Winter Love

by Kennedy Fox

  “This is the latest arrival I’ve ever seen,” Edna said, perched on a chair by the door, a jar filled with tickets in front of her.

  So much for that wish.

  He ran a hand through his hair, taking his gaze off Sadie only long enough to attempt to sweet-talk Edna. “I don’t have a ticket.”

  “I can see that, sugar. Don’t have a suit either, apparently.” She clucked her tongue and eyed him up and down, a slow shake to her head.

  “Not a lot of time to swing by and grab it.”

  “No?” she asked. “Why’s that?”

  “I need to get to Sadie before midnight.”

  A slow smile swept across her face as she leaned toward him. “It was the carriage ride, wasn’t it? I knew it. I’ve got a knack for pushin’ two people together who’re meant to be.” She stood and pressed a hand to his back, not so subtly shoving him into the room. “Go on, now. And hurry. It’s almost midnight.”

  “Thanks, Edna. I owe you one.”

  “You remember that the next time I get into another snafu,” she called after him.

  He shook his head, breathing out a laugh as his gaze sought out Sadie once again. She’d moved, somehow inching even farther from him, and urgency gripped his throat as he glanced at his watch. Six minutes.

  “Mr. Donovan,” a woman called as he passed.

  He glanced over to find Aubrey Hayward, the woman from the shelter he’d spoken to a couple weeks prior. While he kept an eye on Sadie as she moved through the room, he said, “Please, I told you to call me Cole.”

  “Cole.” She smiled warmly and lifted the two flutes of champagne she carried and gestured to a man who stood a few feet away. “I’m gonna ring in the new year with my husband, but I just wanted to thank you again for offerin’ your services. We’re so grateful.”

  “Of course. I’m happy to help however I can. I look forward to meetin’ with you next week,” he said before excusing himself and striding toward Sadie.

  He couldn’t tell if the lightness in his chest was because he felt a new sense of purpose in his career, or because he moved closer to Sadie with each step he took. Both, he decided, smiling for the first time since he’d last been with her.

  Still halfway across the room from where she stood, he recognized the asshole from the inn sidling up to her. He clenched his jaw at the prick’s audacity. She’d already told him no, several times. And, despite it being fake a couple weeks ago, had mentioned she had a boyfriend. Cole curled his hands into fists and forced his way through the crowd faster than before. Sadie stood, arms crossed, her negative body language rolling off her in waves, but the other guy didn’t take a hint. He inched closer to her as midnight loomed, and Cole had absolutely no doubt this bastard was going to attempt to make a move when the clock struck twelve.

  Cole strode up until her arm brushed his chest, and he exhaled a sigh of relief at the contact, not realizing until that moment just how much he’d needed it. “It should be enough for a woman to tell you no, but that’s apparently not the case with you. Either you’re too stupid or too arrogant to get it through your head when she says she’s not interested, but let me make this perfectly clear for you. She’s taken. Now, fuck off.”

  The guy shot wide eyes toward him, swallowing so hard Cole could practically hear it, even over the music and murmur of voices. He sputtered and nodded, his face reddening as he turned and faded into the crowd.

  Sadie twisted to face him, glancing down at his attire. “Thanks. You didn’t need to do that, but I appreciate it. Hopefully that’ll buy me at least a couple weeks.”

  Someone jostled him from behind, and he bumped into her, wrapping his arm around her waist and holding her against him. How could he have ever questioned if this was right? Everything settled inside him as soon as she was in his arms, a peace he’d never known sweeping over him.

  He leaned down until his lips were next to her ear, wanting to be certain she heard him. “What if it bought you more than that?”

  Pushing against his chest, she pulled back and looked up into his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  He hated that he couldn’t see her whole face, couldn’t read her expressions. Couldn’t tell from her tone alone what she was thinking. So he twined their fingers together and tugged her through the crowd until they reached a tiny alcove. He tucked them inside before reaching up and lifting her mask. Relieved to be able to see her face, though it didn’t help. Her expression gave nothing away, which meant he didn’t know if he was about to make the biggest fool of himself or not. But he also didn’t care.

  This chance with her was worth any possible failure he could face.

  “I fucked up, Sadie.”

  Surprise flickered in her eyes. “How?”

  Shaking his head, he reached for her hand. “I was stupid, and I allowed a past relationship to cast a shadow over what we have. I got scared because I spent years of my life with someone, only for that to end in a fiery crash. And I couldn’t see how this could possibly be any different, especially when we’ve only really known each other for a short time.”

  She swallowed, her blue eyes gazing up at him, and he needed more than to hold her hand. He delved his fingers into her hair, cupping her face as he brushed his thumbs along her jaw. Needing this connection to her as he bared his heart.

  “I can’t promise you forever because I don’t know what the future will hold for us. But I can promise you right now. And right now, I’d love nothing more than to kiss you at midnight, if you’ll let me.”

  A sheen of tears coated her eyes, making them sparkle under the twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling. “Are you sure about that?” she asked, her eyes intent on his. Studying him. Reading his reactions. “You know a kiss at midnight means you’re supposed to spend the next year with that person.”

