“Yeah, Dad?”
“Those Christmas cookies? Your mother made?” He dipped his chin toward Paisley. “If there’s a decent soul in this household, it’s Knox.” He winked at Paisley, but it was Knox who nearly fell over backward.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my father? Did they do a full-blown heart transplant while you were in the hospital? Did I miss something?”
Bridger chuckled as his eyes landed past Paisley.
“Now, Mr. Calhoun.” Paisley raised a delicate finger and shook it at Knox’s father.
“That better not be my health-compromised husband in there, begging for treats!” Betsy’s voice joined the commotion at the front door as she and Shelby returned from their errand—whatever it was—and stepped in, shrugging off sweaters at the door.
By then, Bridger had plucked an apple from the fruit basket and made his way back to the stairs.
Knox let out a sigh and gave his mother a look. “Seems to me he’d be fine to join your little New Year’s Eve party.”
Betsy rounded her mouth into an oh, and her eyes rolled right, then left before she leaned in. “He has no self-control. He’ll come downstairs, get worked up, and who knows what?”
Knox pressed his mouth into a line. If ever there was a time he wished his mother would advocate for his social life for once, now was it. And here she was, squandering what might be his best shot at a moment alone with Paisley. Ironic. Could be a lesson ripped from the pages of his freshman textbook.
“We have T minus one day, food to prep, decorations to figure out, and RSVPs to sort through,” Shelby declared. “So as much as I’d like to sit here and talk about Dad’s delicate heart health, my concern is drifting quickly to the party.” She propped her hands on her hips, but there was a stillness in reply. A brief, fleeting moment where Paisley stole a glance at Knox and in their small exchange, he knew he’d been right. And he knew she was giving him a second chance. He just needed to capitalize.
“You girls get ready. I’ll set up the speakers and whatever else you have for me to do.”
“Thanks, Knoxy.” Shelby patted his shoulder and as she did, lifted a grocery bag to him. “For starters, you can blow these up.”
He peered into the plastic bag to see at least a dozen packs of silver and gold balloons. “You’re joking.”
Shelby smiled and shook her head. “Nope. We’re going no helium. You know—environmentally conscious. And besides, we’ll tie them off where we want them and let some float along the corners.”
“I thought this was an exclusive event,” he reasoned. “What type of exclusive event has balloons?”
Paisley answered this time, “A downhome one.”
Knox awoke the next morning with sore, dry lips and instantly called to mind Paisley. Not because of his raw mouth, though. That problem was plainly due to the hundreds and hundreds—or so it seemed—of balloons he’d personally blown up the day before.
His reasoning for continuing to work on the darn things was based on the hope that the girls would eventually break, and he could steal Paisley out to the deck for a few moments. But that never happened. They kept baking and chatting and referring to Shelby’s laptop until the late evening, and by then—well, Knox was way too obvious. He had to cut his losses and head home.
There, he slept fitfully until the morning, when it was time to get back to work—maybe. Or play it cool.
The ball wasn’t in his court, but it wasn’t in Paisley’s either. And she was distracted with the party.
The best thing Knox could do was remove Bridger from the equation as soon as possible. Apparently, he made a break for a midnight fridge raid and sent Betsy into near hysterics. After that, Knox would have to find a way to slip back to the Calhoun home to help or check things or whatever it took. Whatever it took to re-engage CarolinaGirl.
“Ready, Dad?”
The two Calhoun men stood in Bridger and Betsy’s bedroom, the former sweeping the space with a critical gaze. “My crossword,” he grumbled, pointing to the far nightstand.
Knox strode around to grab it and returned, passing the booklet to his father and picking up the overnight bag. “I think you should be fine for one night, Dad.”
Bridger pulled a face. “I just feel like I’m missing something is all,” he muttered, passing his hand over his mouth and twisting around in a circle.
“If you are,” Knox said hopefully, “I’ll come back for it. No problem.”
With that, Bridger let out a sigh and shuffled to the door. “All right, then. Let’s get this over with.”
