by Mimi Wells
He pushed his empty plate to the side and picked up his beer. “I still don’t know why you’re so convinced he’s here in town.”
“It’s a hunch. But usually my hunches pay off. I just have to be thorough and patient.”
Rand chuckled. “Something you’re not well known for.”
“As far as you know,” she retorted, pointing another fry at him. “And you don’t. I’m patient enough, but I have a deadline to meet.”
“When’s that?”
“Sooner than Paris,” she said. Jada’s calypso ringtone cut her off. She tossed Rand a smug grin and picked up her phone. “I have to take this.”
He nodded and signaled for the server to take their plates. Ivy walked over to the far end of the bar next to the Labrador so she could hear better. He looked up at her hopefully, and she scratched his graying muzzle.
“Jada. You’ve been awfully quiet this morning.”
“Lord. It’s a whole mess in the office today. Phones ringing all over the place with nobody to answer them, and some butthead from accounting overcooked fish in the microwave. Everything smells like burnt tilapia and hot mango chutney. Is it the weekend yet?”
Ivy laughed as she imagined Jada, her hair pulled off her face with its customary Friday wrap, spearing said butthead with her glare of death. “Is that all?”
“You wish.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. “Paris has an inside source on the Instaho. Apparently, there might be a shotgun wedding after the divorce, because rumor is, she’s pregnant. Paris is working on a second confirmation.”
Ivy’s delicious burger seemed to fossilize in her stomach. “Yikes.”
“Right? That story you were teasing last night better be spectacular.”
Ivy couldn’t respond.
Jada’s voice sharpened. “You do have a story, Ivy?”
“I have a story.” Her voice sounded far more confident than she felt. “It’s in that awkward stage where you can see the whole, finished product but can’t find the thread to start weaving it together.”
A sting of sleet against the big window where Ivy was standing made her jump. “Hey, Jada, can I call you back? I have to get moving or I’ll be stuck in here for the afternoon.”
“Oh, sure. Abandon me to the fish office with nothing to distract me.”
That made Ivy laugh. “Get out of there.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought it. There’s a pitcher of sangria in Brooklyn with my name on it. Talk to you later.”
Ivy hung up the call and peered out at the sky. The clouds hung over Main Street like gray insulation. So much for the break in the weather. It wasn’t storming fully yet, but it was only a matter of time. She gave the Lab a few strong pats and went back to the table.
“We’re about to get trapped in here,” she told Rand.
“Would that be a problem?” he asked.
An afternoon spent in a cozy pub chatting over beers with Rand instead of chasing down the story that would save her job? Yesterday, she wouldn’t have hesitated on which was the right choice. Today, she was waffling. That scared the hell out of her.
“We should pay the check and go,” she said, aware that her voice wasn’t quite as cold as the weather outside, but it was headed that direction.
Rand nodded toward the folder on the table. “I already took care of it.”
Now she felt like a jerk. She shook her scarf free of her coat and looped it around her neck. “Hey—sorry. That came out wrong. You know I was only teasing about paying for lunch, right?”
“It’s fine.”
Ivy groaned inwardly. This was like high school all over again. Pushy Ivy, awkward Ivy, Rand being a good guy. That was another reason being around him irritated her so. He was always nice to her, even when she was bossy or distracted or peevish.
“This has been fun,” she said while they bundled into their coats, “but I need to get back to work on my story. My car’s parked down Main near the inn,” she reminded him. “Would it be okay if I start looking for Julian there?”
She noticed that, ever the gentleman, he’d picked up her bag with the coffeemaker in it. Ellie Cooper would be proud.
He shrugged. “You know I can’t breach my guests’ privacy by telling you who’s staying there.”
She held up her hands. “I’m not asking you to. But if I wander around the halls, knock on a door or two, peek in a broom closet while you’re not looking, would that violate your sacred innkeeper code of ethics?”
That made him chuckle. “They never took their vial of blood, so I guess that’ll be okay.”
