Wrapped Up in a Beau

by Angelita Gill

  Opening the back door, she took a seat on the bench to remove her boots, smiling.

  Mason.

  All night she’d thought of him and then some, replaying their encounter in her head. The more she thought of him, the more she liked him. Not a surprise. Many women probably did. He might’ve tried to seduce her from the looks he’d been her giving throughout the night. Good thing she wouldn’t have to worry about that now. Worry…or succumb.

  While Linda and a few others finished up cleaning from last night’s party, Greta found her way to the kitchen. She was greeted by the resident cook, Amah, who kindly asked what she’d like for breakfast. Eggs benedict? An omelet with fresh asparagus, cheese and salmon? Perhaps homemade oatmeal with caramelized walnuts and brown sugar?

  “An egg on toast, please? Can you make that?” She took a seat at the breakfast nook, reaching for the carafe of coffee.

  The crow’s feet around Amah’s eyes deepened as he nodded. “Right away,” he replied, with an accent Greta noticed.

  “South African?” she asked with a curious smile.

  “Very good, Ms. Marcum!” he exclaimed. “For that, I will endeavor to create the best egg on toast you have tasted.”

  “Eggs on toast?” a voice echoed. “Those Brits took the American right out of you, didn’t they?”

  She froze and looked up.

  Mason grinned, standing in the doorway, a mug in his hand.

  At night in a tux he was heartbreaking, but in a short-zippered sweater and jeans, he was the stuff made of girlish daydreams.

  But he was obviously no mirage.

  Shocked, she attempted to appear nonchalant while her heart pounded wildly at his unexpected presence. “Aren’t you supposed to be dipping your feet in international waters by now?”

  Mason sauntered in and took a seat across her. “I had to cancel. Looks like I’ll be right here for Christmas after all.”

  What could’ve possibly come up between nine o’clock and midnight last night to warrant a complete cancellation? Oh, boy. This changed everything. “That must be such a disappointment. Sophie said nothing could keep you from going.”

  “She was right. But I have to stay this time. She’s going to get her second Christmas miracle when she sees I never left.”

  “Indeed. What happened?” She was curious. Very curious.

  He didn’t respond right away as he looked into her eyes, making her stomach flutter, her skin bloom. “Plans changed, that’s all.”

  Caught in his stare, all she could say was, “Oh.”

  After Amah presented her with the best egg on toast she’d ever seen, and Mason had requested his meal of choice, she finally tore her eyes away. She feigned indifference to his presence, blindly scanning the headlines of the New York Times as they sat in companionable silence.

  “So,” he mused, raising the mug to his mouth, “what are your plans for today? You look ready to paint the town red. That’ll take all of thirty minutes.”

  She gave him a chiding glance. “You are the worst local I’ve ever met.” At his chuckle, she replied, “Nothing in particular. Thinking about going downtown to browse and see where the day takes me.”

  He nodded, tossing his napkin on the plate. “I’m headed that way myself. I’ll drive you.”

  She noticed how he made it a statement instead of an offer. Well, not a good idea. Better to keep some distance and shut down the flirtation. Last night had been different; she thought it harmless because he was leaving! “Thank you, but no. I have GPS in the Mustang and from what Sophie told me, this town isn’t that difficult to navigate.”

  “I insist.”

  “I decline,” she countered without hesitation. “I’m pretty independent. I prefer to be on my own.”

  His mouth turned down as she rose to leave. Was he really that disappointed? Well, too bad. He’d have to find other women to escort around town. Though she was more than a little excited to know he hadn’t left, it was unwise to spend any alone time with him. Her instincts were loud and clear as a Christmas choir.