  He pressed a hand to the small of her back and brought their bodies flush against one another. The sound of the countdown rang out around them as he leaned down until his mouth hovered above hers, needing her to know how certain he was. Needing her to know that he wanted to go all in with her.

  With every word he spoke, his lips brushed hers, and he hoped she felt exactly how deeply he meant each one. “I’m not sure a year will be enough, but we can start with that.”

  Thank you for reading Sadie and Cole’s holiday story! If you want more small town shenanigans, check out Second Chance Charmer, where Havenbrook princess, Willow Haven, tries to resist her ex-boyfriend and town bad boy, Finn Thomas. One-click Second Chance Charmer now!

  About the Author

  USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author Brighton Walsh spent a decade as a professional photographer before taking her storytelling in a different direction and reconnecting with her first love—writing. She likes her books how she likes her chai tea—steamy and satisfying—and adores strong-willed heroines and the heroes who fall head over heels for them. Brighton lives in the Midwest with her real life hero of a husband, her two kids—one who’s already taller than her—and her dog who thinks she’s a queen. Her boy-filled house is the setting for dirty socks galore, frequent dance parties (okay, so it's mostly her, by herself, while her children look on in horror), and more laughter than she thought possible.

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  Chapter One

  ELIZABETH CAHILL

  It’s not that I need the flowers. I just want them.

  Nothing else around me is familiar—the smell of fresh bread from the bakery, the sounds of distant music wafting down the avenue, the uneven cobbled stones beneath my feet—but the yellow roses remind me of home, momentarily taking my mind off Christmas . . . and my broken heart.

  “I’m a long way from Texas,” I say to myself as I reach for the flowers. Clasping them in my hand, I pay, then turn and promptly run straight into someone. A man. A tall, well-dressed man who smells divine. I imagine th
is must be what a fairy-tale forest would smell like. I take another deep breath, letting the scent soothe me . . . What are you doing, Beth?

  I step back with my hands still on him. The ones that reflexively braced me for impact now cling like a dryer sheet to his wool coat. My gaze slides slowly over the crisp white dress shirt of a broad chest and I’m greeted with a red silk Windsor knot—classic, festive for the holiday season, and the finest silk if I were to judge, which apparently, I am. A midnight blue suit peeks out from under the wool that hugs strong shoulders.

  “Pardon moi,” he says, his French accent mixes with a soul-caressing tone that has my knees weakening. That must be the jet lag, or maybe still the shock of how I got everything so wrong. Like believing in a man I shouldn’t have.

  Deciding it might be best to remove my hands from his body, I shift to the florist side of the sidewalk. “No, it was all my fault.” And hasn’t that been my mantra for the past forty-eight hours?

  “You’re American?” The French accent all but disappears, but the deep tone still warms me. It might be the sunshine, but I’ll give the handsome stranger credit.

  “Yes. Sounds like you are, too.”

  He slides next to me, giving a group of teenagers the right-of-way on the sidewalk. His gaze dips down and then returns to me. “Texas?”

  “Yes. It’s the accent, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not strong and barely Southern, but I made a guess. It was really the yellow roses, the state flower.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You impress too easily.” I like the sly smile and how at ease he is despite the fancy suit.

  “It’s something I’m working on.”

  Disapproval works through his expression before he hums, “Hmm.”

  I’m not sure how to read that reaction, so I return to something less controversial. Wrapping my arms around the crinkling paper a little tighter, I smell one rose and then another, the delicate scent causing my smile to grow. “My boss says flowers remind us that new beginnings are possible, and it’s up to us to make the most of them. I’m a little homesick today, and these roses cheered me up.”

  “A change in mood. A new beginning to your day.”

  “Yes.”

  “Smart boss.”

  “She is and a good friend.”

  “Even better.” He leans down as if he’s going to share a treasured secret—eyes darting around to find any eavesdroppers—and then says, “It’s Junior’s cheesecake for me. I’ve been known to have one overnighted a time or two.”

  “What’s Junior’s?”

  He chuckles, rubbing the sharp lines of his jaw. “Cheesecake from New York City. That’s what reminds me of home.”

  “I love New York, and I love cheesecake. What brings you to Paris?”

  “I travel . . . I would say a lot, but I travel all the time.”

  “I’m sorry. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Exploring the world must be amazing, but it’s the best when you return to your own bed.”

  Shoving his hands into his pants pockets, he looks one way down the narrow street and then the other before replying, “Why are you sorry?”

  “Oh, um . . .” I glance at my watch. It suddenly feels like an intense conversation for ten in the morning. My good manners mean I can’t duck out from under his question, so I reply, “Honestly?”

  “Yes, I’d appreciate it.”

  Though we’re two strangers standing on a street corner in the middle of Paris, I can hear his genuine interest in what I have to say. “I’m sorry you don’t have a reason to stay in one place.”

  There’s no great jolt or double take, but an offense still smacks him by the change in his expression. The charm that snuck into his cheeks and the mischievous look in his eyes are all gone, and only a hardness remains.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. You said I could be honest,” I whisper.

  “You can be honest, though sometimes the truth is hard to hear.” He nods once. “Bonne journée.”