Knox tried not to roll his eyes as he followed the old man down the stairs and out to his truck. One night with his dad would be a test to both of their patience. That was true.
Within fifteen minutes, they’d pulled up to Knox’s bachelor pad north of the marina. Knox carried in his father’s bag, and his father climbed carefully from the truck, studying Knox’s house with suspicion. “Haven’t been here in a while,” he murmured.
Knox pressed his mouth into a line and answered with a short nod. “Nothing’s changed, don’t you worry.”
Hickory greeted them at the front door, and Bridger softened for a brief moment, bending to pet the ol’ pooch before straightening and smoothing his polo. “I refuse to sleep on the sofa, so if—”
“Dad, come on. Do you think I’d make you sleep on the sofa? I have a guest bedroom, with a bed. Follow me.”
The two men made their way down the hall and stopped at the first door on the right. Knox shouldered his way in, setting the bag on the foot of the bed. A red quilt spread across the boxy double bed. A simple pillow sheathed beneath that and a white sheet.
Knox looked at his dad. “Will this work?”
Bridger leaned down and squinted at the corner of the bed, grumbling to himself before raising back up. “Right, yeah. This’ll be fine. What time’s supper?”
Knox frowned. “Whenever you want to eat. We’ll order pizza—aw, shoot.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I forgot.”
“Pizza sounds great to me.” Bridger’s mouth curved up on one side.
“Tell you what, Dad. I’ll order a thin crust and a side salad. As long as you limit yourself to one slice, I won’t tell Mom about it. Deal?”
“Throw in a bowl of ice cream, and you’ve got a deal.”
“No ice cream.” Knox folded his arms over his chest. “Popsicle.”
“Popsicle. Fine, fine.”
With that, Knox left the room to make the order. It was already turning into a long night. On his way to the backyard, where he’d call the pizzeria, he flipped the television on and switched from the History Channel to ESPN, lowering the volume and ushering Hickory to the back patio.
After he made the call, he returned to find his father reclined in the easy chair, a satisfied scowl on the old man’s face. Knox took a spot on the sofa, kicking his legs up onto the ottoman and wriggling into a comfortable position.
“You see the game last weekend?” Bridger asked, throwing a side glance at his son.
Knox frowned. “Of course I did. Watched with Beau. Dang shame.”
“Next year,” Bridger answered.
“Yeah.” Knox yawned, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, though why, he didn’t know. “Next year.”
Bridger cleared his throat loudly. Knox glanced his way and watched the old man struggle to push the recliner back into an upright position.
“Here, let me help you, Dad.” Knox reached an arm and helped to add a little push to the padded foot stool, and Bridger swung back into position. “Need a drink or something?”
“No, no.” Bridger cleared his throat again. “You know, son. Knox.” And again, he cleared his throat.
Knox sat up too, shifting his attention to his father. Was another medical crisis oncoming? Was Bridger feeling sick? Was he in pain? “What? Is everything okay?”
The old man waved a hand. “Yes. Yes.” He drew his fist to his mouth and coughed. “I just want to say that
—I, uh… I, uh know I’ve been hard on you. All right?” Knox frowned, and Bridger blinked and kept his gaze on the television.
Unsure how to reply, Knox kept quiet, the sports program blaring in the background turned to white noise as the room seemed to shrink around them. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt… afraid. Nervous. Swallowing, Knox, too, kept his eyes on the television, though the images blurred together.
Again, Bridger coughed. A fake cough. A cough meant to rouse Knox into answering. But Knox had no idea what to say. What to do. What to think.
After what felt like ten minutes—but must have been ten seconds—Bridger went on, “I’m proud of you, Knox. All right? I—I wasn’t sure about your choices, son. Teaching—I never met a teacher who wasn’t a woman, you see. Other than a PE teacher, but you didn’t do that, a’course. Sure, I probably had my share of history teachers. And in the military, they were all men, sure. But, um—books and writing, you know. It, uh… well, you were so dang athletic, Knox. You could’a gone to college for baseball. But then you went and quit. And you turned to track and field, I s’pose. Which is fine, son. It’s fine. I… Knox—”
Knox tore his gaze from the television and looked at his dad. Bridger’s face was white, his eyebrows sloping. Knox unset his jaw and worked his mouth into an answer, but what could he say? There was just one thing to say, really. “I know, Dad.” His throat tickled like he might cry, which was crazy. Knox hadn’t cried since he was a kid. The one characteristic his father had successfully beat into him.
