by Melissa Tagg
Don’t even think it, Renwycke. Because he was the student and she was the teacher. Because for all intents and purposes, she held his future in her wooden spoon-callused hands.
Because she’d probably whack him with said wooden spoon if she had even an inkling of where his runaway brain had almost gone just now, words like cute and adorable clinking around in there.
He shuffled backward, as if growing the space between them might erase the errant turn of his thoughts. The latest of which was how her red nose and the circles of pink in cheeks—would the heat ever kick in?—only added to her surprise charm.
He inched another step back. Knocked into the kitchen counter.
She grinned.
He looked away, chose instead to study the kitchen she’d called amazing. Of all the work Drew had done on this house, the kitchen had to be most comprehensive transformation. The cupboards were familiar enough that he knew they weren’t new, but they’d clearly been sanded and painted. The island in the middle was new; the countertops, the farmhouse style sink, the stainless steel appliances.
“Think your brother will mind if I borrow some eggs? And flour. Sugar. Whatever fruit I can find?” She had her head buried in the fridge. “What are the chances he’s got white chocolate chips?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Nope.” She lifted a carton of eggs from the refrigerator. Her afghan dropped as she turned.
He had the wayward urge to pick it up and drape it across her shoulders, then pick her up and deposit her in the guestroom bed up in the attic. Insist she get warm and get some rest. They could bake tomorrow.
Instead, he found himself reaching around her for the half-gallon of chocolate milk in the refrigerator door. “Ever use chocolate milk in your muffins? It’s amazing.”
“No way.”
He caught a whiff of her hair. Honey. “Trust me, it’ll change the way you make muffins forever.”
“But my recipe—”
She jumped at the harsh rap on the back door, would’ve dropped the eggs if not for Colin’s quick movement. He grasped the carton with the hand not already holding the milk jug.
Another knock, this one even harder, and Rylan jumped again, this time latching onto his shirt.
“Who’s in there?” a muffled voice called through the door.
He should probably find out who it was about ready to knock the door down, but Rylan still had the front of his shirt bunched in her hand. “If you’ll let go . . . ”
Her eyes widened as she gasped and released him. Pretty sure it wasn’t just the cold reddening her cheeks now. Not the damsel in distress type, huh? He abandoned the milk and eggs to the counter and strode across the room. He pushed the curtain over the door’s glass window aside and reached for the nob the second he recognized the face.
“Well, hi, Mr. Pratt.”
A blast of icy night air billowed, but the older man on the other side of the door didn’t step in. He only stared at Colin, a question in his eyes, the creases around his mouth deepening with a pinched frown.
“It’s me, Colin. You know, Drew’s brother.”
“I know who you are, son. Just don’t know what you’re doing here. Happen to know Drew’s out of town. I saw the lights. Thought I’d better check on the place.”
Byron Pratt was his father’s age and had farmed the land adjacent to the Renwycke property as long as Colin could remember. “You know where Drew is?”
Byron’s silver eyebrows disappeared into the beaver cap covering his forehead. “You don’t?”
It was as if he was fifteen again and in trouble for riding a four-wheeler through the ditches of Byron’s property. If only that was the extent of all my wrongs. His teenage missteps were nothing compared to the rest. “I—we—our visit was a surprise. Can you tell me where Drew is? When he’ll be home?”
Wary skepticism tinted the farmer’s focus as it moved from Colin to Rylan and back again. “I reckon if Drew had wanted his plans publicized, he would’ve contacted you himself.”
Colin quashed the urge to argue. To point out that he wasn’t the public, he was family. But he knew what Pratt thought of him. Couldn’t even blame him, really. Diana Pratt, Byron’s daughter, had gone to at least a couple of the same parties Colin had back in high school. He’d probably made a pass at her at some point or another.
The fact that he couldn’t remember doing so didn’t mean he hadn’t. Only magnified the reality of what he’d been like back then. And for too many years after.
