by Liz Johnson
Hurrying past the library, he risked a glance over his shoulder to see that his pursuer was still there. She’d closed the gap by several meters, her short legs pumping quickly, her head still bowed.
Usually when this happened, security stepped in. But he’d insisted he didn’t need a detail—not after Warner had promised a safe and secure haven in Tinsel.
His pulse pounded in his ears, and every breath felt like swallowing a blade. But he doubted that had anything to do with the unexpected exercise and everything to do with the single-digit temperature.
Finally he spied the big house on the corner that meant he’d made it back to Candy Cane Lane. Large boxes had been stacked in the driveway, giant candy canes and billowing snowmen spilling out of one of the containers. The homeowner looked up from her decorations and waved at him.
Andrew nearly gave a wave in return before realizing she might be greeting the woman behind him. Maybe she hadn’t been following him. Perhaps she’d only been walking in the same direction.
His mother would tell him he was being paranoid. She’d never had any trouble saying exactly what she thought. And she was usually right.
Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Casually changing his trajectory, he turned onto Merry Circle, its Victorian homes as bright and welcoming as the street name suggested. But half-way around the circle, he knew the truth. He was still being followed.
He’d been ducking out of the public eye—or at least out of the reach of camera lenses—since he was a boy, and Warner had supplied him with a few tricks for navigating his hometown. Like the small walking park that connected Merry Circle and Candy Cane Lane. His feet crunched the frozen grass as he raced from tree to tree.
By the time he reached Warner’s house, he was somehow sweating and freezing, his skin itching under the strain of keeping both warm and cool. And he slammed the front door closed behind him, leaning his back against it as he gasped for air.
“Andy? That you? What took you so long?” The words echoed through the great room and into the foyer, a large house too empty.
“Yes. I’m back.”
“Did you get the wrench?” Warner stepped into the foyer, wiping his hands down his paint-splattered jeans.
Andrew shook his head. “You didn’t tell me there were eighteen different varieties.”
With a shrug Warner said, “I guess I forgot your dad never taught you any of that.”
True. His dad had taught him many useful things, but they all leaned toward diplomacy rather than fixing anything around the house.
“Did you walk all the way down there without a coat?”
Andrew nodded. “It’s a meat locker out there.”
Warner laughed. “Do you even know what a meat locker is?”
“Of course, I do.” Mostly. He’d seen Rocky while at university. He wasn’t completely ignorant of normal life. Although he wasn’t entirely sure if Rocky or any other movie was a good representation of it.
“Come on. I’ll make some coffee.” Warner waved him toward the living room and the roaring fire in the hearth.
He nodded and made his way to the overstuffed leather sofa, falling into it as he pulled the ivory throw blanket around his shoulders. “I thought you said there weren’t paparazzi in Tinsel,” he called toward the kitchen.
“There aren’t. They aren’t allowed.” Warner chuckled. “I’m pretty sure Mayor Hayden has some sort of top-secret government security device that blasts them into Canada if they dare to set foot in town.”
Andrew knew that was supposed to be comforting. But it didn’t change the facts of his day. “Someone followed me all the way from the town square.”
Warner’s head appeared around the corner of the room’s main entrance. His eyebrows formed a deep V, his eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”
“I went an extra block out of my way.”
Warner raced to the window, pushing the wooden blinds wide enough to see the front of the street. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he said, “Well, there’s no one out there now.”
Just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean the cameras weren’t there. The picture was proof of that. And he wasn’t inclined to let his guard down again. Even in Tinsel.
Warner pressed his face into the window again. “Is Mrs. Carruthers putting up her decorations already? What’s today?”
Andrew touched the face of his smart watch. “Tenth of December. Why?”
“Oh man, I can’t believe I forgot. My mom’ll kill me if we lose the Candy Cane Lane Contest to Mrs. Carruthers.”
“The what?”
Warner cringed. “Every year the houses on our block compete for the best decorations. And I promised my mom we’d take care of it this year.”
Leaning back against a pillow, Andrew pulled the blanket over his face. He’d been looking for a place to hide until the gossip ripples from the picture faded. At least now he had an excuse to stay at the house—away from prying eyes and long-range camera lenses.
Chapter 2
Even in her dreams, Charlie hadn’t stopped thinking about the man who had disappeared the day before. Warner’s friend. Supposedly.
She couldn’t help her skepticism. Especially since he’d gone the wrong way then disappeared on Merry Circle. Merry Circle, Candy Cane Lane, and Jingle Way were filled with Tinsel’s old blood. Generations of families had lived in those homes, and anyone who discovered a man hiding on their property would have called the police chief. But the police blotter in the local paper reported only the usual. A warning to a couple of teenagers for jaywalking. A dog barking after a trash can was knocked over. A property line dispute between neighbors—each wanting to decorate their shared hedgerow.
Her mystery man—nope. That wasn’t right. The mystery man didn’t seem responsible for any of those.
She flipped another twenty-dollar bill onto the stack on the old wooden counter but stopped when she realized she had no idea how much she had counted out of the till. Because of a handsome face. A stupid, distracting, disappearing face.
