“Have you ever ridden a horse? Do you like—”
“Cady,” he interrupted, as he shifted into drive and maneuvered around the wrecked car. “Why don’t you take a breath and let her answer some of your questions. Let’s start with the first one, ‘What’s your name?’”
“My name’s Amy… Amy Pinkerton,” she said, in a small voice. “What’s yours?”
He shot her a sideways glance, but her expression was unreadable. Did she truly not recognize him?
“My name is Maxwell McCoy, but you can call me Max.” He was careful not to use his stage name, Mack McCoy, in case, by some miracle, her story wasn’t a fabrication. He didn’t want to spoil the novel experience of interacting with a woman who had no idea who he was.
“You don’t look like a ‘Maxwell’ to me,” she said.
With difficulty, he kept his jaw from dropping open. Would this woman ever stop surprising him?
“What do you think my name should be?” he asked.
“Lincoln,” Amy replied, with a decisive nod, as if she’d officially changed it. “I’d call you Linc, for short.”
He found himself wishing she would speak his real name with the same admiration she’d used saying the alternative.
“We have a Golden Retriever named Marilyn Monroe,” Cady piped in from the back seat.
Amy laughed, a melodic sound, so contagious he found himself chuckling.
“That’s perfect for a Golden Retriever,” she said. “I may steal that name.”
“Do you have a Golden Retriever, too?” Cadence asked, as confused as he was.
“No… uhmm… but…” Amy cleared her throat. “But, I might decide to get a dog someday.”
The answer seemed to satisfy Cady, who added another question. “Can you cook?”
“I’m a decent cook,” Amy replied. “I’m better at baking. How about you?”
“I love to bake!” Cadence squealed. “Daddy, can we bake Christmas cookies when we get home? We made a Christmas recipe book in third period.”
“I don’t know, Cady.” He felt a pang, picturing Monica and Cadence in the kitchen together. Unfortunately, Monica died before Cady was old enough to remember their frequent baking sessions. “We’ll see how the evening goes. Amy might not feel like baking cookies.”
“I don’t mind at all, but I wouldn’t want to step on your wife’s toes,” said Amy. “I would never invade another woman’s kitchen.”
Either she really doesn’t know I’m single, or she’s the greatest actress on the planet.
“My mommy’s in Heaven,” Cadence said, inducing a gasp from Amy.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
He was surprised to find himself worried about Amy, rather than wrestling with his own raw grief. “We lost Monica five years ago, right before Thanksgiving.”
“That’s so hard,” Amy said. “I lost my mom when I was Cady’s age.”
The quiver in her voice had him gripping the wheel so he wouldn’t reach for her hand. What’s wrong with me?
“Dad, do you think Mommy would mind if I bake cookies with Amy?”
For the first time since Monica died, he realized he didn’t feel guilty imagining another woman using the baking tools his wife had carefully chosen for their wedding registry. It was like a weight lifted from his shoulders. If nothing else, he owed Amy for this insight into his painfully-slow healing process.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind at all.” He chose his words carefully. “Like I always say, nothing makes Mommy happier than seeing you happy.”
Though he never took his eyes off the road, he felt Amy’s sympathetic gaze like a tender touch on his arm. It was as if she somehow knew exactly what he was thinking—understanding his pain better than he did.
While Cady prattled on about her plans for Christmas break, he considered how to handle his unexpected company. He could put her in the private guest house, but for some reason he wanted her to stay in the main quarters.
Cady was on cloud nine, talking Amy’s ear off for the entire twelve miles.
“How many kids do you have?” Amy asked, ogling the sprawling ranch house through the windshield as they pulled in the driveway.
“It’s just Cady and me,” he said, as he circled behind the house toward the garage, “but that entire west wing has visiting suites for when family comes.”
“You must have a big family,” she said in a wistful tone as she chewed on her lower lip. “I bet that’s fun at Christmas.”
He nodded. “I’ve got two sisters and five nieces and nephews, plus one due any day now. We usually get together here for the holidays.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to wash my sheets and make the bed in the morning, so my room will be ready when your family comes.”