  No matter what Mason said, Swan’s Crossing was nothing short of inspiring, she thought later on, walking the sidewalk along downtown. Greta could hardly contain the inner child begging to come out and play. The virgin snow sparkled off the rooftops, chimney smoke suggested fires in the hearth and home cooking, children shouted playfully in the yards and bunches of little shops and boutiques enticed the senses.She stopped in nearly every store in the historic downtown, buying Christmas gifts and a few souvenirs. After a while, she decided to take a break, spotting an adorable café that boasted chocolates, espresso, scones and cake. Her stomach and sweet tooth shouted yes to all those things. The name of the business, “Galore”, was etched in gold cursive on the front door, and she smiled.

  The ding-ding of the bell went off as she entered. Immediately her senses were revitalized at the smell of fresh espresso, truffles encased in a bright, pristine display and homemade fudge on top of the counter to sample. Frank Sinatra crooned some Christmas tune in the background. Ornaments dangled from the ceiling. The yellow-and-white-striped wallpaper and old-time photos added even more charm and character.

  A short, gray-haired, older man emerged from the back, wiping his hands on his apron as she perused his goods. He grinned. “Welcome!”

  Greta smiled back and hoisted her purse higher on her shoulder. “Hello. I love this café. So cozy.”

  “Thank you! This is my place. My wife did the decorating. I haven’t touched it in ten years. Except for the Christmas decorations of course.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Now, what can I get for you? Try a chocolate truffle. I made them this morning. Have you sampled the fudge?” He pushed the tray toward her.

  She selected a petite piece and it virtually melted in her mouth. “Oh my. Sinful!”

  “Ha! Women and chocolate. It was an easy guess. Are you new in town?” he asked.

  “Just visiting.”

  “For the holidays? Family?”

  She’d almost forgotten how small-town folk loved details. “Friends. The Renclairs.”

  “Oh, I see. The big fish in the pond.”

  Greta bit back a smile. “I’m a friend of Sophie’s. May I try a slice of your lemon cake?”

  “Of course. Indulge! Thirsty, too? I’ll make you a latte that’ll melt the frost right off your fingers.”

  “How can I say no?”

  Minutes later, she was enjoying her latte and a small piece of cake, chatting with the lovable Italian owner. His name was Leo Rossi and he’d lived in Swan’s Crossing for over twenty years. Like most Italians, he was big on family and told her all about his. A son in the military, a daughter who’d recently gotten married. Though she tried to keep details about her background private, he was able to procure a few from her. She told him the truth; she was an only child, both parents gone, and she considered the whole world her home.

  Once the lunch hour hit, a herd of patrons converged in the little café, and it was apparent within minutes Leo was overwhelmed. A few of the customers were patient; others didn’t seem to take much pity on the man who was working by himself. Greta rose and squeezed in behind the counter. “May I help? I know my way around a café.”

  He brightened. “Really? Can you handle an espresso machine?”

  She winked at him. “Observe and prepare to be impressed.”

  After the rush had ended—it took an hour and a half before it broke—Greta wiped her brow, taking a seat at the table.

  “I can’t thank you enough for stepping in,” Leo exclaimed, grinning as he waddled toward her with a white box. “Some treats to take home.”

  She smiled, accepting the gift. “It was my pleasure. You’re here all by yourself, though?”

  “I have an assistant who comes in really early to help with getting the sweets
out, but he has another job he has to go to by ten. It’s me here until the high school gets out. I have a couple of students who come in after class. They’re off for two weeks starting Monday for Christmas, so I only have to hang in there a few more days.”

  “I see.” With Sophie’s days tied up at the hotel, Greta had plenty of free time, and an idea sprung to mind. “How about I come in during the lunch hour to help? Until the kids are off for winter break?”

  He was taken aback. “You’d do that?”

  “I’d love to. You can pay me in chocolate and consider me your Christmas helper for the week.”

  “Little lady, you’ve got yourself a deal!”

  After shaking Leo’s hand, agreeing to see him tomorrow, Greta slipped on her leather gloves and left. Upon stepping outside, she took in the fresh, wintergreen air. She let out a breath, a white cloud blowing from her lips, and wondered if she should walk to the hotel to meet Sophie, or drive.