“Mr. Pratt—”
“I suppose I’ve no call to be overly alarmed by you being here.” Then why did his tone convey the opposite? “Just trying to be a good neighbor to Drew.”
“I understand, sir.”
“It’s only the two of you here?”
Did he think Colin had a stash of partying friends hidden around the corner just waiting to trash the place? “Just the two of us.”
With one more glance at Rylan—probably to make sure she wasn’t looking for an escape route—Byron tipped his head and retreated.
Colin closed the door, the cold from outside, the cold from inside, clawing through the layers of his clothes. Fatigue settled around him, heavy and cloying.
“I guess we could try making muffins your way.”
He heard the cautious concern in Rylan’s voice, and when he turned, he saw the same thing in her expression. Discomfiting, the way she was looking at him. As if she could discern every hue of his emotion—discouragement, regret, shame.
“After all, you’ve got the creativity and intuition. That’s what Chef Potts said.”
“Actually, I’m kinda tired. Do you mind if I turn in?”
“Not at all. I’m not as hungry as I thought. I’ll call it a day too.”
He hadn’t known her hazel eyes could go so soft. Almost . . . compassionate.
Or he was seeing things. Because Rylan Jefferson couldn’t possibly have any cause to feel compassionate toward him.
And if for some unfounded reason she did, Lord knew he didn’t deserve it.
Chapter 4
“Who do you think she is?”
The curious whisper intruded on Rylan’s sleepy daze. Had she ever had such a perfect night of rest? Like sleeping on a cloud, this mattress. A toasty warmth wrapped around her, the snug duvet warding off the chill of the attic.
The attic. At Colin’s house. At Colin’s brother’s house, that is.
The brother who hadn’t been here when they arrived late last night.
The pieces of yesterday rambled in as she forced one eye open, then the other. Dust particles danced in the hazy shaft of sunlight spilling in through the window, grating and bright.
I’m in Iowa. On a farm. With Colin Renwycke.
“I guess she must be a friend of Colin’s.”
A second whisper came from behind her. Who? Hadn’t Colin said his brother lived alone?
“Think she’s his girlfriend?”
The duvet suddenly felt too heavy. Her little nest in this bed, too warm.
“Ha!” A third voice. A scoff. One she recognized in an instant.
“Uncle Colin!” The youngest of the voices had given up whispering.
And Rylan gave up pretending not to have awoken to the ruckus happening in the guestroom doorway.
Last night she’d thought there wasn’t a room in this house that could rival the kitchen. But then Colin had led her up to the spacious attic. A peaceful pale blue wrapped around the walls and books lined the white shelves that flanked a cushioned window seat. A mound of white and light yellow pillows were piled on the bed, and edged up to one wall was a gorgeous antique desk.
Colin had mentioned that his brother remodeled nearly the entire house, but it was hard to imagine a man fashioning this space—so feminine and pretty. The second she’d stepped into the room, she’d had the instant desire to pack up all her belongings and simply move in.
Colin, however, had barely given the room a cursory once-over befor
e mumbling a goodnight and disappearing down the steps. Too keyed up to sleep right away, she’d settled onto the window seat, staring at the stars glittering in a clear, black sky, wondering how a person who’d seemed so easygoing and unflappable in Colorado could morph into the aching man she’d witnessed in the kitchen downstairs.
She’d thought Colin tense as they approached his hometown. Unquestionably letdown when they’d arrived only to find an empty house. But after that neighbor’s terse visit? He’d looked so dejected a maternal instinct she’d never even known she possessed had sparked so forcefully to life she’d nearly crossed the room to hug him.
Probably a good thing she hadn’t. It was weird enough being here, realizing there might actually be more to Colin Renwycke than a careless lack of discipline in the kitchen.
She sat up now, frazzled and wary, uncomfortably aware of how she must look. Yesterday’s makeup, what little of it she usually wore, most likely smudged under her eyes. Hair surely a fright.
“So she’s not your girlfriend?”