She smiled at him, the weird tension between them easing. “Great.” And she meant it. She even felt expansive enough to wave at Kit on their way out.
The wet chill of the sidewalk was a shock after the warm pub, so they said little as they hurried down the street. Bursts of sleet rattled against car windshields and set the decorative snowflakes in the boughs of the trees swaying. Ivy kept her head down and her hands in her pockets, thankful at the number of awnings over shop entrances that kept them mostly dry. They crossed the street just as the sleet began coming down in a steady fall. When they reached the Cooper House Inn, they hopped onto the porch and shook themselves like a pair of puppies.
“After you,” Rand said, holding open the door to motion her inside.
*
The lobby of the inn was warm, made cozy and welcoming by a crackling fire in the hearth. Rand returned Jessica’s cheery greeting and held his hand out for Ivy’s coat.
“Let me hang these up,” he said. “Go warm up over there.” He nodded toward the fireplace. Ivy turned, particles of sleet glimmering in her dark hair like tiny diamonds. Rand swallowed and walked to the coat closet under the staircase.
He wasn’t sure what to think of their morning together. They’d started off friendly, flirty even, and everything was going well at lunch until she took that phone call. Whatever work thing she was concerned about had to do with Julian Wolf. But his hands were tied. He’d made a promise to Katy and Julian.
Trouble was, he’d also “promised” to help Ivy, knowing full well he would do anything she asked short of waltzing her up to Cooper’s Notch and inviting her in. Why had he done that?
Because, for the first time in years, you saw an opening and leaped for it.
Rand released a low growl. This was not how he had imagined spending his day. But what else did he have to look forward to? Balance sheets and frustration? He hung up the coats and closed the door hard enough to make Jessica jump.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” he assured her. What else could he say? “Sorry for the disturbance.”
“It’s nothing.” She cast a speculative glance over at Ivy, who was reading the titles in the glass-fronted bookshelf next to the hearth. “Who’s your friend?”
“Someone I grew up with. Her parents still live in town.”
Jessica leaned forward. “She’s cute.” She grinned at him, a naughty twinkle in her eye that reminded him of every little sister he’d ever read about.
He slanted her a look. “Don’t.”
“I’m just saying.” Jessica shrugged and straightened the computer keyboard.
“Keep talking and I’ll ask you all about our favorite local handyman.”
Jessica blinked, blushed, and held up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, boss. You win.”
“I thought so,” Rand replied, chuckling. He made his way across the lobby to where Ivy was standing. The meager light from the fire limned her in gold.
“Ready?” he asked her.
“Lead the way.”
He swept a hand before him toward the staircase.
“I always loved how your grandmother decorated the inn for the holidays,” she said, brushing careful fingers over the holly and ribbon garland twining up the banister. “Things get so crazy at our house, we’re lucky to have a tree up and decorated in time for Santa to come down the chimney.”
> “Really?”
“All is not perfect in Phruitcake Land,” she said in a dark tone. “Trust me.”
Rand nodded absently, far more interested in the curve of her hips and bottom as she preceded him up the creaking staircase. He made a mental note to ask Hank about those steps—another item for the growing cost estimate.
They stopped on the second floor. The stairs emerged onto a landing at the main wing of the inn, the one facing Main Street. To their left, the hall bent around a corner to the other wing. Ivy turned right down the hallway to peruse the rooms.
“Full house this week?” she asked, her gaze sliding past an open door. Inside, one of the high school students they employed to help with housekeeping was stripping the antique cannonball bed. Weak winter light shone through the windows flanking the room’s door to the second-story porch.
“You know our high season is summer,” he said.
“Right.” She paused in front of the next room’s closed door. “So, what percentage would you say is occupied this week?”
“Less than a hundred, more than zero.”
“So you’re not going to tell me.”
“Nope.” He grinned.
