by Jenny Hale
He stopped at the snowmobile, and her heart raced.
Please don’t leave me here, she prayed, exerting herself to catch up to him.
The man lifted a compartment at the back and pulled from it a large wool blanket and a pair of rubber boots. Then he shut it and mounted the snowmobile.
As panic rose in her throat, he started the engine. But relief swept over her as he drove toward her.
“Put these over your shoes,” he snapped loudly to be heard above the noise of the engine, and the deafening whine of the wind. He held out the boots.
She didn’t question it. The wet, icy snow lashed at her face and all she wanted was relief. Once she got the boots on, the man wrapped her in the blanket and pointed to the seat of the snowmobile.
“Get on,” he called out to her.
While his demeanor was not very inviting, her only other option was to freeze solid in the truck. She swung her leg over the seat of the snowmobile, pulled the blanket tighter on her shoulders, and put her arms around the handsome stranger.
The ride was as smooth as if they were gliding on a sheet of ice, not a sound around them but the engine. The warmth of his body kept the cold from overwhelming her. Scarlett felt safe holding on to him despite his less than welcoming reception.
“So, are you Charles?” she shouted into his ear, above the hum of the snowmobile.
He gave no answer, which frustrated her. His response to her didn’t make him seem like the kind of guy who would have a conversation over a beer with Cappy and hand him his card. She also knew that shouting over his shoulder wasn’t the best way to do business, so she’d have to wait to speak with him properly until they stopped. Scarlett was willing to bet that he had no idea her gran owned an entire hotel that they were ready to sell, if he’d only be cordial enough to allow her to tell him.
But fear crept up her spine as doubt settled in. What if this wasn’t Charles Bryant? Then who was it? What if he was some sort of murderer, hiding out in Amos’s abandoned house? And she was falling right into it. He knew she’d have no other option than to go with him. No one even knew where she was at this moment, she had no cell service, and the truck was nearly buried in snow off the main road…
The snowmobile came to a stop outside Amos’s and the man turned off the engine and dismounted, offering Scarlett a hand. She didn’t take it. If he wasn’t going to be forthcoming with her, she wasn’t going to allow him the satisfaction of thinking he could help her. Even though he had already. No matter, she could get off the thing just fine. But the blanket got tangled around her legs as she tried to step down and all the snow was in her way… The man’s arms found her just as she was about to fall, and as their bodies came together, she caught his scent. It was a mixture of the embers from a woodstove and the clean freshness of aftershave. He set her upright. Before she could thank him, he had his back to her, opening the door to the house.
“Come in,” he said from inside. Then he turned around and headed to a small coatrack in the corner. He pulled off his thick coat and hung it up, followed by his scarf and cap. He pushed his fingers through his crop of dark hair and then ran his palm down his face, over his light shadow of stubble. With a quick glance her way, he went into the kitchen area that was open to the living room.
Scarlett stepped inside and shut the door behind her. The roaring fire in the stone fireplace sent a shiver racing from her head to her numb, frozen toes. She fumbled with the big boots the man had given her, wriggling until she could get them off. Setting them and the boots she’d put on this morning neatly to the side of the door, she cinched the blanket up around her body and went over to the hearth to get warm, her teeth chattering, her socks soaked.
A mug of coffee hovered in front of her, and she met his eyes. He seemed different now, less angry, more defeated. By what? But then she realized that he may very well be Amos’s son, and perhaps he was struggling with being in his father’s house without him. She took the coffee with both hands.
“Thank you,” she said, holding eye contact.
He nodded, his gaze curious yet guarded. He went back into the kitchen area and got his own mug before he sat down on the sofa.
Scarlett turned sideways, stretching her legs alongside the stone hearth, hoping the heat would dry her socks, as she surveyed her surroundings. The décor seemed as though it had probably been Amos’s. From the look of this man’s perfect haircut, his designer sweater and stylish jeans, it didn’t seem like it would be his style. He appeared to be the kind of guy who would live at the top of some high-rise in the city with glass views of the skyline and trendy, upmarket furniture. Her gaze moved to a bucket on the floor that was catching drips from the ceiling.
