by Leah Atwood
A voice cleared. Maren turned…
And froze at the top of the porch steps.
Drew stood in the middle of the lawn, arms crossed over a flannel shirt she’d seen him in at least a half-dozen times. No coat. Of course. His quiet gaze was enough to jolt her heart out of rhythm.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long.” He stepped toward the porch stairs.
“And you couldn’t have announced yourself?” She heard her own huff of annoyance, felt a petulant frown skip over her face.
One that couldn’t hope to actually take hold. Because he just looked so…
Perfect.
Drew stopped at the second to last stair, now eye level with her, a half-bemused, half-charmed grin tugging at his lips. “Just wanted to see if you’d go and climb the lattice again. Or maybe try breaking in through a window this time.”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” The question came out more winded than scolding and oh, if every last speck of composure didn’t slip from her grasp just then, including the words she’d practiced on the drive down from Minnesota. The ones that’d been building ever since last night.
Or maybe—probably—even before that.
Since that night in Drew’s woodshop when he’d spilled his heart. Since she’d seen the way he loved his family.
Since he’d almost kissed her under a winter moon.
“Whatcha doing here, Grant?”
“I…because…you…” Gone were her words and in their place only the clatter of the barn door hitting against its frame in the wind and an icicle dropping to the porch floor.
But Drew’s eyes sparked with pleasure anyway and he reached for her hand. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”
He led her into the house, through the living room, toward the stairs.
“Where is everyone? I was so nervous about interrupting a family gathering.”
He tugged her up the stairs. “Leigh wanted to show Winnie and my parents the townhouse she’s going to move into.”
“On Christmas Day?”
“Landlord gave us the key last night.”
They wound through the second floor hallway and to the stairs leading into the attic. Drew climbed through first, then grabbed her hand once more to pull her up.
Her gasp filled the room.
She’d grown accustomed to the attic’s emptiness—its exposed rafters and hollow shelves and unadorned window seat.
But now…
A serene pale blue wrapped around the room and books lined the shelves. A new comforter and pillows—white and lacy—covered the bed. And against one wall, a desk. Wait, she recognized that…
She moved to it, took in its curved legs and refinished surface, not a single nick or dent. She spun. “The desk from the woodshop. The antique. When in the world…?”
She’d only been gone nine days and he’d done all this?
Drew crossed the room. “Just wanted it to be ready in case a certain author ever showed up on my doorstep again needing a place to write a book.”
She blinked away tears that didn’t make any sense. Not with such joy spilling through her. “Here I told myself I didn’t come here for a big moment. That it was never about one big magical moment anyway but a hundred little moments that all add up to something way more real and…and I mean, look at Christmas—Jesus’s birth, the grandest moment in all of history and it happened softly and quietly. So I didn’t need a big moment, that’s what I told myself. And then you go and do this and…”
Drew shook his head even while he reached for her hands. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not sure I do either.”
He guided her hands around his waist until her fingers laced behind him, then circled his own around her. “Why’d you come back, Maren?”
“Because I didn’t say goodbye before. Because I really do still need to finish my book and this really is the perfect place.” She took a breath. “Because I was hoping we could go on a second date, but I refuse to sit around for a year waiting and hoping you’ll ask me.”
“We can definitely go on a second date.” He tipped her chin up. “Right after we pick up where the first one left off.”
And then, in the new new most enchanted moment of Maren Grant’s life, Drew closed the last sliver of space between them and kissed her breathless.
THE END
Kind of.
Just in case you’re wondering, Maren finished her book and went on to sign a contract for three more Ethan Whitney books.
Drew sold his farmland to Byron Pratt, but held on to the house and barn and shed and woodshop. He insisted Leigh accept a third of the sale price and sent the other third to Colin.
And then he went into business making custom furniture.
Drew and Maren did indeed have their second date. And then a third. And a fourth. You get the picture, yes? Happily ever after doesn’t begin to cover it.
As for Colin…I think we’ll hear from him again. :)
About the Author
Melissa Tagg is a former reporter, current nonprofit grant writer and total Iowa girl. She writes romantic comedies in the banter-filled style of her favorite 1930s and 40s classic films. When she’s not writing she can be found hanging out with the coolest family ever, watching old movies, and daydreaming about her next book.
Melissa loves connecting with readers at www.melissatagg.com and on Facebook and Instagram.
Stay in touch by signing up for her always fun and never spammy e-newsletter!
Other Books by Melissa Tagg
WALKER FAMILY SERIES
Three Little Words
From the Start
Like Never Before
Keep Holding On
WHERE LOVE BEGINS SERIES
Made to Last
Here to Stay
ENCHANTED CHRISTMAS COLLECTION
One Enchanted Christmas
One Enchanted Eve (coming November 2016)
Season of Miracles (Book 1)
Rios Azules Christmas Series
Alexa Verde
SEASON OF MIRACLES
Book 1 in the Rios Azules Christmas Series
Copyright © 2016 by Olga Grun writing as Alexa Verde
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyediting by Amy Knupp. Formatting by L.K. Campbell.
