I run my finger over his face, drawn to the stories etched deep in his eyes.
“Who are you?” I whisper, knowing I won’t receive an answer.
✽ ✽ ✽
Evan
I wonder if she ever lights the fireplace. It’s wood burning. I’ve never had one. The two in the penthouse are both gas. Standing around a rusted out burn barrel doesn’t count for much, but I wonder if I could get a fire going anyway.
“Hey. Are you paying attention?” Andrew snaps his fingers in my face until I bat him away.
“Try not to be so boring. It would help.”
“I’m sorry.” Stupid for him to say it when the tone of his voice tells me he’s anything but sorry. “I’ll try to not bore you with the insignificant details of your future.”
“Tell me what I need to know. You don’t usually give me every detail.”
“Well, forgive me Evan, but we got away with that in the past because of Hattie. She handled the other details for you. Now there’s quite a bit more to deal with.” Andrew must see the frustration in my face because he snaps the binder shut. “Fine. We’ll stick to the matter at hand. There’s a major offer on the table.”
Just like that, he has my full attention. “What kind of offer?”
“One that would take a little work from you to sell.”
“Why are you being cryptic? Aren’t I already working hard to sell an image?”
“Yes, that’s true, but this would be different. This would be the death of the Granny McPherson name, and the start of something entirely new.”
I’m not one for beating around the bush. I wish he’d give it to me straight.
“What’s the offer, Andrew?”
“It’s more like a rebranding. The publishing company, the same one that’s printed you for years, they want you.”
“Great. They have me.” I stretch my neck side to side. I should’ve insisted we hold this meeting in the kitchen. I’d do better if I was working some dough, better to take my frustrations out on that than Andrew.
“Yes, they’ve had your thoughts and recipes, and that brilliant mind of yours, but now they want your face for an entirely new line of cookbooks.” He pauses to build tension, but it makes me want to punch him. “Bad Boy Baking Company.”
“What now?” My frown twists my face into knots. “What nonsense is this?”
“Women are loving you, Evan. They all want to be with you. The company wants to strike while the iron’s hot. Think of it. Bad Boy cake mixes, Bad Boy kitchenware, Bad Boy apparel and cooking DVD’s with you baking topless.”
That drives me to my feet. “Hey now, I don’t know about all that.”
“What’s the problem? You always seem to have a new woman on your arm. At least now you can make a little money off this act you have.”
“That’s just it, Andrew. It’s an act. I don’t want center stage.” I walk toward the fireplace, but without the warmth I have no reason to stay. “I like what I had. I develop the recipes, I write the books, and you handle the marketing. I’m not interested in being in front of cameras.”
“That’s not the world we live in.” Andrew leans forward, driving his fingers into his hair. “People want to know the person behind the pages. There is no privacy, not if you want to make it big, or in your case, keep it big.”
I pace the floor. The smell of pine makes me nauseous. Between the eight-foot Christmas tree and the garlands lining the crown molding, I’m basically living in a forest.
“What would it mean, taking on this persona? What do they want from me? I’m not into motorcycles. I won’t get tattoos, or wear leather pants.”
“Leather pants? Man, I don’t want to see that.” Andrew motions for me to sit down, but I’m way too agitated. He gives up and falls back against the cushions. “They want you to be you.”
“Be me? Cranky? Anti-social?”
Andrew counts the rest off on his fingers. “Perpetual flirt. Womanizer. Shirtless has come up more than once. But it all comes back to Brooke for the time being.”
“Brooke? What does she have to do with any of this?”
“You’ll charm her, get her to fall for you, and then you’ll dump her on live television. That’s what they want. They want the bad boy on the prowl. They want the drama of a whirlwind romance and break up.”
The thought makes me ill. “Not Brooke. I can do it with anyone else, even Winnie if I have to, but not Brooke.”
“I don’t see the hold up. She’s into you. It doesn’t take much to see that. You could have her wrapped around your finger within twenty-four hours, maybe less.”
“She’s a good person. I can’t do that to her. It’s like kicking a puppy.”
“A bad boy would do it.”
“Yeah well, maybe that’s not who I am.”
I move to make a quick exit, but Andrew catches my arm. “Hey, you’re not the only one with a life on the line here. If you lose everything, I do too, and so do a lot of other people. We’re counting on you to make it all work, Evan. You have a corporation of employees counting on you to make the right decision. It’s not like she won’t benefit as well. This kind of scandal will put her on the map for years. She’ll get over it.”
“It feels wrong.”
“You remember what you said to me all those years ago? You said you’d do whatever it took. You were pretty bad back then, weren’t you?”
At the mention of those times, I feel the dirt under my nails, the holes in my clothes. Anger fueled my every move, that and determination to make more of myself. I would have done it back then. Don’t I owe it to folks to be willing now?
“I’ll think about it.” I jerk my arm free and make my exit, headed for my room. Passing by the windows at the front of the inn, a few flashes go off. Someone shouts my name. Press or fans, I don’t know. I don’t care either. To be honest, I’m a little sick of both right now.
