Whispers of Winter: A Limited Edition Collection of Winter Romances

by Nicole Morgan

  “Too much information,” we chimed at the same time.

  She said, “I swear to God, I saw something no woman is supposed to see.”

  “Were you scarred for life?”

  “I’m just recovering from the eye transplant.”

  Angling toward her, I said, “I bet she's chatting up Jake to be her Bake-off partner. Sure you can't join me? Take them on and annihilate the competition?” I mimed a karate chop.

  “No, not even to see them thrashed. You know I'm not a cook...baker...whatever.” She bit into a snowflake sugar cookie cradled in a fresh napkin. Around the sprinkle-coated crumbles, she mumbled, “A partner is optional. You haven't had one before.”

  “I know.” I shrugged. “It's more fun to bake with someone else. All that team spirit stuff.”

  “I have a stupendous, outstanding, brilliant idea.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh? You don’t even know my plan,” she said.

  “I’m scared to know your plan.”

  Her finger tapped my forehead. “Why don't you ask Dixon?” She bit into her cookie.

  “If Mr. Va Va Va Voom was near-—”

  Bethany crammed her fist to her mouth and did a cough-cough, spraying cookie pieces everywhere.

  I smacked her along her upper back and whispered, “Is he...behind me?” Because her nod was so slight, barely a tick, I was the only one to have seen it.

  I did an about-face and said cheerfully, “Hey, Dixon. Good to see you this fine winter morning.” Is it possible my greeting sounded a little too enthusiastic? “Thinking of entering The Great Fruitcake Bake-off?”

  “I might.” The glimmer in his eyes revealed his funny side. He stared at Bethany who had doubled over again and not from the cookie crumbles either. “Should I get you some water?”

  “I'm fine.” Straightening, Bethany brushed sugar dust from her hand and reached for his. “We met this past summer, Dixon. I'm Bethany.” She jerked her head to me. “You should partner up with Sam for the contest. She's an excellent baker.”

  Embarrassment crept up my face and most certainly had to have set the ends of my hair on fire. My head did quick no-no shakes.

  Oblivious to my unspoken pleas, Bethany, my so-called supportive friend, well aware of my single-dom and his possible availability status, continued to extol my virtues. “Sam's baking is up there with the winners of the bake-offs on tv. Her goodies are to die for. She's finalled multiple times.”

  “So, I've heard. She'd be fierce competition. I'd be a fool not to sign up for that.” He stuck his hand toward me. “What do you say, Samantha? Shall we partner up? I'm game if you are.”

  With two sets of eyes drilling into me, I didn't have much choice but to say yes. And missing an opportunity to be with Dixon would be Number One in the Dumb Move playbook.

  I smacked my palm to his and gave a quick handshake. “I have to warn you, this year's entry will be different, not quite what you'd think of as...traditional.”

  “Different is cool.”

  “Need me to supervise?” Bethany slid her all-knowing, pleased “I orchestrated this whole thing” gaze from me to him and returned to me.

  Behind his back, I contorted my face into the classic screwball grimace—-crinkled nose and crossed eyes. Bethany's expression matched mine. Quickly, I composed myself before Dixon could question our facial high jinx, and said, “If you supply the snacks, sweetie, we'll be set.”

  Her expression changed back to normal as well. “Deal.” Dixon asked, “So when should we do this?”

  I removed my cellphone from my pants' pocket and consulted my calendar. “Next Saturday? That's a week before the event.”

  He checked his phone. “Eleven, your place?”

  “It's a date.” I’m an idiot. My innards cringed. A date? I'd meant to make a casual comment thingy, not something about dating. Geez. “What’s your phone number in case?”

  We exchanged cellphones and entered our numbers in contacts.

  Bethany said, “I'll drop by with lunch around twelve-thirty.”

  “Great.” Dixon asked, “Anything else?”

  “Nope. I have all the ingredients,” I said.

  He stuffed the phone in his jeans pocket and began moving away, saying, “See you then.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Crazy Wanda and Jake-the-Snake had been watching our exchange. Fixing her gaze on me, she cupped her hand along the side of her mouth and murmured in his ear.

