by Liz Johnson
“Uh huh.”
“And the decorations out there . . .” Gaze darting toward the front of the house and the mayhem on the lawn, he shook his head. “Can I salvage it?”
“No.” The straight line of his shoulders dipped, and she quickly continued. “But you can start over. With help.”
“And who’s going to help me?” There was a note of humor in his voice, a touch of hope.
She leaned in. They might not have had a secret to share, but she felt a connection with him. “I will.”
Chapter 4
The next morning Andrew sent another call from his mother to voicemail. Her first two messages had been slightly more pleasant than their last face-to-face conversation. But only marginally so. She hadn’t called him every kind of fool for allowing the picture to be taken. And she hadn’t even rubbed it in that she’d warned him about dating Alexandra.
She had, of course, reminded him that he should have told his mother he was engaged.
He hadn’t been. Ever. Certainly not to Lady Alexandra Sutton.
But no one wanted to believe that side of the story.
He poured a mug of coffee for himself and smiled smugly. He wasn’t completely useless. He could at least follow Charlie’s directions. He pressed the porcelain to his lips, sipped the brew, and immediately spit it out.
Swill. Vile swill.
Hunched over the sink, he spat several more times before turning on the tap and using his hand as a cup until he flushed out the bitter aftertaste.
Charlie had made it look all too easy, but he’d clearly missed a step. Or repeated one. He swirled the nearly black liquid in his mug and sighed. No coffee to start the day. Again.
Scrubbing a palm down his face, his fingers caught on his two-day beard. He should shave. He was always clean-shaven. It was part of his job. When his mates at university had grown beards in November for a charity fundraiser of some sort, he’d lathered up his chin and shaved his whiskers off every morning. Even after he’d had his tonsils removed, he’d shaved every day, lest a rogue photographer capture an unflattering image of him.
Tennesley men did not grow facial hair.
And Charlie Hudson didn’t know it, but she was the only woman to ever see him with a beard. Albeit, a rather new one.
His phone rang again, and he snatched it from the counter. His mother wasn’t going to give up.
“I’m not coming home for Christmas.”
Silence. And then a soft breath.
“Well . . . um . . .”
Not his mother. He bit back a choice word.
“Andrew? It’s Charlie.”
“Hi.” He tried not to think about the bubble of joy in his chest at the mere mention of her name, the lilting sound of her voice. “Good morning.”
“Do you want to start planning decorations?”
Not really. But he didn’t have much of a choice. “Sure. Should I come over to the store?”
“I actually have some part-time help covering it this morning and a couple hours to kill. Want to meet at the bakery?”
He scratched at his beard again. Guess it was going to have to go.
But did it really have to?
There weren’t supposed to be paparazzi in town. Then again, there weren’t supposed to be photographers at the restaurant the night he broke up with Alexandra—or she broke up with him, if the magazine covers were to be believed.
With one more run of his fingers through his beard, he nodded. Paparazzi weren’t going to decide his life for him. And they certainly weren’t going to make him shave if he didn’t feel like it. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He pulled on his coat, pushed his feet into his boots, and prayed that the bakery had better coffee than he made. If what he’d made could even be called coffee.
By the time he got to the bakery, he could barely feel the end of his nose—a brand new sensation. But when he stepped inside, he had no problem smelling. The aroma of sweet cinnamon rolls swirled around him until he could nearly taste the sugar and spice. And something else—something citrusy—broke through the other scents, reminding him of a trip he’d made to an orange orchard in the south of France.
“Andrew.”
At his name, he opened his eyes to Charlie waving at him from a little round table. She pointed at an equally round chair, the white iron frame swirling into a heart shape at the back. There was already a giant steaming mug of coffee at the place, and he sat down with a sigh. “How did you know?”
“You didn’t pay close attention yesterday, and I had a feeling your attempt this morning might fall . . . short.”
He smiled into the plain white mug, even as he poured it into his mouth. “Thank you.”
She leaned her elbows on the table, and whispered, “Do you like oranges? And cranberries?”
He nodded slowly, not sure what kind of secret this was.
“I ordered a scone for each of us. Meg and her sister make the best.”
He nodded politely, but he wasn’t ready to concede that point. Back home Cook made scones so soft and delicious that he’d been known to put away the whole plate before his parents even arrived for breakfast. But that was their loss and their fault. Of course, Cook had gotten wise to his ways and started waiting until his parents were seated before adding the pastries to the breakfast spread.
“I do like a good scone,” he said.
“Then you’ll love these.” She pulled a small notebook from the bag—a purse really—hanging on the back of her chair.
He’d never seen her with a purse. Then again, that wasn’t the only thing different about her. He stared at her, trying to figure out what had changed since he’d seen her the day before. She had the same smile, but her lips shimmered in the natural light coming through the window. Her short brown pixie cut was the same but with more bounce and a little silver clip to keep it off her forehead. And her flannel shirt and baggy jeans had disappeared, replaced by a blue sweater and sleek black pants. It wasn’t the height of fashion, but her clothes fit her well. And he stared like he’d never seen a woman before.
She flipped through several pages of her notebook and then stopped on a blank. When she looked up at him, she cleared her throat.