Her gaze snapped to the people in the doorway. A woman that had to be Colin’s sister. Her hair was fairer; her frame, slighter. But those eyes. Same delicate, uncanny blue. The girl standing next to her—couldn’t be older than thirteen or fourteen—leaned into Colin for a side hug. He’d mentioned a niece, hadn’t he?
And Colin. A tease skipping in his eyes. Perhaps the disappointment of last night had worn off some. “I didn’t say that.”
Didn’t say she wasn’t his girlfriend?
He was already dressed. Jeans, flannel shirt. His usual five o’clock shadow could almost classify as a beard today. Apparently being on the farm turned him into a lumberjack.
“So she is your girlfriend?” This from the teenager.
His facial hair couldn’t hide his dimples. “Well, I didn’t exactly say that either.” He dropped his arm from around the girl’s shoulder and strode into the room, way too much amused self-assurance in his stroll. Definitely back to himself today. At least, the self she’d known in Denver.
Before she could so much as clear her throat, he dropped onto the bed beside her. “Truth is, we’re still in the ‘defining our relationship’ phase of our, well, relationship.”
She’d roll her eyes if she wasn’t so busy trying to catch up with his ever-altering moods. “We do not have a relationship.” The words came out croaky.
Colin only laughed and shrugged. “You came home with me for the holidays. You’re meeting my family. That feels awfully relationship-y to me.” He swung his feet onto the bed. “Oh, speaking of, this is my sister, Leigh, and my niece, Winnie. Leigh and Win, this is Rylan.”
She snatched the edge of the duvet out from underneath his legs and pulled it up over her front. “Hi. Nice to meet you.” Gritted words. She didn’t even look at them. She’d worry about salvaging a second impression later. “Is this how you treat all your guests? Hurtle into their bedroom at the crack of dawn and—”
“It’s not the crack of dawn, Rylan. It’s like ten-thirty.”
She’d slept that long? “Fine, hurtle into their bedroom mid-morning and then lie about their relationship to you?”
“Ha, you just acknowledged we have a relationship.”
A laugh came from the doorway. The sister or the niece, she didn’t know. The urge to burrow under the covers and refuse to come out nearly overtook her.
“Also, no need to be so modest about your pajamas.” Colin’s gaze scooted down to her nearly entirely covered form. “I’ve seen them before, if you’ll recall.”
To think, she’d been on the brink of feeling some kind of compassion for him last night. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re funny when you glower. Little tip: Scowling doesn’t work nearly so well for you first thing in the morning. The bedhead completely ruins the effect.”
She’d push him off the edge of the mattress if she thought he wouldn’t just spring to his feet and laugh all the more. “Colin Renwycke, I really, really—”
“Can’t stand me. I know.” He grinned and hopped off the bed. “All right, fine. Leigh, Winnie, she’s not my girlfriend. I’m pretty sure she’d rather have a tooth pulled than date me.”
“Try ten teeth and a root canal.”
How was it his dimples could become even more pronounced? “Besides, I rarely date older women.”
She flung a pillow at him.
“I like her.” The sister and niece spoke entirely in sync.
“Go ahead and gang up on me, if you like. Ry could use the help. But as soon as Drew gets here, I’ll make sure he’s on my side. Where is he anyway?”
Rylan didn’t miss the faint hint of hesitation in his voice at the question. Barely there, but there all the same. Which made her think the little show he’d put on just now was less about teasing her and more about distracting himself.
There she went again. Thinking she knew a single thing about this man. Nearly caring about his feelings.
Coffee. She needed coffee. And bad. Just as soon as she put on some clothes and brushed her hair and reminded herself for the thousandth time why in the world she was here.
Because she had less than three weeks to come up with a dazzling dessert for Chef Potts. Three weeks to plot and plan and earn her way back into the life she used to know.
The life where she spent her days in a toasty kitchen rather than a cement-walled classroom in front of students whose dreams were still a blank canvas waiting to be filled.
Unlike her own. Spattered and stained.