When he caught her looking, she quickly turned toward the fire and stretched her fingers out to warm them, glad for the heat to hide the pink that was most likely surfacing in her cheeks. She wasn’t judging him; she was just looking around.
“Why are you here?” he asked. This time, his voice was more direct than snappy, less urgent.
Scarlett deliberated over whether or not to tell him about the inn; she felt like she should find some common ground first before suggesting that he drop a few million dollars on a run-down property. Especially when he wouldn’t even confirm who he was.
“I saw Amos’s light on, and I just wanted to see who was here,” she said carefully. “He was a friend of my grandparents’.”
There was a shift in his expression, almost relief. She didn’t understand it.
“Are you Charles, Amos’s son?” she asked again, hoping that perhaps he’d tell her now.
“Yes.”
She quietly let his answer settle between them. Something about the way he looked at her made her want to tread lightly. “My name is Scarlett Bailey,” she said, and then sipped her coffee to let the warmth spread through her. “I never saw you around here growing up…” The thought came out before she’d had a chance to think through whether to say it aloud. She looked up from her drink and he was staring at her, that curiosity back with a vengeance as if he were trying to place her.
He opened his mouth just slightly as if he were about to say something, but then he looked away, focusing on the liquid in his cup.
“Do you live here?” she asked.
He stood up abruptly, striding over to the kitchen and clanking the mug down in the sink. He hadn’t even finished his coffee. “Look,” he said. “I didn’t want to see you freeze out there, but I’m not really in the mood for small talk. Or guests. Do you have someone who can pick you up?”
There was an undercurrent to his rudeness that made Scarlett feel like he wasn’t always this way; he was using his anger to cope with something else, some other emotion. “I didn’t mean to impose,” she said, wishing she could figure him out so she’d know how to approach him better. She’d never be able to tell him about the hotel if he was this closed-off. “I was just asking to pass the time.” When he didn’t speak, she added, “I don’t have any service on my phone or I would’ve already called someone.”
He walked over to her and pulled out his phone, typing in his code to open the screen. Then he set it on the hearth beside her. “Use mine. I have a hot spot.” Then he left the room and a door shut loudly down the hallway.
Scarlett scanned the apps on the screen, trying to get a read on him. What kinds of things did he have on there? Her finger hovered over the call button while she peered down at the apps. He had no social media that she could see, just the standard factory settings and a couple of navigation tools. But surely Charles wouldn’t just give her his phone if there were anything important on it that he didn’t want her to see. The way he was acting made her wonder what was behind some of those little buttons. She eyed the camera app but thought better of it. He definitely wasn’t behaving like Amos had. She couldn’t imagine that he was just an angry person. His outward responses didn’t seem to match the look in his eyes. The screen on the phone started to go dark, so she hit the call icon to dial
her father.
It went straight to voicemail. Scarlett bit her lip. Her father probably wasn’t answering because he didn’t recognize the caller. He never picked up for people who weren’t in his contact list. “Hi, Dad,” she said after the beep. “It’s Scarlett. I’m with Charles Bryant,” she uttered with purpose. “I’m at Amos’s because I got stuck in the snow. Call me back on this number.”
Still alone in the room, she set the phone on the hearth and examined her environment more closely. The kitchen cabinets were worn, the hinges tarnished. An old farm table sat wedged up next to the wall. It only had one chair. The living room sofa had seen better days, the leather cushions now a patchy shade of tan against the otherwise chestnut color of the rest of it. The braided rug, its fibers threadbare, scarcely hid the weather-beaten wood floor beneath the coffee table. But the space was warm from the fire, the sink empty and clean with the exception of Charles’s coffee mug, and the rest of the area was relatively tidy.