Huffing out a breath, she started counting the cash from the old-fashioned register drawer again just as the bells on the door handle announced a customer. She looked up and plastered a smile in place.
“Mayor Hayden. Good to see you. What can I do for you today?”
“Well, now.” The man had been mayor as far back as her memory went, but he’d had the same salt and pepper beard for every single one of those twenty-plus years. He scratched at it now, his face wrestling a smug smile. “You know it’s nearly Christmas, and your father’s store is right across from the square.”
Charlie fought the frown that threatened to settle into place. This was her store. It had been for more than eight years. Even though she’d struggled to accept the responsibility of it at first, she’d eventually discovered a love for serving the hardware and fix-it needs of the people of Tinsel.
But to some people Hudson Hardware—this store that carried her father’s name—hers too, if she was picky—would always be his.
“Yes. It’s been in the same location for almost thirty years. And as far as I can tell, the square hasn’t moved either.”
Mayor Hayden’s smile turned sour. “Of course not. But you know the town ordinance.”
She did. That didn’t mean she was eager to give in to his insinuations. She raised her chin and cocked her head. “Which ordinance exactly is that?”
He pressed his hands to the belt at the waist of his pleated khaki pants. “The Candy Annex and record store are already lit up brighter than the Christmas star, garland around every window. You know that all the businesses on Main Street put their holiday spirit on display.”
That sounded about right. Her store sported exactly as much spirit as she felt this year. Somehow, she didn’t think that the mayor would accept that, even if it was true. So she tried another old standard. “It’s not Christmas yet.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s only two weeks aw
ay. Candy Cane Lane is getting ready for the judges to make their rounds in less than two weeks. You don’t want to be the only building on the square—”
Her jingle bell stopped him mid guilt trip, and they both turned toward the door.
Charlie’s heart slammed against her ribs. Warner. She hadn’t seen him—except from a distance—since she’d refused his proposal and broken up with him. It took some careful strategy to avoid someone in Tinsel, but she’d perfected it whenever he visited.
Until now.
He offered a half-smile and a shrug of his shoulder. “Hey, Charles.”
She gasped, the nickname familiar but like it had come from another lifetime. “Hi, War.”
Mayor Hayden watched with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Maybe he was considering breaking his own law on reporting gossip.
Charlie was almost too busy trying to come up with something to scandalize him to notice the set of broad shoulders standing behind Warner. Almost.
Her mystery man stepped to the side, his smile genuine but not quite reaching his eyes. He gave her a subtle tip of his head, and it made her chest feel strangely warm. Weird.
This whole situation was weird. She still didn’t know what he was up to, and if he really was staying with Warner, how had he disappeared on Merry Circle? She squinted at him, but his gaze never dipped, his shoulders never hunched.
There was something off about this guy. But she wasn’t going to discover it with the mayor looking over her shoulder.
“Thank you, Mayor Hayden, for the reminder. I’ll keep it in mind.” She gave him a not-so-subtle pat on the back and waved Warner in. “But now I have customers. Got to keep the local economy strong.”
Mayor Hayden blustered but moved toward the exit anyway, sliding past Warner and mystery man with a diplomatic nod.
“Come on in,” she said, shooing them into the warmth and closing out the frosty air. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her well-worn jeans, she forced herself to look only at Warner. “It’s good to see you.” Strangely enough, she meant it.
“You too.” Even more strangely, he sounded like he meant it as well. Maybe a decade of distance had healed old wounds. “How’ve you been?”
“Good.”
“I was really sorry to hear about your dad. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back for the funeral.”
“Thank you.” It had been finals week—after Thanksgiving eight years before. And she had never expected Warner to drop everything at Oxford and fly across the Atlantic. Not for her. Not when their collapsed relationship had been so fresh.
“So, I hear you met Andy yesterday.” Warner motioned to mystery man.
Andy? He looked about as much like an Andy as the moon looked like the sun. And he seemed to rankle under the nickname.
“Andrew.” His voice was rich and deep and commanding. He was used to being obeyed. She was sure of it. Probably a billionaire CEO or something.
She reached out to shake his hand, and he stared at it for a long second. His hands never moved from where they were tucked behind his back, and she lowered hers awkwardly back to her side. “Just Andrew?”
“Yes.”
“He’s helping me fix up Mom and Dad’s place while they’re in Europe. I’m just in town for a couple weeks, and he volunteered to give me a hand.”
All right then. If that was the story they were peddling. It didn’t mean she had to buy it. Turning back to Warner, she said, “What brings you into the store? Still need a wrench?”
Warner laughed, and Andrew pursed his lips. “Yes. Also, I need a staple gun.”
“A staple gun? For what?”
“Hanging Christmas lights.”
“You haven’t started decorating?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice, but the contest was only two weeks away. Mrs. Carruthers had raided the Christmas displays weeks before. And Mrs. Hillstone had won first prize in the Candy Cane Lane Decorating Contest four years running. She might disown her only child if he let her lose this year.
Warner ducked his head. “We forgot.”
Andrew cleared his throat at that.