“Okay, then.” She finished her circuit of the rooms at that end of the hall and turned around. They passed the landing and continued down the hallway, then turned the corner and stopped. An old walnut piecrust table blocked their way, a hand-lettered sign on its polished surface reading Closed. She frowned at Rand.
“Closed?”
“Minor plumbing problem,” he told her. She didn’t need to know how bad things actually were.
“Uh-huh.” Her reply held a dubious ring that boded trouble. Sooner or later, she’d ferret out what was actually happening. “So, upstairs, then?”
“Be my guest.”
She took these stairs more quickly then she had the first set. Whatever she thought she was going to find, she expected to discover it on the upper floor. This time, she turned down the wing where she’d found the Closed sign, discovering a matching sign on another table blocking the hallway.
“Interesting,” she murmured.
“What is?”
“Mighty convenient,” she said as she turned and walked past him. Instead of the smaller chambers that lined the second-floor hallway, the third floor of the inn housed its larger suites, perfect for VIPs, longer stays, and, yes, romantic getaways. The door to the Daylily suite stood open, light from its dormer windows spilling onto the worn hallway runner.
Ivy stopped in the doorway, taking in the room’s canopy bed, its burnished antique furniture, and air of genteel hospitality. “No flowers, so I’m guessing no guest in residence?”
“Not right this second, anyway,” he replied. He enjoyed watching her puzzle through a problem. Always had.
She shot him a glance from under her brows and crossed the hallway to the closed door of the Iris Suite. “How about this one?”
He held his hands wide. “I told you, I can’t tell you anything about the guests.”
She gave the knob a twist. Locked. “But you’re not saying anything about the guests. You’re telling me about the room.”
“It’s a nice room,” he offered.
She groaned and gave him a playful shove to the chest. “You’re impossible.”
He caught her hand and held it briefly. Could she feel his heart? How it accelerated at her nearness and nearly tripped over itself at her touch? “I think you’ll find I’m very possible,” he said before he could stop himself.
She paused, her eyes were wide, liquid, like a deer’s. For one crystalline moment everything floated in the air around them, their rivalry, their long friendship—even adversarial as it could be at times in the past—and this. What was this, anyway? For one reckless second, he thought of grasping her hand more tightly, leaning closer, and kissing her berry lips he’d fantasized about since they’d been thrown together as awkward lab partners in freshman biology.
And then she tugged her hand away and pushed past him. With only a cursory glance down the other hallway where the Dogwood and Azalea suites lay, she clattered down the staircase, Rand hot on her heels.
“Ivy.” She kept going.
“Ivy.”
“I have to go,” she said. She threw open the door of the stair cupboard and snatched her coat and scarf out of its depths.
“Ivy.”
That stopped her. She pulled her gloves out of the coat’s pockets and met his eyes. Discomfort radiated off her in waves, and Rand could have kicked himself for being so obvious about his desires. “I have to go,” she repeated.
He could only watch as she grabbed up her shopping bag, yanked open the inn’s heavy door, and strode away, head bent against the stinging sleet.
Chapter Seven
Ivy stomped away from the Cooper House Inn, her head aswirl. Was she crazy, or did Rand Cooper just try to kiss her?
She shook her head. He couldn’t have. He definitely hadn’t kissed her. Gripped her hand, sure, and given her a look, maybe, but no kiss.
She wasn’t sure what unnerved her most. The thought of Rand Cooper kissing her or her growing realization that she wanted him to.
Badly.
This was a wholly new sensation. She’d spent years building a grudge altar in the Rand Cooper corner of her brain, stopping occasionally to add more kindling to its low-burning fire whenever her parents or sisters would mention him in casual conversation or bring up some kind or thoughtful thing he’d done for someone in town.
She wasn’t used to thinking about Rand Cooper in a positive sense. She wasn’t used to thinking about Rand Cooper at all.
But here she was, thinking about nothing but Rand Cooper. And she hated it.