Scarlett waited for Charles to come back from wherever he was, but when she considered the fact that he might not be returning, she grabbed his phone and got up to venture down the short hallway, leading presumably to the bedrooms at the back of the cottage.
“Charles?” she called quietly, but didn’t get a response.
She pushed open one of the doors, careful not to open it too quickly in case he needed privacy for some reason. But when she saw it was empty, she stopped and took stock of what was in there. The room was sparsely decorated: a single lamp in the corner, a chair next to a battered old dresser, a few stacks of books on an old four-poster bed. Curious, she went over to them and pulled the top one off the closest stack to read the title.
“What are you doing?” The bark was back, startling her and making her drop the book at her feet. She picked it up and returned it to the pile on the bed.
Why did he think he could keep talking to her like that? She’d had about enough of the up-and-down nature of his mood already and she’d only just met him. Scarlett turned around. “I was looking for you,” she said, her voice direct and unworried as if she were meant to be there. “You left me in the living room, and this isn’t my house, so it was a little strange.” She held out his phone in offering. “I called and left a message for my father.”
“I got more wood for the fire,” he said, pointing toward a pile of wood in the small laundry room that housed the back door to the cottage. He was calmer now, that resigned tone returning. “Why don’t you have a seat in the living room? I’ll bring it inside and then join you.”
He actually said he’d join her, which was surprising. Usually when someone joined someone else there was chatting and the sharing of pleasantries. This should be interesting. She realized his unpredictable behavior was making her edgy, which wasn’t like her. Well, he wasn’t going to put a damper on her Christmas mood. She’d had enough to ruin her holiday already, but she wasn’t going to let it crush her spirit. Christmas was her favorite time of year. It was about celebrating with friends and family. Perhaps she could teach Charles a thing or two about hospitality.
When he’d dumped an armful of wood onto the hearth and settled on the sofa beside her, she twisted toward him, but as she did, he regarded her with interest, disorienting her. “You don’t have a Christmas tree,” she said, her words coming out gentler than she’d originally intended.
He seemed startled by her statement, blinking his eyes unnaturally as if it had stunned him. “No,” he said, regaining composure.
But then, out of nowhere, the corners of his mouth turned just slightly upward. Had her comment made him smile? Or was she just imagining it? That curiosity in his eyes bounced around, making her want to talk all day if she had to, just to learn his story. She wondered if she’d been insensitive, mentioning the Christmas tree. It might be a difficult time for him, not having any family around. He may still be grieving the loss of his father… Scarlett couldn’t imagine not having her family at Christmas. But he hadn’t seemed to mind her observation.
“Why not?” she pressed, her softness beckoning him to take down whatever this wall he’d built around himself was and relax. She swore that a few times she’d seen a glimmer of kindness, but there was something holding him back.
His chest rose with his breath—a long, slow inhalation that seemed laced with unease. He looked into her eyes. “It doesn’t feel much like Christmas,” he said, and his moment of honesty, the pure vulnerability in his gaze, took her breath away for a minute. It was such a different reaction from what she’d expected, and it nearly confirmed her thought that he was grieving in some way. But as soon as it had happened, he got to his feet. “Are your socks dry?” he asked. He showed less emotion now than he had a second ago, but his manner wasn’t as bothered as it had been before.
“Yes,” she said, and then silently questioned his redirection. He answered her by turning away, and she knew that whatever the moment had been, it was now gone.
“Great. Text your father the change in plan.” He tossed his cell over to her and she caught it. “Then get your boots on. I’ll take you into town on the snowmobile.”
A tiny flutter swelled in her stomach when she realized that he could’ve done that from the beginning. But he hadn’t. He’d made her coffee, warmed her up, let her in just a tiny bit. Maybe her inclinations about him were correct after all. She decided right then and there that she wanted to find out.
