by Carol Ross
“I don’t know why you decided to offer me this job, but I hope it means you believe that you and I can...get along.”
“Get along?” he repeated.
“Cricket,” she said, twisting her hands nervously, “I know that you know what I’m talking about. But I’ll say it anyway to avoid any possible chance of miscommunication. There’s been weirdness between us for a lot of years now. And I admit it’s my fault.”
A tightness grabbed hold of his heart. Her fault? How could she possibly believe that? “Hazel—”
“I’ve made things difficult at times. I know that. It took me forever to get over you, and there were times when I’d be angry and hurt because I thought you were lying to yourself, and to me, about only seeing me as Tag’s little sister.”
He shifted toward her but then stopped because what purpose would that serve? Admitting his feelings now would only complicate this situation more. He couldn’t be with her. Not in the way he wanted.
Dear Reader,
Sometimes in life, against all odds, against all advice and against what we think is our own better judgment, love happens. True love. The kind that won’t listen to reason. It’s brilliant, and breathtaking, and perfect. But sometimes it’s also wildly inconvenient.
Hazel James has been in love with her older brother’s best friend, Cricket Blackburn, for as long as she can remember. Cricket has been trying not to be in love with Hazel for far longer than he wants to admit. A long-ago kiss cemented feelings for them both, ruining romance for Hazel and torturing Cricket with the memory. What followed were years of coping—avoidance, excuses, rationalizing, a few misunderstandings and even some “list making” on Hazel’s part. But now, with an extra-special Christmas brewing in Rankins, these familiar and comforting “rules” no longer apply. It’s time for Hazel and Cricket to face the past—and their feelings.
Like one of my favorite songs of all time declares, You can’t hurry love. And I believe that’s true. Hazel and Cricket prove that you definitely can’t stop it, either.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy The Secret Santa Project!
Carol
The Secret Santa Project
Carol Ross
Carol Ross lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two dogs. She is a graduate of Washington State University. When not writing, or thinking about writing, she enjoys reading, running, hiking, skiing, traveling and making plans for the next adventure to subject her sometimes reluctant but always fun-loving family to. Carol can be contacted at carolrossauthor.com and via Facebook at Facebook.com/carolrossauthor, Twitter, @_carolross, and Instagram, @carolross__.
Books by Carol Ross
Harlequin Heartwarming
Return of the Blackwell Brothers
The Rancher’s Twins
Seasons of Alaska
Mountains Apart
A Case for Forgiveness
If Not for a Bee
A Family Like Hannah’s
Bachelor Remedy
In the Doctor’s Arms
Catching Mr. Right
Second Chance for the Single Dad
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
To all my readers who have asked when Hazel would be getting her own story, here you go, and thank you. Thank you, also, to those of you who’ve suggested that Cricket get his own story, too. But most of all, thank you to Jean, who told me several times that “Hazel and Cricket need their own story.” You were so right.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EXCERPT FROM STEALING HER BEST FRIEND’S HEART BY TARA RANDEL
CHAPTER ONE
ON A GOOD DAY, texting was only slightly more tolerable than a visit to the dentist. So composing this particular message was more like a root canal without the Novocain. Cricket analyzed what he had so far.
Hey, can you give me a call when you have a minute? I’d like to chat.
No, that didn’t sound right. They weren’t besties meeting for lunch. Deleted chat. Added talk. Rearranged.
Any chance you could give me a call? I’d like to talk to you about something important.
Hmm. Talk might imply that he wanted to have a conversation. Like a heart-to-heart with sentences that included I feel or what I’m hearing you say is... Never a good thing, and definitely not the goal here. Especially with the way his last encounter with Hazel had gone. Even now, the memory of what had happened in Florida made his stomach churn with the hot acid of regret. That didn’t mean Cricket wanted to talk about it, though.
For reasons known only to his deceased mother, Lynette, Cricket had been dubbed Jiminy Malcolm Blackburn at birth. According to his father, Frank, she’d barely lived long enough to fill in the name on his birth certificate. He also maintained that they’d previously agreed on David Malcolm, but she’d changed it at the last second, and who was he to argue with a woman who’d just suffered through untold agony giving birth to his child? If Frank’s tale could even be believed. Cricket’s older brother, Lee, had been too young to remember any of these details.
Regardless, growing up with a famous cartoon insect as his namesake could have set the stage for a rough childhood. And likely would have if his surname hadn’t already ensured as much. Blackburn was a true badge of dishonor in the small town of Rankins, Alaska, where he’d grown up.
Years of staying out of trouble had managed to fade the stigma somewhat, but with a criminal con man for a father and a thief for a brother, it was always there. Lurking like a shark beneath the surface, waiting for the next opportunity to strike. And frequently, a story about yet another scam or theft or arrest would arise and unleash the gossip monster all over again. Cricket often imagined he could feel the less charitable townsfolk watching, waiting, wondering how far the apple had truly fallen from the tree.
