Brooke’s resolve is melting like icicles on a sunny day. I pout my lip out as far as I can. “Yeah, Miss Brooke, come play with me.”
Heat smolders in her eyes. I’m not sure if it’s the I’m-going-to-murder-you-in-front-of-all-these-kids kind, or the I-want-you-Evan-take-me-now kind, but in reality they’re close enough to each other, I’m sure I can get it to translate to the positive.
Passion is passion.
“Fine. I’ll take Sadie, Erin, Amber, Sam and Jeremy.” She narrows her eyes. “You get the rest.”
I know what the heat in my own chest means. “You left me the best.”
My team cheers louder than I expect. Not bad for only having met them an hour ago. I wait for Brooke’s team to trudge away in the snow. It’s comical watching her sink thigh deep now and then, but she tries to act cool while jerking herself free. I shake my head. No time to get distracted. After the upset with gingerbread houses yesterday, I need this win.
“Okay team.” I bend down and bring the kids in for a huddle. “We’re in it today. Our goal, if you choose to accept it, is to hunt down the other team, especially Miss Brooke, and bury them so deep in the snow, no one will ever find them. We must be merciless. Take no prisoners! Are you ready?”
I throw my hand into the center, but eight sets of eyes stare back at me like I’ve lost my mind. One starts crying. I straighten, looking for Brooke in the white wonderland.
“Can I get a new team? I broke this one.”
But instead of mercy, a snowball hits me square in the chest.
I stagger back a step, searching the hill for my attacker. Her laughter carries over the hillside.
I was willing to play nice, but not anymore.
Now it’s on.
✽ ✽ ✽
Brooke
Direct hit. My team doubles over in fits of laughter. Evan’s face goes red, and I’m not sure what emotion is burning behind those determined eyes. He starts shouting orders at his team.
We’re in for it now.
“Okay, little kids, get in the fort. Start making snowballs for the big kids.” I jump down in the fort with them, partially for my own safety. The bulls-eye on my head might as well be blinking neon. I demonstrate proper snowball packing technique, one to maximize speed and minimize drag. Those are the ones I tell them to send at Evan. We create a pyramid of ammunition for the older kids to fire on the opposite team. Squeals of delight and surprise light up the hillside. Jeremy takes a snowball to the chest. He falls back, dramatically milking the effect.
“Miss Brooke! I think I’ve dying. I need mouth to mouth.”
I lob a snowball at him in the name of friendly fire. Over Jeremy’s feigned distress, I hear Evan’s laughter. He’s close. He’s coming for me. I take a bag from little Sadie Fenney, and fill it full of frozen ammo.
“Keep your heads down,” I tell them before I boost myself out of the hole and scramble up the hill.
“She’s out!”
The cry seems to energize Evan’s team. Has he turned them into a fleet of goblins or something? Snowballs fly on every side. I duck, I weave, I bob, and I get pelted by what feels like their entire arsenal. To the south I spot Amber, one of the teenagers on my team, hiding in a grove of trees. I sprint the distance, feeling far too invested in the entire ordeal. She and her friend, Erin, welcome me into their safe haven.
“They’re out for blood, Miss Brooke.” Erin’s eyes go wide. Leave it to Evan Skruggs to turn something safe and amicable into all-out war.
“You’re telling me. I think there’s a bounty on my head.”
Amber’s eyes flash with excitement. “A second ago I heard Evan promise two hundred dollars to the kid who brings him Miss Brooke.”
“Well that explains a lot.” I try to push my hair from my eyes, but snow tumbles from my mittens across my nose. “They’re gonna have us pinned down pretty quick.”
Erin brightens. “I know where their flag is. I spotted it while I was running. If I could get a clear shot, I could grab it.”
Her enthusiasm catches hold. There’s nothing I want more than to win against Evan one more time. “I’ll draw their fire,” I tell her and Amber. “You two go after their flag. You ready?”
Amber whimpers, but Erin nods and takes her friend’s hand. “Three, two—”
I don’t wait for one. I burst out of the stand of trees and run as fast as I can through the snow, tripping, falling, rolling in some places, but always moving. As expected, the clamor of voices follows me instead of my two teenage confederates.