  Turning left, she chose the former. She wouldn’t be getting much exercise outdoors, better to take advantage of a perfect day. The walk took less than fifteen minutes. The Chamberlain was a small but luxurious hotel built in the 1920s by Sophie’s grandfather, William Howard, and other local businessmen. Sophie had spoken of running it one day when they first met. Built in the Italian Renaissance style, the hotel had impressed even a seasoned traveler like Greta, who had seen and stayed in countless historical lodgings. Sophie had obtained a degree in hospitality management with honors, and could’ve easily begun her career anywhere in the world. Greta had expected her to land somewhere like New York City or Macau, but Sophie only wanted to work for the hotel her Grandfather had helped create.

  Once she stepped inside, the magic of the season truly enveloped every sense—a rich, sumptuous interior of wood embellishments and plastered ceilings. The pine scent of the enormous Christmas tree combined with a cinnamon potpourri tickled her nose. A crackling fireplace instantly made her want to shed her coat, kick off her boots and take a nap on the plush chaise in the corner.

  “Welcome to the Chamberlain.” A young woman smiled behind the front desk.

  Greta asked how to find the restaurant, and was guided toward the back of the hotel. The host informed her Sophie would be joining her shortly, and took her coat. The phone rang and he excused himself to answer it.

  The establishment appeared packed with customers…including Mason Renclair. He and an attractive woman with long red hair were sitting at a table on the far left.

  Greta stepped back behind a tall plant for cover. Although she scolded herself for it, she observed the two like a covert spy.

  The woman grinned, then laughed, reaching across the table to squeeze Mason’s forearm.

  Oh how obvious. The old arm-squeeze move.

  Mason leaned in and spoke as if sharing confidential information, conjuring more laughter from his pretty lunch date. He enjoyed this woman’s company, and vice versa. Obviously he had no trouble at all finding company and had recovered quickly after her rejection this morning. She felt a pang in her stomach. So silly! What did she care? She was the one who turned him down. To be jealous was petty and juvenile.

  The woman rose, headed toward the powder room, and Mason accepted the bill after the server set it on the table.

  Good. He’s leaving.

  “My apologies,” said the host, giving Greta a strange look as she came out from behind the plant. “Right this way.”

  She avoided Mason as they passed his table. The host pulled out her chair and she thanked him, keeping her gaze out the picturesque window that showcased a view of a frozen pond with a red bridge running over it.

  “Greta.” Mason’s deep voice elicited a shimmy down her spine, and he said her name as though he knew she’d been avoiding him.

  She feigned surprise and lifted her eyes to his. “Oh. Hi. You’re right, this is a small town.”

  “I warned you,” he teased. “I eat here at least once a week.”

  “Well, your family owns the hotel.”

  “That, and the choices are limited in Swan’s Crossing unless you like burgers and fried seafood. Plus, I had to stop by and give Sophie the news I’m staying.”

  “I’m sure she’s thrilled.” To avoid those penetrating eyes, she dropped her gaze and carefully unfolded her napkin, placing it in her lap. A moment of silence stretched between them, his electric-blue stare making her cross her legs. Heavens, is it warm in here or what? She grabbed the menu. “Nice running into you. Again. Enjoy the rest of your day.” Go away, go away.

  “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  She looked up. His mouth curved into a smile. My, he did make a girl’s heart pound. It’d be so easy to give in and say yes to the invitation, but to what end? He was her friend’s brother. Wisdom and desire rarely went hand-in-hand. “I can’t.”

  He cocked his head. “You’re lying.”

  “All right,” she conceded, setting down the menu to primly fold her arms. “I can. I just don’t want to.”

  Despite the disappointment in his eyes, he didn’t give up. “Why not?”

  “I don’t date townies when I’m on vacation. Especially immediate relatives of my closest friends. Isn’t one date between sunrise and sunset enough for you?” she asked, shifting her eyes to his empty table.

  “She’s a friend, not a date.”

  “Men and women can’t be friends.”

  “According to whom?”