  Before I have a chance to pull up the translation app on my phone, he’s gone. Sure, I could go running after him, call for him to stop, but how? What would I say? “Hey, you!” Or maybe, “Please stop, handsome stranger.”

  As I recently found out, the truth hurts, though I feel awful for causing him pain. Maybe I misinterpreted things. Maybe he just didn’t care what I had to say. “C’est la vie,” I mumble. How apt.

  I head to where I’m staying for the week, then let myself into my apartment, nudging the stiff door with my shoulder to open it. If I were here longer, I’d report the door to the owner, but it’s not worth the disturbance. Bumping my hip against it, I shut it and move straight to the window and open it, the glass swinging out like cabinet doors. I love everything about this little love nest of an apartment. Love nest.

  Right.

  It would have been perfect for its intended purpose. My heart is heavy, and I swallow hard but remind myself that even though I feel like crap now, I have the power within me to change my fate—lemonade from lemons and all that jazz.

  Who needs love anyway?

  It’s an emotion lost with traditions of the past. Nothing is sacred anymore, least of all, the intimacy of giving your soul to another for eternity. I balk, soul mates . . . ridiculous!

  Reaching up, I grab a vase from the top of the fridge and fill it with water. With fresh air infiltrating the space and sunshine kissing the windowsill, I arrange my pretty yellow flowers, instantly brighten up the space.

  Still riding the caffeine high of my coffee this morning, I choose chamomile tea. It’s hard not to think about what I should be doing now. And I don’t just mean how I should have been doing my husband. Mind you, perhaps now I understand how the thought of being separated for the two weeks leading up to the wedding didn’t ruffle his feathers.

  Stop, Beth. You’re here. Enjoy the beauty around you. In LA, my family is cleaning up the mess I left, allowing this trip to be a reprieve from the chaos. Cleaning up the remnants of the non-wedding. Certainly didn’t plan for that contingency.

  I settle on the chair next to the window and take a sip of the warm liquid. Despite the chill in the air, I lean forward to glimpse the top of the Eiffel tower over the Mansard roofs. This is what I dreamed of, all the plans that went into researching to find the perfect view while staying within budget on Christmas. This was the dream—snow (there’s none so far), being married (that’s not happening), and spending time in the most romantic city on Earth. One out of three isn’t bad.

  Like I did during the hours on my flights, I wonder if I was so buried in the plans that I forgot to live in the moment.

  He lived in the moment, soaking in every second he could of the single life. Even though he wasn’t single.

  Another lump forms in my throat. It’s something I’m becoming accustomed to since being told I wasn’t enough. Wasn’t sexy enough? Wasn’t beautiful enough? I take a few large sips of tea, hoping to wash the pain down, wash every one of these negative emotions away, and have my own new beginning. But how do I start again? How do I get past the ultimate rejection?

  As if Holli can read my mind . . .

  Holli: Hope you’re having a glorious all about you vacation. You deserve the time off. You also deserve someone better than who you left behind. Forget about him and fall in love again—with yourself, the city, and maybe a handsome Parisian.

  Me: I’m working on it.

  Holli: A man? I need details.

  Me: No, working on me.

  Holli: Take all the time you need. Work can wait until you’re ready to return, and I’ll always be here for you.

  Me: Because you’re the best boss ever. Thank you.

  Holli: Keep me posted and eat a chocolate éclair for me. Better yet, bring some back to LA. <3

  Me: LOL. I will. And don’t worry, I’ve already gotten enough for a large family to share. <3

  She’s right. I deserve someone who can stand before me and give me forever. I just hate that my b
elief in a forever has been shaken and that a soul mate might be a mythical thing.

  Why am I here?

  Not in the existential sense, but wasting my time in an apartment in Paris thinking about what could’ve been instead of making this vacation mine? Holli’s right. This is my all-about-me vacation now. I close the window and take the teacup to the kitchen, dropping it on the way to freshen up.

  Lipstick.

  That’s the key.

  My grandmother always said that lipstick is magic. It can transform a mood, a day, and even destiny. And though I swiped on a soft pink this morning, I need red to channel Bernice Cahill’s strength. She raised four boys, was widowed twice, worked a farm outside of Fredericksburg, and prepared a home-cooked meal every night. All while wearing her favorite Yves Saint Laurent red lipstick. It was the one thing she saved her pennies for—a treat for herself—claiming it gave her superpowers.

  If she can wear bright red lipstick in overalls in central Texas, I can splurge and buy a tube in Paris. I change from my jeans to figure-hugging black ankle pants and a warm, white sweater that shows off my curves. Not that you’ll see them under my coat, but it makes me feel confident all the same.

  Red flats complete the look. I fluff my hair and grab my purse. Out on the street, I pull on a pair of large black sunglasses I scored on sale at the mall back home. They may not be Chanel, but they make me feel like a million bucks.

  I reach the corner and pull out my phone to scan over the schedule. With an app, I map out my day. The Louvre and dinner at a bistro near the Eiffel Tower. The makings of an incredible day. Do I still want to follow a schedule that was created for two?