He stifled a laugh. “No worries. I have Sherry coming twice a week to clean and do laundry. Besides, the family’s having Christmas at my sister’s house in California, since they can’t fly with the new baby.”
Once he’d settled Amy in his mother’s suite, he crooked his finger at Cady, urging her to give their guest a moment of privacy. Out in the family room, he spoke in a low voice. “Cady, I have an idea for a fun game to play while Amy’s here.”
She twisted her lips to the side the way she always did when she didn’t trust him. “Is it another game like ‘Let’s clean out the basement’? Because that one wasn’t very fun.”
“No, this one is called, ‘Don’t tell Amy that Dad is famous.’ You see, Amy doesn’t know who I am, and I think it would be fun if she didn’t find out.”
The whites of Cady’s eyes showed as she rolled them. “Dad, you’re not that famous. I mean, I guess you used to be, but none of my friends have ever heard your songs.”
“Oh.” Her assessment hit him surprisingly hard. Maybe it was time to try writing again. He glanced at the door to his music studio suite, locked for the past five years. “But Amy’s older, so she probably remembers some of my music. How about if we don’t mention it?”
“Fine.” She shrugged, rubbing her arms. “Are you going to build a fire?”
“Good idea.” It would give him something to do while waiting for Amy to come out. He needed to burn up the unusual excess energy that was making his hands shake.
The crackling fire didn’t keep Cady from dragging Amy off to the kitchen as soon as she emerged from her room. At first, Max stayed in the family room, flipping aimlessly through the television channels. But soon, enticed by lively conversation and laughter, he found himself on a stool at the large granite island, watching the progress… Christmas M&M cookies, made with candy Amy procured from her luggage.
When she handed each of them a large spoon, heaped with dough, he cringed at being the bad guy in his daughter’s eyes. “Sorry, but raw cookie dough isn’t safe.”
“This dough is,” said Amy, with a triumphant grin. “I always get some eating dough out before I add the eggs.”
“So, can I have it?” Cady waited for his permission, her spoon poised in the air.
“I guess so.”
Before the words were out of his mouth, she took a large bite and pronounced it the best cookie dough ever. Max savored his scrumptious spoonful and supervised the placement of dough on the cookie sheet, while planning all of the things he wanted to show Amy the next day before he drove her to Pleasantville. The horses, the cattle, the wild elk, the sunset on the mountains…
Maybe I won’t rush to get the road plowed.
Chapter 3
After a restful sleep, cozy under a heavy quilt, Amy awoke with a surge of remorse. She’d forgotten all about Damon. Knowing him, he’d probably called out the National Guard when she didn’t report, an expense which would undoubtedly be charged to her account. Her expenses seemed to grow each passing day, as did his percentage of the gross. She’d signed on with him when she was a nobody, happy to find anyone willing to represent her. After a NetShows representative contacted her, Damon was quick to remind her all negotiations must go th
rough him. But she didn’t trust him anymore
Rummaging through her suitcase, she extracted a pair of jeans and a sweater, but failed to find a single pair of socks. She’d just have to buy some when she got to Pleasantville.
Despite a full charge, her cell phone had no signal, so she padded down the hall in bare feet, carrying her laptop, to ask for the network password. An email would be a better way to communicate with Damon, anyway.
Exhausted and tense, she hadn’t had time to appreciate the beauty of the ranch-style home the previous night. Now she stopped and stared in awe when she entered the immense family room with a roaring fire crackling in the fireplace. Through the large picture window, she saw the lovely snow-covered landscape, with more snow falling in huge flakes. Who knew snowflakes could be the size of aircraft carriers?
Close to the fire, an olive-green, overstuffed chair with an afghan draped across the arm, beckoned her to nestle in its cushioned warmth and write to her heart’s content. Too bad she was leaving for Pleasantville in a few hours.