“Anyway, Knox—whatever you want to do with your life, well, son—it’s, um… it’s no business of mine. But whatever it is you want to do—” Bridger cleared his throat and leaned forward, meeting Knox’s gaze. “I’m proud of you, Knox.”
Something broke in Knox’s chest, and in just moments, his eyes were wet. But that wasn’t the thing that made it all worse—or better, for that matter. What made the moment heavier was that his dad’s eyes were wet, too.
Knox reached a hand to his father, as if to shake it, but Bridger swatted it away and stood, rubbing at his wet cheeks as he waved Knox up and took him in a hug—a tight hug. The sort of hug Knox had never gotten from his father.
It felt good. So good, in fact, that Knox knew he couldn’t leave his dad that night. No matter how pretty Paisley was. No matter how sweet. No matter how interested Knox was in her—there was no way on earth he could let this opportunity pass him by. To revel in the affection he’d longed for all his life. To earn it—by doing nothing more than just being himself.
Chapter 33—Paisley
Silver and gold balloons floated across the floor. Coach Kern tested the speakers with Auld Lang Syne. The house lights were dimmed, but Betsy had stationed her standing lamps in the corners of the house, which added a romantic glow.
Exterior and interior twinkle lights glimmered. Light flecks from the tinsel on the tree shimmered against oversized silver and blue ornaments.
At the kitchen bar, platters of appetizers and desserts spread from end to end and outside, along the back deck, stood a folding table covered in a silver drape and lined with flutes of champagne.
Heat lamps stood in the corners of the deck, and a bonfire glowed down from the beach. Currently, Shelby was down at the fire, setting up a marshmallow station. What they needed was more help, in fact. The guests would be arriving any minute, and though the party was set, tending to the various little stations would take on its own life.
Paisley popped a baby carrot into her mouth and did one last scan.
The mistletoe.
“Mrs. Calhoun?” she addressed Betsy who was arranging a fresh plate of brownies.
“Yes, honey?”
“The mistletoe. I’d like to hang it in the same spot you had it before, if that’s all right?”
“Oh, of course—you know what, dear? I think it’s sitting on my dresser upstairs. I’ll just run and get it for you.” She slid the final brownie onto the center of the neat tier of chocolate squares and put the pan in the sink before shimmying past Paisley to the staircase.
Paisley fidgeted with her necklace, a thin chain with silver bells dangling at the center. She’d better go and get Shelby. They’d just have to put Betsy on the bonfire. The music changed, and Rod Stewart came on. Paisley flashed Coach Kern a grateful smile just as she was about to head back down to the beach.
“Hello?” a voice came at the front door.
Paisley twisted to look out to their check-in table—a makeshift folding table with another silver drape to match the others from the beverage station on the deck. “Yes?” She moved quickly to the front deck and there, standing in a line, were at least a dozen strangers. “Oh my goodness,” Paisley whispered to herself. She checked her watch to see that it was nine on the nose.
The party had officially started. She sucked in a breath and clenched her gut before pulling her phone to shoot a text to Shelby to get to the front of the house now, please! then plastered a smile on her face.
“Welcome, everyone!” Paisley sang out to the shadowed figures that lined the front steps. “Welcome to After the Mistletoe. I’m Paisley Barrett, and you might know me from the invitation or our app. I’ll be your matchmaking hostess this evening, along with my dear friend Shelby Calhoun. We’ll begin check-in shortly. In the meantime, if you’ll get your identification handy, I’ll get a tray of eggnog to pass around.”