  “Every male and female over the age of thirteen. If you can’t see how much she wants you, then you’re choosing to ignore it.”

  Mason leaned down, resting one hand on the table, and the other on the back of her chair. With his mouth inches from hers, she went still, the hairs on her neck stood up from the charged air humming around her. She strained back, swallowing.

  He stared at her lips, then raised his eyes again, his voice low. “And you’re choosing to ignore how attracted we are to each other.” He paused. “Dinner. Think about it.”

  Caught in his gaze, heart thundering in her ears, she managed to say, “All right.”

  Slowly he smiled then straightened. When he walked away, his companion emerged from the restroom, and they left.

  Greta let out the breath she’d been holding and reached for the sweating water glass. Damn him. Not a very polite thing to wish upon someone on Christmas.

  Chapter Four

  To give up would not be Mason’s style.

  As he gazed out the family room window of the main house with brandy in his hand, he pondered the enigmatic Greta Marcum.

  He knew she was attracted to him—could see it in her expressive eyes, feel her tense when he neared. So why was she constantly turning him down? All he wanted to do was get to know her, spend time with her. Where was the harm in accepting a ride into town? In sharing a meal? Well, at least she’d think about it.

  The friends he’d planned to meet in Bali were naturally disappointed he’d canceled his trip. Sophie was excited over his change of plans, hugging and thanking him, not even inquiring about what changed his mind. Probably didn’t care; his being home for Christmas was good enough. She asked him if he would keep Greta company so she wouldn’t become bored while Sophie was at work. Obviously he was happy to oblige. Too bad Greta didn’t take him up on it.

  The craggy voice of his grandfather broke his thoughts. “Don’t you have a business to run?”

  Mason turned, brow raised. “Pardon?”

  Christopher Jerome Renclair shifted irritably in his wheelchair and glowered. He hated repeating himself, but it was wiser to ask Christopher to do it than dismiss him. The ninety-three-year-old grandfather made a frustrated sound. “I said don’t you have a business to run? I’m sure Howard wouldn’t approve of you takin’ all this time off if the man was still alive. What the hell are you doing here starin’ out windows and drinkin’ my brandy? Pou
r me a glass if you have nothing better to do.”

  Mason set down his glass, shaking his head. “You know you can’t have any.”

  “Oh! Suddenly you’re my physician, too. Where did you graduate? Harvard Medical?”

  “I’d love to share some brandy with you, but you know the rules.”

  “Don’t be a brat.” He waved his hand back and forth. “Pour me a little bit so I can rub it on my gums. I want a taste.”

  Unable to deny the old man, who found very little to be pleased about, Mason started to hand the glass over.

  Sophie strode into the room. Busted. “What are you doing? You know he can’t have that stuff.”

  Inches away from his grandfather’s shaky reach, Mason paused as Christopher smacked his lips in anticipation. “A drop or two won’t kill him.”

  “Kill me! Nothing so far has. Damn it,” the old man grumbled.

  Sophie sighed heavily. “I’m telling you I don’t want to hear Mom have a conniption when she smells alcohol.”

  “That’s just her acting all high and mighty,” said Christopher. “Sometimes after a few glasses of wine she sets the whole bottle on the table to shut me up.”

  Mason held up the glass. “It’s barely a sip. I’m giving it to him.”

  Christopher pounded a fist on the wheelchair arm. “Stop talking about me like I’m some kind of infant.”

  Sophie shook her head and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Fine. You win. You always do.” She took the glass from Mason and set it in Christopher’s trembling hands. Straightening, she smiled at her brother. “How long have you been here?”

  Mason shrugged. “Not long. It’s too quiet at my place. Now that I’ve decided to stay, I don’t really know what to do with myself. Thought I’d stop by.”

  “Work! Work is the answer,” shouted their grandfather.

  Mason slanted a look with a half-smile. “I already delegated the responsibilities for my absence, so I’d rather enjoy my two weeks off. Dad has everything under control. If they need me, they’ll call. But now I’m twiddling my thumbs.”