facing the music, I might as well do the same.
The woman greets me with an outstretched hand. “Hi, I’m Gina Mercury. It’s great to finally meet you.”
Her fingernails match her hair, down to the exact hue. I don’t take her hand, and it’s awkward until I speak. “Thanks for having me on the show.”
I don’t mean it, but it sounds like something I should say.
“Are you kidding?” Her hand falls to her side without protest. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. You’re blowing up right now, kid.”
I try not to take offense to the kid comment. I’m twenty-eight, hardly a child. She’s maybe five years older than me. I bet I’m worth more, though it might be a toss-up. Either way, I’m her peer, not some kid. I don’t need her adoration either. All of it makes me uncomfortable. I change th
e subject before she can lay it on any thicker.
“What’s the plan today?”
Gina waves over the couple I met earlier, Rex and Adriana. Sensing her intent, I catch Brooke’s eye and motion her to follow suit. Her artist did a decent job, better than the woman yesterday who turned me into Bozo the clown. Her dark eyes pop and sparkle. When her teeth catch her lip, the red lipstick doesn’t leave a mark, but it does steal my breath for a split second.
“We’re going to have a little competition.” Gina motions for the table in the solarium. “You’ll have ten minutes to create the best gingerbread house.”
“That’s all you want me to do?” I shouldn’t sound unimpressed, but I’m not one to hide what I’m thinking.
“We’ll shoot it for longer. We’ll have conversation throughout. Act naturally. The public loves to see celebrities doing the mundane.” Gina notes Brooke to my left. “They love seeing the normal types rubbing elbows with them too.”
Brooke turns her head, I’m sure to hide whatever emotion plays on her face. It’s a stupid statement. What makes a celebrity special? Up until last week I was no one. I was still a millionaire I guess, but say the name Evan Skruggs and no one would bat an eye. It’s only because of a pill-popping granny that people recognize me now. What an absurd reason to be famous.
Rex asks a few questions about topics and how to incorporate a plug from his next movie, but Brooke has me all kinds of distracted. She changed to a sweater that reminds me of buttercream frosting. Her jeans are tight enough they’d keep a cake from drying out.
“That brings me to my second point.” Gina points to Brooke and me. “I need sparks from you two. Can you give me that?”
“Sparks?” Brooke’s cheeks flush with color.
“Chemistry. Flirting. Everything you gave yesterday morning. Maybe you could help her build her house, Evan. Lean in real close, breathe on her neck a little. Brooke, you give us a little shiver.”
Christmas With Granny McPherson Page 5