Across the expansive room, on the wall opposite the fireplace, was an ornate door set back two feet within an alcove, adorned with library paneling. She crossed the wood floor and set an adoring hand on the brass doorknob. It had to be a secret library, like the one in Beauty and the Beast. The knob wouldn’t turn, though she jiggled and pushed on the door.
Locked! She’d have to check back later. She didn’t want Max to know she’d been snooping.
As she neared the kitchen, the unmistakable aroma of frying bacon reached her nose, and her stomach gave a growl of anticipation. Rounding the corner, she spied Max at the stove with his back to her, a white apron tied over his t-shirt and jeans.
Linc wouldn’t be caught dead in an outfit like that, but it’s adorable on Max.
She was about to spout off a smart remark about his costume when he started singing, his tone deep and resonant, as he tended the bacon. For an instant, her heart stopped beating, and she stood in a rapturous trance while his voice caressed her ears. Though she didn’t recognize the tune, the sound was lovely, enveloping her entire being like a warm bubble-bath.
Maybe Linc should have a beautiful singing voice. He could sing to Rebel—it would be so romantic.
Max turned, reaching for something on the island, and his eyes locked with hers. The song stopped, his face reddening. “Morning.”
“Don’t stop singing. I liked it.”
He averted his eyes. “You like that song?”
“I’ve never heard it before, but it was sweet. And you have a great voice.”
“Thank you.” He picked up a bowl from the island and began whisking the eggs inside, still not meeting her eyes. “I don’t usually sing.”
“Well, you should. When God gives you a gift like that, you should use it.” She edged up to the island and perched on a stool, setting her laptop on the granite. “Why don’t you?”
He turned his back, but not before she saw him blinking rapidly. As he poured the scrambled eggs into a sizzling skillet, he mumbled, “I haven’t felt like singing since Monica died.”
Her throat went tight as heat flooded her face. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t usually talk about it.” He used a pair of tongs to turn the bacon, one strip at a time. “I don’t know why I’m telling you.”
“Maybe because you know I’m leaving today and you’ll never see me again.”
“About you leaving today…” He pivoted, pointing his tongs toward the kitchen window. “We got a lot more snow than they predicted, and it’s still coming down fast. The snow plows probably won’t be able to dig us out today. They’ll be too busy trying to clear the main roads.”
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, though she was surprisingly unfazed by the news.
Why didn’t she feel upset at the delay? Yesterday she’d been anxious to get to the little cottage she’d rented, plot ideas already swirling in her head. But today, nothing sounded better than being snowed in, even though she was staying with perfect strangers. Max gave new meaning to the phrase perfect stranger. She appraised his face in the morning light. If he’d never been a model, he was certainly a good candidate. From his breathtaking green eyes to his strong jaw, covered with just the right amount of masculine stubble, he was as flawless as they came.
“I’m sorry to cause so much trouble,” she said. “You’ve been nice and generous, and now you’re stuck with me another day.”
She saw the deep crease between his eyebrows before he turned back to the stove and picked up a spatula to stir the scrambled eggs. “No trouble at all.”
Though he sounded gracious, his body language said he wished he could be rid of her. She was so confused. He certainly wasn’t totally besotted, like she was, but last night she got the impression he was somewhat attracted to her. She must’ve misread him.
“I’ll hide out in my room, and you won’t even know I’m here,” she said, giving him a chance to insist she do otherwise.
He stopped in mid-stir, but she couldn’t see his expression. “Cadence would be really disappointed if you did that.”
The air whooshed from her lungs. Cady wanted to spend time with her, but he didn’t. Pretending his words didn’t sting, she kept her tone light. “I’d love to entertain Cady. If she gets bored, tell her to come find me in my room.” She stood up, prepared to make a quick escape. “I’ll get out of your hair, now.”
“Don’t you want to eat, first?” Max spun toward her, spatula in hand, his deep green eyes pleading.
Embarrassed at her faulty assumptions, she wanted to escape. But it seemed rude not to eat when he’d worked so hard cooking breakfast. Just then, her stomach made a rumbling noise that shook the kitchen walls, and Max’s dimples danced into view.