“Catch her! I want an Xbox!”
“No, I want a new skateboard!”
The key is to stay ahead of their wish list demands. I jump over a snowy log, hoping to gain some speed, but my numb foot catches. I roll down a second hill, giggling the whole way.
“I heard her laugh. I’m going after her!” Evan’s voice yells from the top of the hill. “Save yourselves! She’s a blood thirsty abdominal snowman!”
I look up in time to see him half-running, half-falling, down the hill toward me, eyes alight with excitement. With not a second to spare, I ball up some snow, let it fly and don’t even stick around to see if I hit my target. When it lands with an “oof”, I have a pretty good idea.
My cheeks hurt from laughing. I take a turn to run up a second hill, but it’s my fatal mistake. Evan’s arms wrap around my waist, pulling me to the ground. The world swirls as our weight tips together, circling, flipping, whirling back down the hill.
I try to grab for a handhold, something to slow us down, but I lose my glove and keep rolling despite my best effort. Inertia gives out, and I collapse against him, breath heaving from my lungs.
For a second I rest comfortably in his arms, in spite of one frigid hand, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Evan’s hand rubs between my shoulder blades, as if an automatic tick, or a limb disconnected from his body. Maybe he’s checking for broken bones. We tumbled down that hill at top speeds.
“I caught you.” His voice rumbles from his chest like distant thunder.
I perch on my elbows, staring down at him. “I’m pretty sure I caught you, Mr. Skruggs.”
“Evan,” he corrects again. His gloved hand pushes the hair from my eyes. “And it just looks that way because my master plan succeeded. All the best traps end looking like your prey wanted to be caught.”
“I don’t know. My arms went around you first, not the other way around.”
Evan peels his head from the snow with difficulty to check out our predicament, me sprawled across him, both of us sunk deep in the snow drifts.
“It does appear that way, but I assure you. I won.”
From the far side of the hills, a cheer rises up from the children. A sure sign that Amber and Erin caught the opposing team’s flag.
“See? That was my team capturing your team’s flag. You took the bait. My team won.”
He blinks once before a soft smile eases over his cheeks. “That’s the problem though, you and me, we were playing a different game. From my perspective, I’m definitely winning.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Evan
I should kiss her. She’s close enough. She’s pretty enough. My heart is racing like I already am. Andrew wants me to, so why haven’t I? She’s just another girl. Just another number. None of it ever matters. Why haven’t I taken advantage of the situation yet?
Because she’s not just another anything. If I threw a snowball at some woman I met in the bar, I’d be sued by morning. Brooke makes me laugh, and that’s not an easy feat. She cares about these kids. She offered up her property for this event, and while I’m sure she’ll get exposure, it’s not like one community activity is going to fix all her problems. Brooke Cratchett is a decent human being who doesn’t deserve to be used by me. Even if I want to.
“Over here!” The voice is too old to be one of my teammates. I mean to pull myself up faster, but despite her slender body, Brooke has me pinned to the snow angel we’ve made on accident.
“Get that shot!”
I groan internally, and probably externally as well.
The camera crews.
I figured we were safe outside the house, away from prying eyes, but no, they found us. Brooke’s whole body turns rigid, completely aware of how it looks to be sprawled over Granny McPherson in the snow. She digs in wherever she can. An elbow to my ribcage, a knee to my stomach, whatever it takes to free herself from the so-called trap I laid for her.
Standing once more, she balls some snow.
“Hey, I’m unarmed.” I put my hands up to stop her, but she only laughs.
“Ha! I caught you, Mr. Skruggs. Take that!” The snowball catches me below my chin, scattering frozen dust beneath my jacket to every place that was recently warmed because of her.
Funny how fast snow in the wrong places can get you to your feet. I scoop up some more powder, intent on firing on her once more, but like the snow bunny she is, she’s gone in a flash.
I drop my ammunition and watch her run over the next hill.
“And it’s Evan,” I say to no one in particular.