  This twosome was hatching a “tomatoes gone moldy” plot and noting their creepiness, most definitely would be from the rotten variety. Heebie jeebies skated over my arms. I leaned into Bethany and with a lift of my chin, gestured to them. “I think the competition will be nasty this year.”

  Flicking away the last of the cookie bits from her sweater, she dipped her head and studied our adversaries. “Yup. And from my point of view, they look pretty scary.”

  The following Saturday, as I finished placing the newly purchased bag of flour on the kitchen counter next to the sugar and the other ingredients, the doorbell chimed. My heart pitter-pattered an extra beat, knowing who stood on the other side--Dixon.

  Tall as a sequoia, grass green-eyed men have always been my weakness. When we'd met in the laundry room, I'd really struggled to hold myself together and not dissolve at his feet like the psycho gal from the “Wizard of OZ.” That would have been the ultimate in mortification, embarrassment, and humiliation.

  After smoothing my hands across the front of Grammie's Let's Cook apron, I opened the door. Dixon’s lengthy legs were clothed in washed-to-soft jeans. Peeking from underneath an unzipped down jacket in the unique color of granite was a brown T-shirt with The Who silk screened across the chest. Cowboy boots, faded to a dusty black, completed the hubba-hubba man.

  He was utterly...perfect, what most women had ticked off on their “desirable guy” menu.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said with a hint of a Texas drawl. “Are you ready to bake a winner?”

  His long, deliberate smile captured my heart. Even from across the threshold, his warmth enveloped me in a cozy blanket. Golly, how I wished he could tuck me right next to his shirt again. I stepped aside and signaled for him to enter. “Great timing. I just finished putting out the fixings. Did you get a chance to review the recipe I texted?”

  He removed a piece of paper from his jeans’ pocket. “Orange Slice Fruit Cake. I've memorized it.”

  “We can do this in a jiffy.”

  After examining the directions one final time, I smacked my palm against my forehead. I fumbled with the apron's sashes to untie them. “I forgot the orange slices. I'll run to the store. Back in a flash.”

  “I bought these”—-he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small plastic bag—-“in case.”

  Taking the package, I smiled with relief. “Congratulations. You just qualified for superhero status.”

  He straightened to an even taller height and lifted his arms in a body-builder pose. “That's me. Able to save small children, outrun cars, and provide sweets for the sweet.”

  Does he mean I am sweet? I liked the sound of that. “Shall we get to work, superhero? Need an apron?”

  He shrugged his jacket from his shoulders and laid it on the barstool. “Nah, this shirt can get dirty.”

  “How are your measuring skills?”

  “I'm an architect. I do numbers well.”

  “Excellent. Here”--I passed him a measuring cup, spoons, and pointed out the dry ingredients--“you can do these while I preheat the oven.”

  In my industrial mixer, I creamed the butter, never margarine, with granulated sugar until smooth. I dropped in four eggs, one at a time. I poured in buttermilk in which I'd dissolved the baking soda. “I'm all set for your end.”

  He handed me a multi-colored bowl from a vintage set Grammie had given me when I first moved to my own apartment, filled with the dry ingredients. Using a wooden spoon, I stirred the flour-coated nuts, dates, finely chopped
orange slices, and coconut flakes into the creamy mixture. As the batter stiffened, I struggled to incorporate the last portion. I stopped to wring my arm loose.

  Dixon bumped my hip with his and reached for the spoon and the bowl. “Let me try, partner.”

  With an exhale, I relinquished my utensil. “This should be a piece of cake—-haha-—for a superhero.”

  “You should take your comedy act on the road.” He mixed the batter. “I think it's done.”

  “Excellent.” While he held the bowl, I pushed the cake mix uniformly throughout the lightly greased and floured tube pan with a spatula, even scooping in the last tiny spec. “There.”

  He frowned. “You didn't leave much for taste testing.”

  I passed the spatula. “Will this work?”

  He exhaled a false disappointed sigh. “I suppose. Somehow. Until Bethany comes with food.” He sat the filled pan on a cookie sheet, and we shoved it into the hot oven. “How long?”

  I rechecked the recipe, then rubbed between my eyebrows. “This says two and a half-ish hours.”

  “That's a long time.”