Cover art by Max.
Season of Miracles
Alexa Verde
Chapter One
She was going to have joy this season, no matter what.
Lana Smith took a careful turn on a slippery road while the windshield wipers swept furiously against the downpour. Apparently, it wasn’t always sunshine in southern Texas, where she’d moved from California three weeks ago.
Best decision ever.
Thank You, Lord.
Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the Christmas carols on the radio, she slowed down near Evelyn’s Pastries. Lana’s empty stomach sent her a friendly request for peach cobbler and hot cocoa with marshmallows. But as a home health nurse, she had a schedule to follow.
As she sped up, her old clunker grumbled, resembling her next patient with a peculiar nickname, Mr. Grumpiest. Then it shook and coughed, a far cry from the smooth ride of the luxury vehicle she’d left behind. The new-car-scent air freshener wasn’t fooling anyone.
Lana pursed her lips. She was going to have joy this season.
Hanging from lanterns, snowm
en greeted her with wide emoticon smiles. Red garlands were lovingly wrapped around the posts, like a scarf around a kid’s neck. Storefronts were prettied up with sparkly oversized snowflakes painted over the windows and enough reindeer figures in the front yards to populate the North Pole. She passed a huge gorgeous Christmas tree in the center of the town’s square. In spite of the downpour, the small town of Rios Azules emanated warmth and calmness.
She’d gifted herself a fresh start where nobody, besides her friend Mari Del Lobo, knew who Lana was. Well, who she used to be.
Lana pulled up to the ranch-style house of Amaro De La Vega, or Mr. Grumpiest.
Hmm, interesting.
Colorful Christmas lights were strung underneath the roof and around two old oaks. Those lights hadn’t been there yesterday, and she doubted her ailing patient had put them up himself. A car with the logo of the Rios Azules rental company was in the driveway. De La Vega owned a black truck, which was usually tucked in the garage.
Oh, no. Had his only grandson come from Houston?
Her heart sank as she parked at the curb. She should be glad for Mr. De La Vega, who surely was happy to see his grandson, a famous pro football player. But…
She craved the peace and quiet of a simple, stable life. The last thing she’d expected to find in a small town was a celebrity.
Well, most likely a star athlete wouldn’t pay attention to her anyway, considering the way she looked now. Her patient expected her, and she had a job to do. She said a quick prayer and buttoned her raincoat. Considering the raincoat had a hood, she debated taking off her baseball cap and leaving it in the car but decided against it. The cap kept her hair hidden and away from her face.
As she opened the door to a small slit, the scent of damp earth and grass drifted to her. She grabbed her bag of medical supplies and dashed to the front door. With his difficulty in moving around, Mr. De La Vega usually left the door open for her so she wouldn’t have to wait for him to answer the door.
Lana briefly paused to wipe off her sneakers and rushed inside. In her haste, she tripped over the threshold and flew forward. Her bag went in one direction, her glasses in another one, as she was about to end up face first on the floor. Unable to prevent the fall, she braced herself. She just hoped her medical supplies bag didn’t hit her poor patient.
Strong hands steadied her, and she found herself against a firm, broad chest. Inhaling a woodsy scent, she looked up into deep hazel eyes.
It took a moment for her breathing to even out. She assessed the damages. The man was holding her with one hand and her bag with the other, and judging by the bulging muscles, he could probably lift three of her without any effort. Her glasses did fall on the floor, but thankfully they didn’t break, and no parts of her body connected with the hard surface.
“Are you okay?” He sounded concerned. Genuinely concerned. Hmmm, and yet her ex had yelled at her for breaking her leg once, causing her to be unable to accompany him on the red carpet.
“Yep,” she squeaked. “The only thing that’s hurt is my dignity.”
He chuckled and released her, probably thinking that by now she was steady on her feet.
She wasn’t so sure.
He picked up her glasses and handed them to her.
“Thank you.” She perched them on her nose and took a better look.
Arturo De La Vega, a running back for the Houston Storm. From what little she knew about football, his team had made it to the playoffs and been close to winning the championship last year. There was a strong opinion this year would be the year of the Houston Storm.
She recognized him from the many pictures around this house, but the impression didn’t compare to the one up close.
He exuded masculinity and strength. His tanned skin, black hair, and dark eyes were probably due to his Hispanic heritage. The impressive athletic physique had obviously been chiseled by many years of training. But there was more than that. The man radiated charisma unparalleled even to that of the great actors her ex-fiancé, Michael, had introduced her to.