✽ ✽ ✽
Brooke
I’ll give him this, the kids have never had this much fun at the town snowball fight before. They’re still out there playing, hours later, even without team captains. I watch from my office window, newly showered, thick sweater in place to warm everything I froze all morning.
An hour ago Evan took hot chocolate to the kids still playing. He didn’t have to do that. I noticed he waited for the camera crew to be on break before he ventured out.
He’s paradox.
One minute he’s playing up the fame and limelight, and the next minute he acts like he abhors the attention. Obviously, there’s more to him than the scandal, and even his empire, but with all the specials we’ve done together, he’s never spoken about his reason why. In fact, he’s never answered a single personal question, other than yesterday when Gina Mercury asked him what his favorite dessert was. One quick answer, “Eclairs.”
The sun is setting. Another day spent. Downstairs the TV is on, likely one of the guests in the search of something more than a book to read. I turn away from the window, back to my desk. Two will check out tomorrow, four more will check in. I secretly hope my kitchen fairy will make another show stopping breakfast. I don’t know what I’ll do when he’s gone. He doesn’t even know how much he’s saved my rear with his anonymous cooking sprees.
The light in my computer flickers off. I stretch my arms overhead, leaning left then right, but you can’t stretch out an ache in your heart. Evenings like this are when I miss them the most. Grandpapa would have out his chess set, not playing, but practicing strategy with an invisible opponent. Grandmamma would be in her sewing room, the solarium I guess. The whirr of the sewing machine would light up the air. I’d curl up with a book in one of the gables, content to enjoy life with the only family I had left. But the air remains still, other than the TV Grandpapa swore he’d never allow in the house.
A slight rapping catches my ears. I spin around, feeling the intrusion on my sacred space down to my bones. Evan Skruggs fills the doorway, backlit by the setting sun through the picture window. Over his shoulder, I spot the last of the children scurrying off to meet their parents. Evan’s cheeks are still pink with chill, evidence that he was outside recently. Was he playing with them? Or was it another photo op for him, like it was on the hill with me?
“I saw the light.” He takes the last two stairs into my office. “I thought it might be you.”
“I’m getting things ready for tomorrow. Do you need me to set anything up for you? A ride to town? Pick anyone up from the airport? More supplies?”
With a faint frown, he shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. I made cocoa. You never came and got yours.” Evan extends a mug to me. “I made the marshmallows from scratch.”
“Of course you did.” I take the mug. Our fingers brush. I banish the errant thoughts that billow up in my mind. “Is there anything you can’t make?”
He shrugs, but it’s slight, barely a bounce. “You tell me. I find myself waiting on your approval for everything I cook these days. It’s not decent until it has the Brooke stamp of approval.”
“I’m hardly a professional judge, Mr. Skruggs.”
“Evan.” He takes a step closer, foot falls echoing through the floorboards. “Why won’t you call me Evan?”
My lips clamp shut, unwilling to divulge a secret. “It’s not professional.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t tell Winnie to call you Evan.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why me then?”
The muscles around his eyes twitch, almost imperceptible in the low light from my desk lamp. “Try the cocoa, Brooke. I’m dying to know what you think.”
I breathe in the scent of it first. Notes of hazelnut, caramel and dark chocolate tease my taste buds. I tilt the mug, never breaking eye contact with Evan, and a splash of cocoa catches my tongue. I breathe out a soft hum as the flavor warms me not physically, but emotionally. If I close my eyes it feels like Christmas is as it should be, Grandpapa and Grandmamma downstairs, fire aglow, and carols playing on the radio.
“Well?” Evan breaks the spell. “How is it?”
I pull the mug closer, chasing that feeling. Emotion crowds my throat, pricked by the memories he brought to the surface. “How’d you make it taste like Christmas?”
He should smile more. I spend too much time wishing he’d smile. When it spreads, not only though his cheeks, but in his eyes as well, he’s a new creature.
“It should taste like chocolate. Though with your pine boughs everywhere, I wouldn’t doubt that one might have fallen in. Maybe that’s what you’re tasting.”
I take another sip, and my eyes fall shut to capture the flavor and feeling. I can feel the fire roaring. Sleigh bells jangle outside from Grandpapa unharnessing the horses. It all comes back in an instant.