I never wanted this part, the fame that went along with the fortune. That’s why I signed up to let Hattie take the brunt of it. I should pack my things, head back to the penthouse, and start selling my properties. I have more than enough cash to retire at this point. I don’t need the rest.
But Andrew’s words come back and haunt me. There are people counting on me. The frozen food division. The cookware. The packaged foods, and of course the books. Each department has employees, all those employees have families. Is it fair to bail on them, especially now with Christmas looming? If people aren’t sold on the Granny McPherson brand, aren’t I obligated to give them what they want? Even if I find that image morally repugnant?
I don’t have an answer by the top of the staircase, but I do have an intruder. I cock my head to the side, unsure if I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. Some woman has her face planted into my pillow.
“Hey!” I shout loud enough that it startles her. The pillow drops to the floor, and Brooke stares at me with wide eyes.
“Evan, hi.” Her mouth still hangs open. “I thought you were in a meeting.”
“I was.” I snag my pillow from the floor. “Why are you in my room?”
She points to the freshly made bed. “Housekeeping.”
“And you’re sniffing my pillow because…” I let it hang there between us, enjoying the way she’s squirming.
“Not sniffing.” Her cheeks blush to my favorite shade. “Fluffing.
“With your face?”
“I had to sneeze.”
“You sneezed into my pillow?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. “I’ll change the pillowcase.”
“I should hope so.” I want to call her on the fact that she was snorting my scent like a drug addict, but maybe she’s suffered enough. “Can I use my shower? Are you done in there?”
“Yes, that’s fine.” She rips the pillow from my hands to strip it of its case. Brooke jams another one on before she smacks it repeatedly. “I’ll be out of your hair any second.”
“Oh, I thought you were off
ering that sponge bath we talked about.” I shed my jacket and lay it across the bed. “Full-service amenities and all that, right?”
“You wish.”
“Is your command?” I wait for her to look up, but she’s well trained in keeping her eyes averted. I may be a bad boy after all, but no doubt, Brooke is a good girl. “Hey, in all seriousness, I’m getting low on flour. Do you mind having some brought in?”
“Of course, Mr. Skruggs.” She pauses near the doorway. “I mean, Evan.”
I’m surprised at how much I like the way she says my name, devoid of all the distain she uses when she says my full name. Almost like she might think I’m a decent human after all.
Taking into account what Andrew wants from me, she couldn’t be more wrong.
✽ ✽ ✽
Brooke
Thank goodness for emergencies. After starting the laundry, and feeding the animals in the barn, I found out the guests in the mulberry room were stranded in town. I drove through the new snow to rescue them, and it bought enough time that I didn’t have to think about Evan, or his possible washboard abs, or the shower. Let alone talk to him anymore. By the time I get back, passengers in tow, the inn is quiet, and all that’s left is sleep.
But it’s here in the quiet, before the clanging of pans and mixing beaters ever start, that I find myself thinking about that picture I found. Who was he back then? Underneath the fortune, and his monumental success, who is Evan Skruggs really?
Chapter 10
Brooke
Time moves fast around the holidays, and adding appearances, filming crews, and an up and coming celebrity to my life makes it move at ten times the speed. Thankfully, I keep my face off camera for the most part.
A couple times they’ve coerced me into standing in the background while Evan taught some locals about piping decorations on a cake. Another time, Evan called me on set with no warning to help him properly dress a turkey. A sneaky part of me wonders if it was just an opportunity to force me to shove my hand up the business end of a dead bird and watch me squirm. At least this time I didn’t burn the kitchen down.
When a magazine wanted to do a full editorial spread on him, Evan urged me into a few shots, claiming I’m the only steady female relationship in his life. He went for a kiss on camera, and I smashed snow in his face. I’m sure that’s the picture they used in the full spread. Me, laughing hysterically, while snow drips from Evan’s fuming face. Whatever, I know he’s plotting some kind of revenge. It’s relatively easy with him around. It’s hard to believe he’s been staying at the inn for well over a week now.
I power down my computer and click off the light at my desk. Sitting still, I wait to see if I can hear him. Sure enough, Evan’s at work as usual in the middle of the night. I thought I heard him start around one, but it’s three, and it doesn’t sound like he’s stopping. I must have dozed off at some point. I pat the stack of bills I’ve paid. It’s still smaller than the unpaid, but it’s progress. Winnie was right, having Evan here is good for business.
A loud clatter crashes against the normal sounds. I wait but nothing follows. I push back from my desk, hurrying down the stairs for the kitchen. I’ve never interrupted his night cooking, but if he’s hurt…
I press the door, peering through the small space. A cookie sheet rests on the floor, cookies splayed out around it. Evan’s back is to me, hunched forward, holding a towel to his arm. His breath sucks back through his teeth. A groan escapes between his tight lips. I shove the door open with no regard as to whether I should or not.
“You’re hurt.” I reach for his arm, but Evan reels back, shocked by my presence in the middle of the night.
“Why are you up?”
“I was working. I heard the pan fall. I was worried you might be injured.” I grab his arm, pulling the towel back from where he’s clamped it down. A nasty burn glows red. “Looks like I was right.”