A lifetime of weathering this fallout had made Cricket extremely cautious. He trusted very few people. It was a tricky balance trying to keep a low profile while fostering a positive reputation in a community this size. He’d learned at a very young age that words, once spoken, could never be taken back. Texting, in his opinion, was even worse than talking; phrases were misconstrued, statements spun. Every mistake or misstep indelibly recorded.
Bringing him back to his current dilemma. Hazel. He’d phoned her twice now, and she hadn’t answered or returned his calls. That probably told him all he needed to know. Likely she was still upset with him, which was fair. Although this was business, he reminded himself as he deleted the entire message and started over.
Call me. We need to talk.
That sounded like the precursor to a breakup.
He ground out a frustrated sigh. This was ridiculous. He shouldn’t be agonizing over a simple text to a woman he’d known her entire life. If it were any one of her three sisters, he wouldn’t even hesitate. The Jameses were like family to him. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Hazel didn’t feel like family. And hadn’t for a very long time.
Ten years since “the incident” that still filled him with regret and from which he knew he’d never completely recover. He’d tried to move on. Over the years, he’d dated plenty of women, hoping someone would take her place. One unsuccessful attempt had followed another until, ultimately, he’d accepted his fate.
What had happened in Florida a few months ago only proved how little progress he’d made with Hazel. They’d argued. Yes, he’d started it, but he’d also apologized. Then, foolishly, he’d taken her in his arms, and before he knew it, a simple hug had turned...intense. He’d almost kissed her. Again. As if he needed the memory of another kiss, and the long-ago promise he’d broken, to keep him up at night. This time, at least, he’d resisted. Was he proud of how he’d walked away and left things? No. And undoubtedly, that was the source of her anger. Was she that upset, though? Enough not to return his calls?
Finally, he settled on a simple Call me. I need to talk to you.
With a final grumble, he hit Send, set the phone aside and turned his attention back to the computer monitor, where he didn’t see things getting better anytime soon. Not without help. Ideally, Hazel’s help.
The familiar stomp, stomp, stomp of boots shedding snow sounded on the front mat outside the entrance of the newly appointed office of Our Alaska Tours. He looked up to see Tag James come through the door, here to fetch him for their outing to Glacier City. Today was the first donation pickup on behalf of Operation Happy Christmas, a charity Tag’s mom, Margaret, had started and in which Cricket had played an integral part.
“Hey, buddy, you ready?” Tag asked.
“Yep. Rebekah said we could pick up the load anytime after three.”
“Sounds good.” Tag walked forward and leaned on the reception counter, behind which no one yet worked. Our Alaska Tours wasn’t officially open for business. They were slated to launch this spring, but unfortunately, they were behind schedule—the reason he needed to talk to Hazel.
Tag was Hazel’s oldest brother, and his oldest friend. His first friend, his best friend since first grade. He’d been the one to give him the nickname Cricket because Tag went by a nickname, too, and thought being called Cricket would be “supercool.” Beyond that, though, Tag had never cared about any of Cricket’s names, first or last, or what they implied. His pedigree, his poverty, none of that mattered to Tag. Or to the rest of the James family, for that matter.
That same often-hungry, without-prospects poverty might have prevented Cricket from participating in the everyday activities typical of a small-town Alaska childhood if it hadn’t been for Tag. His friend had handled this obstacle the same way he did almost everything in life: with generosity, discretion, casual efficiency—and extreme loyalty.
When it came time for a game of basketball, snow-machine ride, hike, fishing trip or whatever the boys had set their sights on, and Cricket didn’t have proper-fitting sneakers or a warm-enough coat or the right gear, Tag would give him something from his own closet. Or borrow something from his cousin Bering, or one of his sisters, and loan that to him. And when Cricket had been skirting the edge of the foster system, it had been Tag’s parents who’d taken him in.
Bering, who was also a close friend and Cricket’s business partner in the newly formed tour business, entered the office only seconds behind Tag.
Crossing his arms over his massive chest, he nodded toward the monitor and asked, “What do you think of Hazel’s suggestions?”
Cricket considered the two men standing before him and wondered, as he often did, where he’d be if it weren’t for the James family. No place good, that was for sure, if he were to base the probabilities on his own family’s history. Instead, with hard work and the encouragement of Tag and his parents, Margaret and Ben, he’d become an airplane pilot. And then a helicopter pilot and finally a business owner.
Tag’s sister Hannah was his partner in JB Heli-Ski, a backcountry adventure ski company for which Cricket also piloted. After Tag, she was his closest friend. The rest of the year, Cricket flew clients into the backcountry for Bering’s other business, a guide and outfitter service, and for Tag’s air transport company, Copper Crossing, which flew just about anything anywhere it needed to go.
This new partnership between him and Bering, while taking him in a different direction, felt like a natural evolution. The formation of Our Alaska Tours was also one more tie binding him to the James family. And one more reason to keep his distance from Hazel, the James woman who could unravel it all.