Because as much as she hated to admit it, she needed Colin’s help.
Because deep down, you hated the thought of spending Christmas alone.
Almost as much as—or maybe more than—she dreaded the thought of spending it with her own family. A familiar ache sliced through her.
“Drew didn’t call you?”
Rylan glanced up. It was the sister that’d spoken. Leigh wore her short, blondish hair in twin braids, and a bucket of cleaning supplies dangled from one hand. Had she intended to come up here and clean this room? The teenager beside her held a bottle of Old English and a rag. Probably for the woodwork that traced the room.
Colin shifted. “Uh, no.”
“I thought for sure he’d call . . . ” The sister set her bucket on the hardwood floor. “Colin, Drew got married on Saturday.”
She could almost feel the air whoosh from Colin’s lungs. “What?”
She shouldn’t be here. This was a family thing. And at the look on Colin’s face—surprise and then a veil of melancholy—she was on the edge of feeling for him again.
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”
While Colin stammered, she slid from the bed, reached for the coat she’d discarded over a desk chair last night.
“That doesn’t make any sense. He got married?”
Leigh nodded as Rylan slipped past. “It was a whim, really. I know he was planning to tell you but maybe he decided to wait until . . .”
Leigh’s voice became muffled as Rylan made her way down the attic stairs, each step creaking with age. She wandered through the second floor hallway, not bothering to glance in any of the rooms. She had her coat zipped and her gloves out by the time she reached the first-floor living room. She found her boots where she’d left them last night.
She was out the front door in a matter of seconds. Chilled air stung her cheeks and stole her breath. Bare trees, stripped by the hand of winter, crowded between a weatherworn barn and a metal machine shed glinting under the sun. Not a single patch of snow brightened the brown grass of the yard. Off to the east, dingy fields stretched as far as she could see into the distance.
She hovered in the corner of the porch. So this was December in Iowa. Not exactly the picturesque landscape Colin had painted for her.
Why had she let him talk her into this? Had she really thought he was the key to impressing Chef Potts? Should she call an airline, book a flight from Des Moines?
Every
question dissolved into another, each one hinting at the same discordant verdict: She’d made a mistake in coming.
Why, then, the feathery whisper in the back of her mind? She’d felt it last night sitting up at that attic window. She felt it again now, as the morning breeze hummed through the porch lattice and a tangle of leftover autumn leaves tumbled across the yard.
Maybe there’s a reason you’re here. Maybe you have something to give.
A fanciful thought. A nonsensical thought. All she had to offer Colin was the assurance of another semester at the culinary school. She didn’t know his past. She had no wise words or sage advice for fixing whatever must have gone wrong in his family.
She was the last person anyone should look to for righting relationships gone askew. She’d chosen to spend her Christmas away from her family, an entire ocean cutting her off from her parents and sisters, the vacation they’d decided to take all together.
The door behind her creaked and Colin’s niece came to stand beside her. “I don’t understand why the adults in this family can’t get their act together. Uncle Drew’s okay, but the rest of them? Total train wreck.”
The huffy rebuke in Winnie’s voice was almost enough to make Rylan smile.
“So if you aren’t his girlfriend, what are you doing here?”
Rylan’s breath let out in a puff of white. “I wish I knew.”
“He got married?”
It had to be the third time he’d gasped the question. Once in the attic. Once on his way down the stairs, after absently realizing Rylan had left the room. Now in the kitchen. And with each asking, more and more pity wheeled into Leigh’s eyes.
He couldn’t stand it.
“I know he was going to tell you.” Bottles of cleaning supplies clunked around in the bucket she carried. So that explained the noise he’d woken up to earlier this morning. He’d assumed it was Rylan banging around in the kitchen already. He’d muttered into his pillow something about her being a workaholic. It’s why he’d taken his time rising, showering, dressing. After last night, he hadn’t been in the mood to deal with Rylan’s rigid obsession with recipe cards and baking rules first thing.