“Okay, I forgot. But Andy’s going to help me with that too.”
She almost laughed out loud, but mocking her customers usually didn’t result in big sales, so she swallowed it back. “Have you thought about putting in hooks that’ll make it easy to put your lights up, and take them down?”
Warner looked at Andrew, who shrugged. “I guess we haven’t.”
She motioned for them to follow her toward the section by the far windows, where she’d set up a row just for the holidays. There were fuses for lights that refused to light and entire strands for ones that were too tangled to salvage. There were tiny generators for keeping snowmen inflated and electronic LED displays that projected snow flurries onto houses. There were gadgets and gizmos for every outdoor fun.
And there were hooks that screwed into the eaves and held lights in place all season long.
She handed him three boxes. “That should cover it. What else do you need?”
Warner laughed. “I have no idea. We didn’t really check the boxes in the garage.”
“So I guess I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
Warner nodded, but it was Andrew’s smile that caught her eye. It was warm and inviting and . . . practiced? Could that be right? It looked somehow both staged and genuine. But that wasn’t possible. Unless he was that good at putting on a show, hiding who he was.
Warner picked out his wrench and some caulk and set them all on the counter as Charlie rang and bagged them up. She held the purchases out, and Andrew reached for it—their fingers brushing for the briefest moment, just long enough to send sparks straight to her stomach. Andrew’s eyes burned bright for a second, and then he excused himself, stepping outside.
But before she could dwell on that strange exchange, Warner cleared his throat. “Listen, Charlie. I . . . um . . . I wanted you to hear it from me. I’m getting married.”
She waited for a bite of jealousy or sting of bitterness, but they didn’t come. Instead she felt all the warmth she would have had any of her friends announced an engagement. In fact, she was mostly surprised it had taken so long.
“Congratulations.” And she meant it. “Is she . . .”
“We met at Dartmouth. Ginger works in the English Department too.”
Dartmouth was barely over the state line into New Hampshire, but according to her sources Warner had been visiting his parents less and less in the last year. “I’m so happy for you.” Her cheeks ached from smiling so wide, but she didn’t dare relax. “Will you bring her to Tinsel?”
He shook his head. “Not this Christmas. She’s with her family. But maybe next year. She’s really something, and she loves theater. I think you’d really like her.”
“I hope you’ll bring her by the store.”
Warner gave her pointed look. “I hope you’ll stop dodging me when you see me in town.”
Her cheeks burned, but she promised she would. And they said their farewells. As he and Andrew disappeared into the town square around the gazebo, she took a deep breath, her shoulders ten pounds lighter.
She’d been carrying around a load of regret for the way she’d treated him, but he’d found happiness, and she had nothing left to regret. At least as far as Warner Hillstone was concerned.
“How’d she take it?” Andrew asked, glad he hadn’t stuck around for the showdown. Although she’d been smiling awfully hard for someone upset to hear the news that her ex-boyfriend was engaged.
“Really well.” Warner let out a deep breath that immediately turned into a cloud before him. “I was kind of surprised, but I think she’s genuinely happy for me. I mean, it’s been more than ten years. And it’s not like we didn’t know the other was dating.”
“I didn’t think you kept in touch.”
Warner cocked his head to the side. “Not exactly. But between social media and the internet, there were a couple years there where I could basic
ally track her every step.”
Andrew scratched at his cheek. “Okay, but wh—”
He jerked to a stop when Warner grabbed him by the back of his coat, hauling him behind a row of evergreen bushes. Only Warner and a few of their mates from university dared to handle him like that. The rules hadn’t applied on the rugby pitch, and Warner had never bothered with them anywhere else either.
If he was honest, Andrew rather appreciated the carefree interaction. He’d prefer not to think about how much he’d wanted to shake Charlie’s hand back in the hardware store. Or how deeply he’d felt even the brush of her finger against his.
It was ridiculous. He was a grown man, nearly thirty years old. He’d dated. But up until recently, every single one of his relationships had more aptly resembled an artic chill. Touching Charlie was like sitting before a roaring fire.
Only he had no right to be thinking about her. Especially given her history with his best friend. And . . . well . . . then there were the expectations.
He forced himself to focus on whatever Warner was muttering about.
“She’s putting a full-size sleigh on her roof. On her roof.” Warner emphasized the word as though the team of teenagers pulling a sleigh up wooden tracks leaning on the side of the house across the street wasn’t apparent. Or that Mrs. Carruthers’s booming commands weren’t audible at least three blocks away.
“We’ve got to beat her,” Warner said. “She thinks because my mom is out of town that they’ll just hand her the prize.”
“What exactly is the prize?” Andrew asked.
“Bragging rights.”
“Bragging rights?” He didn’t know that particular colloquialism.
“It’s just what it sounds like, friend.” Warner clapped him on the back as Mrs. Carruthers ducked into her garage. “Come on.”
They hurried down the street, Warner plotting something that sounded an awful lot like world domination. It was all a little over the top for a Christmas contest, but if he’d learned one thing about Tinsel in his three days there—they took Christmas very seriously.