  I smashed together my lips, my brain scrambling to understand his statement. Could it be...did he want to...leave?

  Glancing at my watch, I said, “Bethany should be here in five minutes with Jumpin' Jacks burgers.”

  He patted his tummy. “I’m a huge fan of their bacon cheeseburger.”

  After a pause, he moved closer to me, so close, the huff of his breath stirred the hair right above my ear. I clenched my fist so not to swoon and mumbled, “Mmm-huh. The hickory sauce one is good, too.”

  When he rubbed a strand near my jaw, I couldn’t move, afraid to meet his eyes, afraid I'd dive into the sea foam depths and get--hurt? Find disappointment? Nothing reciprocated?

  He said, “Samantha?”

  I am so in trouble. I sneaked a quick peek up at him through my eyelashes. “Yes-s.”

  His fingers continued to manipulate my locks. “Your hair.”

  Dear Lord, please don't let him stop. For today, I'd used a special shampoo, the expensive peachy sample my hairdresser had given me at my last appointment. “Yes-s?”

  “It's--”

  Kiss me-kiss me-kiss me.

  “You have—-”

  “What?”

  “Got it.” Stepping aside, he picked up the cup towel off the counter and wiped his hands. “Sticky cake mix stuck in your hair.”

  My finger automatically went to the spot despite the desire to race to the fridge and stick my body inside the freezer to suppress the raging heat which had zoomed to the top of this silly girl’s head. “Oh my—-”

  The apartment door burst open. Bethany. Thank God. Relief cascaded through me.

  She jiggled the crisp white bags emblazoned with Jumpin' Jacks' flaming burger logo. “Who's ready for lunch?”

  “Me!” Like a typical starving male, Dixon raised his hand. Bethany passed him his order.

  “I'll fix drinks.” I stepped to the fridge to grab a glass sitting on the counter and began to fill it with ice cubes, pausing to stuff a couple of wedges in my mouth. Lordy.

  After lunch, Bethany and I cleaned the counters while Dixon loaded the dirty plates and silverware in the dishwasher. When I passed him the last glass, he said, “thanks,” and flashed a quick boyish grin, making my insides turn all squishy-wishy, like my favorite strawberry gelatin dish layered with a sweetened cream cheese filling.

  I said, “This has been fun.”

  He straightened and leaned his backside against the closed appliance. “Is this the only cooking competition the complex holds? I have a way with grilled chicken.”

  Bethany and I swished our heads from side-to-side. “No,” she said. “There's the Valentine's Day cookie competition.” “Don't forget,” I said. “Easter cupcakes. And for Fourth of July—-”

  He held up his index finger. “Let me guess—-pies and cobblers.”

  My eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  He stabbed his temple. “Sees all, knows all.”

  “Aren't you funny? I guess the complex likes baked goods.” The stove timer pinged, and I removed our creation from the oven and carried the cake to the end of the island where I scooched it onto a wire cooling rack. All of us leaned closer and inhaled the heavenly aroma. I said, “This is almost ready. We can make the glaze while cooling.”

  Dixon read from the printout. “The recipe calls for an orange drizzle.”

  “Easy-peasy,” I said. “We can do the traditional sugar one or cream cheese.”

  Bethany raised her index finger. “I vote cream cheese. It's decadently delicious.”

  Dixon's hand went up, too. “I'm in. We want every advantage to win the judges over.”

  “Decadently delicious it is.” Chuckling, I washed and dried the mixer's stainless bowl and retrieved the powdered sugar, cream cheese, and a dash of orange liqueur, my secret weapon, from the pantry. We stared at the slowly stirring concoction which tried our sweet-tooth patience. When all looked perfect, I turned off the machine, removed the glob stuck on the batter blade with a rubber scraper. I folded in minced orange peel.

  “I need to put this little jewel in the cake ti before adding the frosting.” Glancing around the kitchen for the container, I didn't spot it. “That's funny. Where is it?”

  Dixon and Bethany helped me search the cabinets and pantry. Under the couch. The bookcases. The Christmas closet. But no fortune shone on me today. Grammie's cake tin had gone AWOL.