The little party of strangers murmured excitedly, and Paisley turned inside, searching the kitchen for the prepared platter of welcome drinks. Spotting them there, she slid an arm beneath the platter and reminded herself to be less formal. More casual. Bubbly but soft. Warm and kind.
“Oh dear, Paisley.” Betsy appeared at the base of the stairs just as Paisley was about to step back to the front deck. Shelby’s figure emerged in the doorway, and she could hear her introduce herself to the group waiting.
“Is everything okay, Mrs. Calhoun?” Paisley asked, catching the consternation in Betsy’s eyes.
“Oh, honey. Here’s the mistletoe.” The woman lifted the green sprig, its red ribbon silken and dangling prettily from a little patch of faux red berries. “But look, honey.” She held up an orange plastic vial for Paisley to see. “It’s Bridger’s medicine. He left it.”
Paisley wet her lips as she eyed it with the bough of mistletoe. The quickest thing would be for Betsy to leave and drop it off. Especially if it was urgent. But they couldn’t afford to lose Betsy right now, as the party was just getting underway.
In front of the staircase, Coach Kern lowered the volume on Rod Stewart. “Need me to run and take it?”
“Oh, no, honey,” Betsy answered. “We can’t afford for a single one of us to leave right now. I’ll just—I’ll just have to call Knox to come collect it.”
“Paisley!” Shelby hollered from the front door. “We need to start. There are, like, thirty people here.”
“Thirty?” Paisley’s eyes widened. “Already?”
“You go handle that. I’ll hang this and call Knox.” Betsy winked at Paisley, but she wasn’t sure what winks meant anymore.
Paisley thanked the woman and joined Shelby on the front deck. The party was starting, and they had a company to save.
Chapter 34—Knox
Knox clicked off the call and looked back at his dad. “Well, we figured out what you forgot at home.”
“Oh?” Bridger replied through a mouthful of thin-crust pizza.
The two had settled into a more comfortable position together, each with a paper plate and a cola—Bridger’s diet, as a Cowboys highlight reel played on television.
After the heart to heart, it felt like a new normal could be taking shape. Maybe Bridger would come over for a visit more often.
Hickory rolled on the floor by Knox’s stockinged feet. “Your heart meds. Mom is about to have a panic attack.”
“Let her take one then,” the old man grumbled then chuckled to himself. Knox couldn’t help but join in. “Well, I told her I�
��d pick them up for you. But only if you’ll be okay here.”
“Be okay? I am okay. The women in this family worry over nothing. You and I both know that by now.” Bridger took another bite of his slice.
“I can have Beau get it,” Knox answered. Deep inside, he was too torn. Leaving his dad and then returning—would it change their new dynamic? Would they lose their new momentum? What if Paisley looked amazing? What if he was too distracted to successfully accomplish the simple mission of grabbing a bottle of pills and driving back home?
“Tell you what,” Bridger answered. “Why don’t we all go?”
“All? What do you mean all?”
“You, me, and ol’ Hickory here.”
At the sound of his name, the old mutt dragged himself to Bridger, who gave him a good scratch behind the ear.
“You have to stay here, Dad. Mom’s orders. And the doctor’s, too.” Knox let out a sigh. He hadn’t expected to want to stick around with his father. And now it was hard to turn the poor guy down. A soft spot had formed in Knox’s heart. Mainly because it seemed that the heart attack had had the same effect on Bridger.
“I got an idea.” Bridger leaned forward in the easy chair, setting his plate on the side table and rubbing his hands together conspiratorially.
Knox was all ears.
“Drive me back to the house. Put a leash on Hickory. He and I can go relax on the beach. I’ll bring a blanket. A water bottle. Heck, son, you can give me a plate of veggies. You can go get my medicine then come on down to the beach and join me. We can relax together there. Whatdya say, Knox?”
There was no denying it. The idea could be perfect. Maybe Knox could even convince Shelby to let him put together a little fire or something. He and his dad could play it off as party helpers. Then, Knox wouldn’t only get to spend the evening with his dad, but he might—might get a chance to slip beneath the mistletoe with Paisley again.
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