He coughed. “Sorry about that. What did you . . . Did you say something?”
“No.” She tapped her pen against the page. “Let’s talk about a decorating plan.”
“Sure. Absolutely. What were you thinking?”
She arched one eyebrow. “Me? I was thinking, what were you thinking?”
“Don’t look at me.” He shrugged. “You saw my plan laid out across the lawn.” He took another sip of coffee. “And you vetoed it. Remember?”
“Was that a plan? Or was it just dumping boxes of decorations onto the grass?”
Busted. He chuckled from the back of his throat. “Does setting up ornaments really require a strategy?”
“You better believe that Mrs. Carruthers has one. And that she’ll beat you if you don’t.”
He could see that. His temporary neighbor had been setting up for days with no sign of slowing down. He didn’t have the same investment in the contest. But he did need a distraction. Warner had lured him to Tinsel with promises of no reporters and plenty of work to keep his mind off the picture and whatever gossip it had started among the governors back home. The governors who were reviewing his proposal.
Andrew didn’t know a thing about home repair. But he needed something to occupy the next few weeks. So decorating was his new passion. “Okay. Where do we start?”
She clicked the end of her pen against the table several times in quick succession. Then she tapped it against her chin. “Um . . .”
Before she could voice a plan, a woman in a pink apron arrived. The nametag clipped to the strap around her neck read Meg. “Hey there. You ready for something sweet?” She slipped two plates onto the table, each with a scone bigger than a fist. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Some ideas for Candy Cane Lane?”
Charlie asked.
“Sorry. My expertise begins and ends in the kitchen. But good luck!” Meg disappeared behind the counter as Andrew took his first bite.
The spice of the cranberry and sweet of the orange glaze zinged through him, setting every taste bud on alert. His fingers tingled as the sugar popped in the back of his throat. Warm and soft, moist and every inch packed with flavor. This was heaven. So much better than Cook’s. Not that he would ever tell her that.
“Good?”
He looked up at Charlie’s knowing smile. Then he dropped his gaze to his half-demolished treat. “It would appear so.”
She chuckled as she forked a reasonable bite into her mouth. He inhaled the rest of his, snagging every crumb and nearly licking the final drop of orange icing from the plate. He might have let himself off the hook with his beard that morning, but there was no way he could ignore every etiquette course his mother had forced him to sit through.
He pushed his plate to the side and eyed his coffee, which suddenly didn’t look nearly as tempting. Especially as Charlie made little moans of satisfaction with each bite of her pastry. She closed her eyes as she chewed, her jaw moving slowly, her lips curved up at the corners.
Remnants of the orange glaze had probably made her lips taste just as sweet.
He nearly fell off his chair. He had absolutely no business thinking about that. He barely knew her. She was his best friend’s ex. And most of all, she had no idea who he was.
Which, when he considered it, was rather refreshing. She touched him as though he was normal, as though he hadn’t been protected from everyday embraces, normal contact every day of his life. It had surprised him at first, but he couldn’t deny the charge with even the briefest brush of her hand on his. She had instigated it every time.
But it didn’t have to be that way. What if he touched her? He nearly reached for her hand, the one that wasn’t lifting little bites of heaven into her mouth every few seconds. But he got distracted by the movement of her mouth. Again.
Now that he thought about kissing her, about how sweet her lips were—even before the scone—and how easy her smile, he could happily picture them in the gazebo. Alone. Locked in an embrace. Not a show for the media.
It could be sweeter than the scone.
“What was Christmas like when you were growing up?”
“Excuse me?” Focusing his gaze, he realized she’d dropped her fork on her empty plate and picked her pen back up.
“Maybe it’ll give us some ideas. What are your Christmas memories?”
He took a deep breath and tried to remember his childhood holidays. They’d been formal—sometimes cold. Not the weather on Marvonia near the south of France but the atmosphere in their home. Even his baby brother had been required to sit primly in his suit and pose for family portraits.
Somehow he knew that Charlie wasn’t asking about responsibility and duty and propriety. She didn’t want to know that at ten he’d received a baby grand piano for Christmas when all he’d really wanted was the latest gaming system. She wasn’t asking about how especially at the holidays his privilege felt so much more like a prison. She didn’t care that this was the first year he’d broken free of tradition—and that the entire western world knew why he’d disappeared.
Well, the entire western world save Tinsel, Vermont.
“Come on.” She crossed her arms on the table and leaned toward him. “You must have some wonderful Christmas memories.”
“Of course I do. I was just trying to . . .” Remember them. His whiskers rustled under his itching fingers, reminding him of his maternal granddad, and a smile meandered into place. “I was probably twelve or thirteen when my granddad invited our family to his winter house for Christmas. We’d never been able to visit until then. And I think my parents thought that it might be his last Christmas.”
“I’m so sorry.” She reached out a hand but didn’t quite touch him. A pang of loss rushed through him, brief and sharp.
“Oh, no. Please. He’s still alive. The man refuses to let go or slow down.”
Her laughter was like tinkling bells. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“But that year he’d been very ill, so my parents conceded, and we spent two weeks at his home in the Alps.”