Days ago, at her patient’s request, she’d found several videos on the Internet of his grandson, including him giving a graduation speech at a Houston high school. At the end of the speech, he’d seemed to make every person in the room believe they could reach their dreams against all odds.
Because he had.
For the first time since leaving her glamorous looks behind, she had a small twinge of regret. She’d tried to get back to her own identity, so different from what Michael had molded her into. But had she gone too far?
Why this sudden urge to feel attractive in the first place?
“You must be my grandfather’s nurse. Let me help you out of that raincoat.” Young De La Vega smiled, making him look less formidable.
She reminded herself about the day she’d met her ex. Michael had been polite and nice to her then. But it all had been a lie. She shrugged out of her raincoat and placed it on the hook near the door.
“Don’t worry, sir. I can do it myself.” She infused her words with as much ice as she possibly could.
* * *
Arturo closed the front door and studied the visitor.
At first glance, she looked like something the cat dragged in—in the sense that everything about her was mousy gray: gray baggy scrubs, gray sneakers, and gray eyes now hidden behind ugly glasses.
So he was glad her glasses had been knocked off minutes ago, giving him an unobstructed view of her large, wide-open eyes framed by long, thick eyelashes. The stark vulnerability in her eyes made him take a second look at her.
Her pale skin was flawless. Her features, even without a drop of makeup, were attractive. High cheekbones. Slightly upturned nose. Full lips. The gentle oval of her face hinted that she was slender, though one couldn’t say for sure because her scrubs seemed to be a size too big.
He was used to women wearing elaborate makeup, styled hair, and designer clothes, shoes, and purses. Seeing someone so different was strange and refreshing at the same time. In a way, her obvious lack of desire to be appealing made her more appealing to him.
With her glasses on and a stern expression on her face, she didn’t look fragile anymore. A protective instinct stirred inside him, a surprising need to defend her against whatever had put that vulnerable look in her eyes in the first place.
“I’m Arturo De La Vega.” He extended his hand.
“Lana Smith.” She shook his hand, her handshake surprisingly firm.
“Happy to meet you.” He gave her his signature generous smile. It had none of its usual effects as the woman brushed past him to his grandfather.
“Happy to meet you, too,” she mumbled. But judging by the way she hunched her shoulders, as if she were trying to withdraw inside herself, she was about as happy to meet him as a mouse would be on the way to the cat’s stomach.
That piqued his curiosity. It wasn’t a reaction he was used to. Since his pro football career had taken off, most strangers had been excited to meet him, chat him up, and ask him for an autograph.
Arturo placed her heavy bag on the table. She stopped near his grandfather, who was sitting at the table with a big smile on his face.
“Good morning, Mr. De La Vega.” The sweetness in her voice, which had been rather gruff just a moment ago, surprised Arturo.
“Thank you for catching me. Oh, and the bag,” she said in Arturo’s direction without looking at him. “I wouldn’t want to knock down your grandfather with it. I doubt it would help his recovery. Great reaction, by the way.”
“Part of my training. I’m glad I was here to help.” He shrugged nonchalantly but was pleased by her praise.
Did she realize who he was? With Grandpa’s pictures of him playing for the Houston Storm on display, it would be difficult not to figure it out. The urge to impress this woman surprised him.
After all, he was back in his hometown for one reason only.
His grandpa.
The man who’d raised him when his
own parents had failed to do so.
Worry for his beloved grandfather slammed into Arturo harder than a tackle from a two-hundred-thirty-pound linebacker. He’d help Grandpa. He’d take him to the best specialists in Houston. His grandfather was the only person in Arturo’s family who cared about him.
“Go away. Leave me alone!” His father waved him away, as if little Arturo were a fly or a gnat.
He’d buried the memory of the annoyed voice and stench of alcohol in the deep recesses of his mind, where it belonged under many locks and bolts.
“Please take a seat.” Arturo pulled out a chair for the nurse. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m not thirsty.” She sat down and turned to his grandfather. “How are you today?”
“I’m alive! So I feel great,” Grandpa declared with such cheerfulness that Arturo’s jaw nearly dropped. There was a reason Grandpa was called Mr. Grumpiest in the family, with the title of Mr. Grumpy being taken by Arturo’s father.
“Glad to hear that.” She wrote down something in her charts. “You have a great attitude.”
While she was busy with her paperwork, Arturo checked his text messages. His teammates talked about the next game, strategies, running routes, and blitzing the quarterback. He had ten texts with the question of when he’d be back, including two from Brandon Carmichael, a wide receiver for the Houston Storm and his best friend.
Brandon had included a video from the fourth quarter of yesterday’s game. As if Arturo needed help to replay that moment. He could still hear the roar of the crowd. Taste the excitement. Feel the exhilaration palpable in the air.