“I guess I can’t pretend I’m not hungry.” With a hand over her traitorous stomach, she wriggled back onto her stool, tucking her icy feet on the bar under the seat. “Should we wait for Cady?”
“She sleeps late on Saturdays. I’ll heat it up for her when she wakes up.”
Max ditched his apron and grabbed two plates from the cabinet, dishing a generous helping of eggs and bacon on both. Amy was about to protest, when a timer dinged. He donned an oven mitt and pulled out a tray of biscuits.
Her mouth watered, and an exclamation slipped out before she considered how it sounded. “Homemade biscuits! You sure know the way to my heart.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” he chuckled as he slid her plate in front of her and added two enticing biscuits. “Want some hot chocolate?”
“I’d love some.” She added a spoonful of blueberry jelly to her biscuit and took a bite. Flakey and buttery, it melted in her mouth. In seconds, she devoured the first one and was on to the second.
He poured two mugs and joined her on an adjacent barstool, sporting a huge grin. “I assume, from that moaning sound you made, my biscuits meet your approval?”
“I didn’t moan,” she protested.
“Did too.” He lifted his cup to his smirking lips.
“I was clearing my throat.”
“Believe me,” he said, spreading butter on a biscuit, “I know a moan when I hear one.”
As he slid her laptop out of the way, she suddenly remembered why she’d come to the kitchen. “I forgot! I need to send Damon an email to let him know I’m okay. Can I get the Wi-Fi code?” She grabbed her laptop and flipped it open.
“Is that your boyfriend?” His jaw hardened, as he pulled a pen out of his pocket and scribbled the password on the back of a napkin.
“No, he’s my…” She stopped as she realized the bitter truth. As shallow and selfish as he was, Damon was the only person left in the world who cared about her. For a brief second, she thought of her ex-fiancé, Luke. She’d been so devasted when he broke their engagement that she moved across the country to Florida and started writing books. Luke probably never gave her a thought—he’d been too busy. In the three years since that fateful night, he’d gotten married and
fathered two kids. In contrast, Amy spent every day in the company of her imaginary book friends, inventing perfect heroes who would never break her heart.
“Damon’s just a friend,” she said, hating the wobble in her voice.
I’ve got to be more like Rebel. Her voice never quivers. She’s not afraid of anything.
She logged on and jotted a quick email telling Damon her phone had died, but she’d made it, safe and sound. Then she slammed it shut before he had a chance to respond.
“I’m guessing you have a boyfriend, though.” Max used the pepper grinder on his eggs, then offered it to Amy. “Want some?”
“Sure, thanks.” She bit into a piece of bacon as he worked the grinder, his own eggs getting cold while he took care of hers. In her next book, maybe Linc should do something sweet like this for Rebel. Though it wasn’t as exciting as saving her life, it would show a thoughtful side to her hero. “By the way, this bacon is scrumptious.”
“Glad you like it. But you never answered my question.” He stabbed a piece of scrambled egg and held it, poised in front of his mouth. “Is there a boyfriend out there, somewhere?”
“He’s out there somewhere.” She kept a serious expression. “I just haven’t met him yet.”
The corners of his mouth gave a tell-tale twitch, but he straightened it. “Maybe you already have, but you don’t know it.”
“I’d know him if I met him, but it’ll probably never happen.” She gave a bitter laugh, thinking of Luke’s parting words. “I’m too introverted. People don’t like me, even if they pretend to.”
“Who told you that?”
She jumped as he slammed his mug down, splashing on the granite.
“Someone who would know… my ex.” She hurried to pacify him. “But it’s okay. I’m stronger, now. I don’t need anybody. I’m not afraid to be alone.”
“Listen, Amy.” His hand touched her arm, and she struggled to hide how much it affected her. “You aren’t—”
“Amy! Did you make biscuits?” Cadence appeared beside them, bouncing on her toes with a rapturous expression, her hair a tangled mess.
Love, Snow and Mistletoe: Four Sweet Christmas Romance Novellas Page 7