Her eyes grew wide, and he bit his tongue. He should not have said that.
Choosing his words with more care, he continued. “It snowed every day, big flakes, fluffy. Perfect for snowball fights and building snow castles and forts and chasing my brother and sisters around the yard before coming inside to find scalding cups of cider and gingerbread cookies. We sang carols and played board games. We didn’t ski or snowboard, we just played in the snow. I’d never gotten to do that before. It was . . . perfect.”
“You’d never played in snow before?” Her tone said she barely believed him.
“It doesn’t snow much—never really—where I’m from.”
“And where’s that?”
Well, he’d walked right into that landmine. He just needed to casually brush it off, point them in a new direction. “Well, the whole Mediterranean is pretty mild year-round. But my memories can’t possibly inspire the decorations. It’s just snow.”
She tapped the pen against her chin again, squinting at him as though trying to read below the surface of his words. He prayed she wouldn’t dig. She wouldn’t like what she found.
Finally she let out a slow breath. “I think it’s actually perfect.”
“What’s perfect?”
“Your idea.”
He looked over his shoulder because she had to be talking to someone else. But there was no one there. “I don’t have an idea. I just told you about a memory. One from half a world away.”
“Yes, but it’s a universal experience. A winter wonderland. What if instead of using every decoration, we only use white, sparkling ones? What if we made the yard and the front of the house shimmer and shine like fresh snow?” She jotted something in her notebook, sketching out the front of the house before looking up to meet his gaze. “What do you think?”
“I think . . . it sounds a little boring.”
She pursed her lips in a mock frown. “Classy. It’s classy. And elegant.”
“But all the other houses on the block have a rainbow of colors. Won’t it look bland?”
“Catch the vision, Andrew. It’ll look amazing. Trust me. Besides, I saw your version of decorating yesterday, and well . . .” She cringed. “I wouldn’t be judging if I were you.”
“Ouch!” He grabbed at his chest in mock dismay.
She laughed. “I can help you with some of the decorations. I have some white icicle lights. And if we use them on your house, Mayor Haden can’t make me put them up in my store.” She winked, half her mouth curving into a smile.
“Why don’t you decorate your store?”
Her smile dimmed, and she gave him a small shake of her head. “I’d rather decorate your house—er, the Hillstone’s house. Won’t that be more fun?”
He sighed. Fun was not the word he’d use for it. But he’d committed to it, and it would occupy his time. At least until Warner returned.
“I have some biodegradable flocking at my place.”
“Flocking?” He was definitely in over his head with this.
“It makes the window look frosted. Or you could spray it on the tree in the front yard if it doesn’t snow on Christmas Eve. Trust me.”
Oddly, he did. “All right.”
“I’ll drop it off this afternoon.”
“Or I can get it from you right now.” He looked at his watch. “I don’t have anything else on my schedule.”
“Um . . . I do. I have a lunch date.”
A date? His stomach took a strange tour of his insides.
He shouldn’t care if she was seeing someone. Just because he’d had a fleeting thought of kissing her. He had no claim on her time or attention. And there was no hope of anything significant—for all the reasons he’d already laid out for himself.
So why did he suddenly hate the person taking her to lunch?
She flipped her notebook closed and tucked it away. “I’ll stop by the house this afternoon.”
“Or I could come to lunch with you.”
Chapter 5
“Excuse me?” Charlie had just taken a sip of her lukewarm coffee when Andrew casually invited himself to join her for lunch, and she choked on it. He had to be joking.
“If there’s room for one more.”
“I’m not . . . um . . . I don’t think you’d enjoy it. It’ll mostly be Jello and mashed potatoes.”
He cocked his head as if trying to picture the meal. “That’s a unique combination.”
“Not together. It’s just that most of the residents can’t chew tough foods.”
“Residents?”
Perfect. Now she was going to have to explain. But maybe if she did, he’d drop it. She could only hope.
“My Gram lives in an assisted living home—near the entrance of town. Over by the welcome sign.”
He let out an audible sigh, but she wasn’t sure he even realized it. “Your grandmother?”
“Yes. She used to live with me, but after her knee replacement—well, she complained about the stairs to the apartment above the store.”
“I’m sorry. That must be difficult for you.”
She opened her mouth to say that it wasn’t a big deal, but the compassion in his eyes stopped her. It was a big deal. It had been a big deal every day since Gram had moved out. And Andrew was the first person to treat it like that. “Thank you. It is.” She managed a wavering smile. “But I still get to have lunch with her a couple times a week. And today is our day.”
His gaze dropped. “Oh, I shouldn’t have invited myself.”
The sadness in his voice made her stomach ache. “Well, we just eat in the dining room there at the home. It’s nothing fancy, but there are always leftovers.”
His smile was sweeter than the scone she’d savored thirty minutes before. “Sounds perfect.”
She wasn’t sure she’d made the right decision inviting him when she crawled into her truck and slammed the door closed. His shoulders were broad and took up more than his fair share of the cab, and the warmth of his body alone seemed to chase away the bitter cold before she’d even turned the heater on. But as they rolled down the road, she had a strange sense that he belonged right there in the seat next to hers.