“I’ll be fine.” He pulls away, trying to keep the distance there, but Grandpapa got his share of burns, and I know the remedy. Nursing it in the corner won’t do much but make it worse.
“You need cold water on that.” I half-drag him to the sink, crank on the cold, and force his arm beneath the flow. Knowing he won’t keep it there, I sacrifice my own dry clothes and pin him in place. My heart squeezes when his face twists in pain. I’ve gotten my own share of burns. I know how much it stings when that water hits.
“It’ll get better. Your skin will keep cooking if you don’t take some of the heat out.”
“Like a steak.” He grits his teeth and blows out a tight breath. “You have to take it off early. It keeps cooking even when it’s not on the flame.”
Funny the way food calms him. I sense that he finds order in the world through food.
“Exactly.” I rub my thumb over his forearm. His body shivers once, but I don’t call him on it. For all I know, it’s the chill of the water getting to him, not me.
“I was brushing the rolls in the oven with butter, but I had that tray in my hand. It started slipping, and I shifted my grip, but I must have hit the element.” Evan’s grip on my hand lessens with the pain fading. I glance at him, but my nerves flutter, and I have to look away.
“Keep your arm under the water. I can help with the rest.” I busy myself cleaning up the tray on the ground, and then the cookies that have spread over the floor. It kills me to throw them away. They look like the shortbread cookies Grandmamma used to buy at Christmastime that only come in the metal tins. “Did you need these for tomorrow?”
Evan frowns. “No, tonight.”
“A craving?”
“Something like that.”
I’ve learned not to push him. He’s fond of his secrets. The bristles of the broom against the tile and the rush of water over his arm are the only sounds between us for a minute.
“Do you mind brushing butter over the rolls? I cut the heat to the oven when I was burned, but I never finished them.”
“No problem.” It’ll put a little much needed space between us anyway. I retrieve the tray from the oven and carry it to the table where he’s set up a bowl of butter, a silicone brush, and even the perfect dedicated space for the tray in my hand.
“After that, put them back in for about a minute, maybe two.”
Eager to please, I exact his orders the best I can. Maybe he’s a good teacher, or maybe I’m not as bad as I think I am, because a few minutes later the rolls are perfect golden brown.
“They’re beautiful.” I set them on the counter in the next station, the one with cooling rack I hope he set up for the rolls. Without asking, I transfer the rolls to the racks, all the while feeling Evan’s eyes watching me.
“Try one,” he says as I clear the last from the tray. It’s not really a request, more like his next set of directions. When I shoot him a questioning look, he shrugs. “I don’t know if I messed them up, and my doctor hasn’t released me yet.” He motions to the running water like it’s handcuffs.
I pick out one of the smaller rolls and blow across the top. The smell alone tells me it’s going to be good. What is it about homemade bread that soothes the soul? I sink my teeth into the airy confection and close my eyes as the warmth embraces me.
“Mmmmm.” I can’t help the sound. It sneaks out of me, despite my best efforts. “This may be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Evan clears his throat and cuts the water. He uses a clean towel to dry his wound while I finish the rest of my midnight snack. “Glad to have the stamp of approval.”
“I mean it too.” I move back to his side, more interested in the weeping wound on his arm than the rest of him, for once. “Come on, we need to dress that thing.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Evan
The things she says without realizing it. I don’t need to admit where my mind goes when she talks about tasting things, or dressing me. Still, I’m a willing captive, and I let her lead me into the dining room. After a moment, she returns with a black tackle box. I’m about t
o make a joke about fishing when she pops the lid, and the first-aid innards spill out. She rummages through the contents as though she knows what she’s looking for. I don’t know how. The case looks like it’s in dire need of organization, but I’ve been accused of some neat freak tendencies, so maybe I’m not a great judge.
“Let me see it.” She says it like I have a choice, but takes my arm like it’s never belonged to me. “This will sting.”
It’s not much warning for the forest fire she sets ablaze with one tiny cotton ball. She dabs it over the burn, saying something about preventing infection and keeping it clean, but I’m foggy with irritation over the pain I’m in.
“This won’t hurt.” She smears a glob of something over the open sore and the pain instantly fades away. Cool sensations tickle through my veins, as though she’s rubbed an ice cube over it. Plastic crinkles. She covers the dressed wound in a large bandage. I’d like to say this is the first time I’ve been hurt, or doctored, but it’s not. This might be the first time I’ve enjoyed it though.
“There you go, good as new.”
“I don’t think you’re done yet.”
For the first time since she sat down, Brooke looks up at me. “What’d I forget?”
“You need to kiss it all better.”
Oh, the bravery I have saying something like that to her, but a timid smile inches over her cheeks.
“Kiss it? Or kiss you?”
“I don’t know.” Excitement bleeds into my chest. “They’d both make me feel better.”
Those two perfect rose petals she calls lips press together, making me ache from the inside out. I’ve been hungry before, but not like this. Not like the cravings I’m getting for a little more time with her each day.
Christmas With Granny McPherson Page 8