“No, I mean, it tastes like Christmas feels.” I take another sip. Happy tears pool in my eyes. “You must have had the most epic Christmases to be able to capture this in a drink. What? Big holiday parties? Fancy clothes? Presents stacked as high as mountains?”
Evan backs away, just one step, but I feel the strain in that movement. “Not really. Flavors work well together and it builds a profile. Baking is basically chemistry.”
“But what was your Christmas like?” I don’t know why I need to know. Maybe it’s the Granny persona, and curiosity for where that all started. What kind of man wakes up and decides his alter ego is a grandma? Maybe it’s the way he’s evading me. Sneaking back toward the stairs like I’m chasing him with a snowball again. Maybe I just need to know what makes someone like him tick.
“Cold.” Evan doesn’t give me any more of an answer than that. Though it explains his expertise with snowballs and snow forts.
“Any siblings?”
“No.”
“Me either. I have Winnie, of course, but she’s a cousin.”
I open my mouth to say more, but Evan drops onto the top step. “I need to go. Sorry.”
“Was it something I—”
“I’m tired. Long day.” He reverses down the stair, as though fleeing a disaster. A second later his head pops back up the staircase. “You liked it though? The cocoa?”
“I loved it.”
For a second all the ghosts of his past fade away. “Good. I’m glad.”
He leaves me there wondering what those ghosts might tell me if I ever got close enough.
Chapter 9
Brooke
Strange how comforting the sounds of him baking in the night have become. It’s not only because it means I’ll have something to feed my guests tomorrow, but having someone else awake helps me to sleep. It’s not like Evan’s watching over me, not really, but a girl can pretend.
By morning, I’m left with another mystery. When I peeked well after two, the counters were strewn with at
least three types of bread, a couple trays of cookies, and apple fritters drizzled with icing. When I check in the morning, only half the fritters remain. Which begs the question again, what does he do with all that food? I don’t think he eats it. No man can work out long enough to burn that kind of food. I hope he’s not throwing it away. It’d be such a waste if he is.
My only thought is that he’s stockpiling it in his room. Since I need to do some housekeeping anyway, I suppose I’m allowed a little snooping. With my regular guests off on adventures, and Evan preoccupied with his agent, Andrew, I have the perfect alibi to check out his room.
I hustle up the stairs, sheets in one hand, cleaning caddy in the other. I strip the two other rooms in record time, already drowning in the guilt of what I’m planning. I knock at Evan’s door, knowing he’s downstairs in the living room.
“Mr. Skruggs, I was going to make the bed and give you some clean towels.” Of course there’s no answer, but my nerves remain tight as I enter the navy room. His bags are under the window, only a few personal items falling out of them. I yank the sheets from the bed and toss them into the hall. They hit the floor and release a cloud of whatever cologne Evan wears.
Swoon.
It makes me want to purr.
I spread the sheets over the mattress, working quickly because I’ve noticed Evan doesn’t have much patience, and the meeting won’t last long. The comforter falls into place. I smooth the wrinkles. With one quick glance at the doorway, I know I’m alone.
My knees pop as I drop to one of his bags. I shift the clothes back, searching the depth to see if he’s jammed the pumpkin bread inside. No dice. I peek in the pocket but only find a wristwatch worth more than my car. I zip it shut and move to the bag next to it. No food, not even a crumb. I’m about to abandon the idea when a photograph catches my eye.
Folded in half, I might have missed it except for the writing scribbled over the back.
“Me and Santi at Manna Meals”
I open the photo, surprised at what I find. It’s Evan, sure, but younger, at least ten years, probably more. He’s got his arm draped around the shoulders of an older man, maybe late fifties. Evan wears an apron. Stains cover the front of him, but I’ve never seen a smile so broad as the one he wears in the picture. Gone are the trappings of his wealth. No expensive watch, no designer jeans, no salon haircut, what he wears doesn’t even fit him. The pants ride up at least two inches above his shoes. The striped shirt is two sizes too big for him. Though with the muscle mass he’s added with age, it would fit him fine today.
Christmas With Granny McPherson Page 7