She found herself on the street corner not far from where she’d parked her rented Jetta, but even though the weather was threatening to only get worse, she needed a walk right now. Ivy unlocked the trunk and nearly tossed in the coffeemaker she’d bought with Rand earlier—ugh, yet another example of his sterling wonderfulness—and slammed the trunk with more force than she ought.
She hated not knowing her next step. She could call Jada back, but Jada didn’t know much about life in Dogwood Mountain aside from the pithy stories Ivy would tell when she’d had a few too many cocktails after a long day at the office. Jada’s encyclopedic knowledge of the nuances of the five boroughs of New York City wouldn’t be much help here. Not to mention Jada would probably enjoy ribbing her about this unexpected development just a little too much for comfort.
Ivy hadn’t developed close relationships with the girls in her Dogwood Mountain School class. She was too busy studying or helping at home for more than group fun, activities that always included Rand Cooper somehow. That left her sisters.
She looked down the street and spotted the loopy pink lettering on the sign outside Joy’s, the sweet shop and soda fountain where Laurel, who had a sweet tooth the size of Mt. Mitchell, had worked since she was in high school. Ivy could never have worked there herself, cute though the shop was. A lifetime of fruitcake had pretty much steered her away from sweets.
Given the weather, the place would be dead, so Laurel could spare her some time. And yet Laurel, who loved nothing better than love except maybe candy, probably wouldn’t be much help.
Ivy stopped, squared her shoulders. No, not Laurel this time. Violet would know what to do. Violet, calm and practical, would be a far better sounding board than their emotionally squishy younger sister.
She turned and headed up the street away from the main downtown blocks and their reminders of this morning’s stroll with Rand. Here, the shops and businesses thinned. At the top of the low hill, half barrels brimming with flame-red poinsettias flanked the horseshoe bend of the driveway for Dogwood Mountain’s library.
Ivy trudged up the drive, dodging a blue minivan full of kids and their harried mama, and entered the library.
The warm vestibule was a relief. Her cheeks burned from the cold, and she could fee
l the wet sleet soaking into the folds of her scarf. She took it off and gave it a shake, then entered the hush of the library itself.
The interior, with its warm wood trim and creamy paint, rich carpeting, and stacks of books, always made her think of a log cabin. The front desk had been hand-assembled out of knotty pine boards salvaged from a tree lost to some long-ago storm, sanded and stained a mellow caramel. Ivy noted the two clerks manning the desk, gray-haired and friendly.
She caught a glimpse of deep brown hair slicked into a high ponytail disappearing around the corner of the desk into the children’s section. Violet. Ivy unbuttoned her coat to let the warmth of the library seep inside and walked around to meet her.
The children’s nook had been designed to resemble an enchanted garden, its colorful low stools springing like fantastical mushroom caps from the green carpet. In the center of the children’s nook stood a smooth, bare tree trunk, little hollows carved out to feature picture books of all kinds. Artificial limbs carefully painted to blend with the trunk stretched to meet the corners of the room, festooned with silk leaves and twisted fairy lights. Happy chatter emanated from a table in the corner where three children bent over a puzzle of farm animals.
Violet was standing at the back wall, arms full of picture books she was reshelving. She wore a simple blue wool dress, gathered at the waist, and black ballet flats. With her huge brown eyes and thick hair, Violet could pass for Alice in Wonderland’s older brunette cousin.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Ivy called out. “I need something new to read.”
“I keep recommending Getting a Life That Doesn’t Suck, but you never listen to my advice,” Violet responded over her shoulder in an arch tone. She set down her books and walked over to Ivy, drawing her into a strong but brief hug.
Ivy marveled again how differently her two sisters approached the world, Violet’s measured confidence and logical brain the direct opposite of Laurel’s open impulses. It was like being caught between Jane Austen’s Elinor and Marianne Dashwood—where on the spectrum between sense and sensibility did she herself reside?
“Avoiding me again, I see,” Violet said. “It’s taken a whole day for you to acknowledge I exist.”