Five
“My phone’s working now,” Scarlett said to Charles as she stood by the snowmobile that he’d parked outside the coffee shop. “I’ll call my father and wait for him here. We’ll get the truck moved from outside your house as soon as we can.”
“All right,” Charles said, his attention lingering on her for a tick longer than it should’ve. He started the engine.
“Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?” she asked over the growl of it, in an act of complete impulsiveness. It was forward, but it just felt right.
If she was ever going to bring up the sale of the inn, she’d have to learn how to talk to him, and she’d have to do it fast. At least that was what she told herself, when really she’d asked because he was maddeningly aloof and she wanted to get to the bottom of it. It seemed to her that if he would open up a little bit, they could be friends.
“You jumped up so fast back at the house that we never really drank our coffees,” she added. “Not the way I’m used to drinking them anyway.”
“And how are you used to drinking them?” He cut the engine off, so she could answer. A good sign.
“Well, there’s usually sugar and milk involved. And with the right person, it might take me an hour to drink a whole cup.”
“Who would be the right person?”
“Keep talking like you are and you might be one,” she teased him a tiny bit to see how he’d react.
He huffed out a little chuckle, and relief flooded her. Her joke had been a risk, given their rocky beginning, but his energy just now hinted again that deep down there might be a soft underbelly to that hardened outer shell.
“Come on.” She nodded toward the shop called Love and Coffee.
He looked down at the icy pavement, clearly considering. The decision seemed to eat at him, his gaze unstill.
“If it’s their famous triple-decker caramel drizzle you’re scared of, don’t be,” she said, putting her face in his line of vision. “It’s more bark than bite.”
She made him smile again, and it sent a fizzle through her chest as those brown eyes swallowed her, his earlier irritation now replaced by hesitation.
“I’m not a fan of caramel drizzle,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth turned up just slightly in an adorable way. But his eyes were still full of thought.
“Personally, I never get the caramel drizzle either. I’m usually a peppermint kind of girl.”
He didn’t respond, his mind elsewhere.
“It’s just a coffee,” she assured him. “And I’m freezing again, so we’d better ge
t a warm drink before we become ice sculptures out here.”
His trepidation waned a little, and he stepped up beside her. “It’s my fault you’re in the cold,” he said. “I’ll treat.” He opened the door for her and allowed her to enter.
“Well, hellooo!” Loretta’s voice floated over to Scarlett as they came through the door. She found Loretta at a table for one with a stack of self-help books and an empty coffee mug, her hand on her heart and her focus like lasers on Charles. “Look who you picked up.” Her gaze moved suggestively to Scarlett and then she stood and hurried over to them, jabbing her hand out to Charles. “Remember me? We met at the gas station.” She nearly batted her eyelashes at him.
With a sugary smile, she addressed Scarlett. “My couple is having a grand time together right now! I’m going to check on them soon, so I’m killing time with some pleasure reading.” Her bracelets jingled as she leaned over to the table where she’d been sitting and held up her book: Lasting Love: Making it Work. Loretta turned back to Charles. “Love is my specialty.”
Charles eyed Scarlett for an explanation, and she had to hold back her laugh as she imagined what might be going through his head.
“It’s good to see you again, Loretta,” he said.
Loretta looked like she would faint when he remembered her name.
“I was just getting Scarlett a coffee. Would you like another?”
“Oh, no,” she said, flirtier than Scarlett had ever seen her before. “I’m about to leave, but thank you for asking.” When he turned away, her eyes widened at Scarlett, and she mouthed, “He’s so adorable.”
“What do you recommend then?” he asked, peering up at the menu and making Loretta jump.
“I like The Mistletoe with triple caramel drizzle,” Loretta said.
“Ah,” he said, sharing an unspoken moment of camaraderie with Scarlett at Loretta’s suggestion. “Good to know. You can learn a lot about a person by the drink she orders.”
This sent Loretta into a full tailspin of excitement. She could hardly pick her books up, fumbling them awkwardly as she headed out the door.