  “I don’t understand. I use it every year,” I said, scratching my temple. A bleat of dismay tinged my words. “It's my lucky one.”

  “Rats,” Bethany said. “Could you have accidentally thrown it out?”

  “Anything’s possible, but I can’t remember.”

  Dixon said in a thoughtful tone, “I might have a container that'll work.”

  “Metal or plastic?” I asked.

  “Metal.”

  The man had a genuine cake tin? Remarkable. And we had to use one to keep the cake fresh for the competition. I jumped on his suggestion. “Really? You have a proper cake container?”

  “Give me a sec. I'll go get it.”

  The minute the door shut behind him, Bethany whirled to face me. She grabbed my upper arms and shook me with vigor. “I'd be smashed against that man like a wet blanket, like a praying mantis in heat, like—”

  I shoved her away and stalked over to the counter to drop the cup towels in a basket for washing. “Who wouldn't want to jump him? But I'm not pursuing anything even if I would like to kiss him. Going too fast only leads to regret.”

  Bethany tormented the dancing Santa sitting next to the microwave. “Don't let your experience with The Creep sour you. Not all men are like him. The Creep’s values weren’t the same as yours.”

  “Which I found out much later.”

  “Sam.” She pointed at me. “Dixon and The Creep aren't even in the same league.”

  “I don’t think they are. As I said, I'm not leaping into any quick relationships ever again.”

  “I know you're attracted to Dixon. You light up like Sommerville Park's Christmas tree whenever he's around. I never-ever saw the same reaction with The Creep.”

  “I'm trying to be mature here.”

  “Mature—-bah, humbug.”

  “You're a terrible Scrooge.”

  The apartment door opened. Dixon, holding a tin, closed the door behind him and showed us what he held. “Will this do?”

  Taking the container from him, I scrutinized it. Made of metal like most were, the tin seemed sturdy, not old and rusty. Garlands of fruit and leaves in green and darker gold had been stenciled on the sides. Hints of blues and reds dusted the plums and apples. Aunt Nellie had been inscribed across the top in a fanfare banner.

  While dusting the inside with a cup towel, I said, “You must have been very lucky, Dixon, to have had an Aunt Nellie treat. I hear they're expensive, but worth every penny.”

  “A relative sen
t me this one. I liked it so much”--he pushed the lid with a finger—-“I didn't even share.”

  “Pig.”

  He chuckled. “Will ours fit?”

  “Let's give it a try.” I smoothed an old-fashioned paper doily on the bottom. Carefully, I flipped our masterpiece onto one fanned hand and then eased the cake inside. “Perfection.”

  Bethany fetched the bowl containing the icing. I scooped a generous portion on a spatula and swirled ribbon-like loops, eventually making my way around the whole top. For a special flourish, I sprinkled the minced orange peel I'd saved and topped with finely chopped orange slice candy, too.

  Dixon and Bethany practically drooled all over my countertop as they'd watched the baked novelty blossom into a winner. Dixon said solemnly, “Forget the contest. Give me a hunk now.”

  Bethany slid next to him and stared at the cake. “Me, too. I'll settle for loser.”

  “Will this do instead?” I surrendered the mixing bowl which held about a tablespoon of frosting.

  “Yes, ma'am.” He retrieved several spoons from a drawer and gave each of us a dab.

  Bethany savored a lick. “I think I'm in love with fruitcake now.” She made a grab for Dixon's spoon.

  With a practiced hand, I checked for any icing imperfections and said in my best fourth grade teacher's voice, “Children.”

  Bethany said, “He won't share.”

  Dixon said, “I'm no fool.”

  While they fought it out for a second time, I dropped my spoon in the sink. “That's that. Dixon, can you be in charge of getting our entry to the Bake-off?”

  “No problem.”

  I snapped the lid on and extended the container to him. “You're sure? It's a huge responsibility.”

  Taking the tin in his hands, his gaze went to the cake, and then to me. With a questioning glint in his eyes, he asked, “You're not relinquishing some control freak thing, are you?”

  “I do have a hard time letting go; however, I have to share the duties, partner.” I patted the tin top like a mama would a tot's tushy. “Take care of our baby.”

  “I'll keep it stored in the fridge until entry day.”