Keeping a literal distance usually wasn’t too difficult. Her life as a travel writer and blogger meant that typically, thousands of miles separated them. Ironically, it was her expertise in that field now forcing this point of contact.
And this latest bout of Hazel anxiety must, as always, remain his secret and was not the aim of Bering’s question, which he now addressed with a wryly delivered, “Ghost tours? I didn’t even know we had ghosts in Alaska.”
Tag laughed.
A smiling Bering said, “Emily says these tours are very popular everywhere right now.” Emily was Bering’s wife and director of Rankins’s tourism bureau. She’d been filling them in on popular tourist draws. “And you have to admit, it’s interesting. You guys know Kerry Cottons, right? He says Gold Bend’s history is spooky that way. Maybe we could tack on a day to the coastal tour—for the mining history, not the ghosts.” Kerry was a fellow pilot who lived near the historic old mining town a short boat ride away from Juneau.
“We know him,” Cricket said. “Great guy. Honestly, Hazel’s entire proposal is full of interesting ideas.” Mostly. Some of them seemed a little out-there, but Bering had asked her for any and all suggestions, and she’d delivered.
“I agree. What do you think about her recommendation to hire someone?”
“Why don’t you just hire her?” Tag joked. “I’d love for my sister to quit wandering around the world all alone and come home for good.”
“We’d all love that,” Bering concurred.
Would we? Cricket silently pondered. He could barely handle being in the same room with her without giving himself away. How would he manage to live in the same town? Then again, Tag had a point, too; at least they’d know she was safe.
He had to admit that Bering’s idea to seek her advice about their tours had been a good one. He could see now that they should have done it months ago. Technically, they’d planned to in Florida, but then there’d been the argument followed by a crisis involving her brother Seth, and the opportunity had been lost.
Nevertheless, the clock was now ticking to get their tours finalized in advance of the travel season. Cricket felt responsible for the delay. Partly, anyway. There’d been plenty of other obstacles they could never have foreseen. All of them heightening his anxiety as money and time had been invested, commitments and promises made. He needed to fix this, get them back on track.
Expression turning thoughtful, Bering asked Tag, “Do you think that’s possible? That she’d want a job?”
“No.” Tag sighed. “It’ll never happen. Traveling is her life. I don’t think we’ll ever get her back here for good.”
Cricket tried to decide if Tag’s declaration caused him more disappointment or relief. He said, “I texted her, asking if she had time to discuss some of this stuff.” Or, at least, that was what he planned to ask her when she called him back.
“Great,” Bering said. “Maybe we can set up a video call.”
Cricket agreed. Until then, they had a load of Christmas donations to fetch.
Pushing to his feet, he looked at Tag and said, “Let’s hit the road.”
* * *
“SO... NO FACEBOOK, Twitter, Snapchat, LinkedIn, Instagram, TikTok, Marco Polo, or any social media or photo-sharing platform out there that we may or may not have heard of.”
Hazel James nodded along while her private guide, Kai Montauk, outlined the rules for touring Montauk
Caves, the limestone caverns named for his grandfather.
Piercing dark brown eyes snagged hers and held on tight as he added, “No photos whatsoever.” Like she was a naughty middle schooler trying to sneak her phone into class.
“I understand,” she politely responded, while desperately wanting to joke, Principal Montauk, sir.
“I’ll also reiterate that your Instagram story cannot include photos or video of the caves, or of me, or you, or Buster, or anything or anyone else that you see once we step through that gate.”
Even with the borderline hostility, he was a nice-looking guy. Midtwenties, she estimated, with a chiseled jawline, strong chin and black shoulder-length hair tucked behind his ears. She suspected a set of dimples would slash his cheeks if she could ever bring him to a smile.
He was pointing toward the trail, where a security fence stretched as far as she could see in both directions, an endless parade of shiny black metal spears protruding menacingly from the ground and intersecting at a tall gate. The way he’d drawn out the word video was enough for her to infer that some genius of the self-proclaimed variety had likely capitalized on the distinction between a still and moving picture by posting a “video” on their social media “story.”
“Got it,” she stated a bit more firmly. “I won’t be taking or posting any photos or videos.”
Kai’s squinty-eyed skepticism was a match to his dubious tone. “I thought my brother said you were a travel blogger.”
Ah. Of course. This was the reason for his borderline hostility. Understandable. Franco had told her about how, several months ago, after seeing a post from a popular “social media influencer” about the “#secretcaves,” a group of teens had broken in. They’d carved their initials next to sacred Native hieroglyphs and destroyed some precious and irreplaceable stalactites and helictites.
As if that weren’t bad enough, they’d rappelled down to the bottom of the largest shaft, where one of the kids had broken his ankle. Then they’d taken photos and posted them all over Instagram, accusing the Montauk family of “allowing” unsafe conditions, and #deadlycaves had trended. A lawsuit was filed. More graffiti and vandalism followed, prompting the family to close the property to the public and adopt these extreme security measures.