We Need a Little Christmas

by Sierra Donovan

  “Right.” Liv pushed the words out. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  * * *

  If he’d been driving his truck backward, this could pretty much pass for a rewind of his trip down the freeway with Liv at the beginning of the month.

  Sitting beside him, staring out the windshield, Liv was silent and distracted. Scott would have given just about anything to make her smile, but he seemed to be out of material.

  “I’ll give your mom a call in a couple of days,” he offered. “She’ll need a hand getting decorations down.”

  It got her eyes off the road, at any rate. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I’m going to add that to the list of forbidden phrases,” he said.

  He stopped himself from pointing out that Faye had paid him more than he’d billed her as it was. That kind of discussion would just send Liv’s gaze back out the windshield. Instead, he asked, “Who the heck hung those Christmas lights, anyway?”

  That brought a sheepish smile. “Me. I got a little—restless.”

  He ached to squeeze her hand, but resolutely kept both hands on the wheel.

  When they got to the airport, Liv tried to talk him into dropping her off at the passenger unloading area without parking. As if he’d leave her alone to struggle with her bags. Or tip some stranger to do it. She fell silent again, enduring the lines and the crowds as he went with her through the process of scanning her ticket and checking her bags. When her red suitcases disappeared behind the counter, she turned to face him with a small smile, as if she’d shed some weight.

  She wore a forest-green sweater, and it brought out the most amazing flecks of color in her hazel eyes. As if pulled by a magnet, Scott felt his hand reach up to touch her cheek. He’d promised not to say anything. But maybe he could say it without words.

  “Thanks.” Liv took a step back, slipping away from his touch just as his fingers grazed her cheek. “I’d better find my gate.”

  She turned, and he went with her. Scott had to admit to himself that, deep down, he’d hoped bringing her here would give her one more chance to change her mind. But she’d handed over the bags without a blink. If there’d been a window of opportunity, it was over now.

  He should have said something. Maybe he’d finally hit his limit on getting turned down. He walked her to the passenger gate, winding them through the post-holiday throng with a sinking heart.

  He should have said something.

  But when had he ever been able to talk a female into anything?

  When had he ever, sincerely, tried?

  They reached the check-in line with the metal detector for people and the conveyor belt for their belongings. She could fly back, he told himself. She would be back, to see her mother, and probably a lot sooner this time. The pull of family ties had definitely strengthened for her on this trip. Maybe he’d been some small part of that. He didn’t know. The idea made him feel a little better, at least.

  She’d be back someday, but it wouldn’t be the same. They’d exchange friendly smiles and keep a safe distance. Heck, maybe he’d even be married by then.

  Conversation stopped again until it was Liv’s turn in line. She loaded her coat, purse, and shoes onto the conveyor belt and turned to him. “This is where I leave you,” she said, her tone a little too bright.

  She hugged him. And Scott felt a quick surge of hope. Because her arms wound tight around his neck, which wasn’t easy, because she had to reach up pretty far to do it. She’d worn tennies today.

  And he was fairly sure she was trembling. Or maybe it was him.

  “Thanks for everything,” she said, close to his ear. “You were really patient. You put up with a lot. You deserve someone really special.”

  The last words stung, but he had an answer ready. “That’s what they all say.”

  Because most of them had.

  Chalk up another one, he thought as she turned away, except this one had never really gotten off the ground. Maybe that was why this one hurt so much. But he knew it was more than that. So much more that when she stepped toward the metal detector, he took a step to follow her.

  The steel-barred frame of the metal detector yawned before Liv.

  Don’t look back, she thought.

  She was following her shoes through that metal detector and getting on that plane alone. And she hated it.

  She was a fraud and a coward. Stupidly, at the last minute, she’d started to hope Scott would say something. When she’d made it clear, every chance she could, that there was no chance she was staying. Now, at the last minute, she’d thought he might try to change her mind. She thought he even wanted to.

  It was like a breath-holding contest.

  An eight-hundred-dollar breath-holding contest. And she’d lost.

  Time to put that ticket to use. She held her head high, squared her shoulders, and started through the metal detector as a voice inside her screamed, NO.

  As instinctively as a drowning victim flailing in the water, she reached her hand backward.

  Scott’s hand was there. It clasped hers firmly.

  He yanked her back through to his side, bumping her into someone behind her. She didn’t see who it was, because he pulled her into his arms.

  “My purse—my shoes—”

  Her words were muffled in his sweater; his arms had already wrapped around her tight. She felt him pull her away from the line, his solid form the only consistent thing as travelers bumped and shuffled past them.

  “Don’t go.” Under her ear, she felt his voice vibrate in his chest. “I know I’m not supposed to say it. But don’t go.”

  She lifted her face from the rough knit of his sweater. “I wanted you to say it,” she choked out. “But I couldn’t say I wanted you to say—”

  “Hush,” he whispered, and kissed her.

  Standing on tiptoe, in her stocking feet, Liv held on tight and kissed him back.

  She wasn’t pulling away this time, Scott realized. And gradually, dimly, he became aware again of the hum of voices around them. They were standing in the middle of an airport. They should probably do something about that.

  Reluctantly, Scott broke the kiss and gazed down at her. Liv’s eyes were shining, her cheeks flushed. With his thumb, he caught the beginning of a stray tear under her eyelashes.

  “You’re sure about this?” he said softly. “Your purse and shoes, we can get. Your suitcases might already be on the plane.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” she whispered, her voice still shaky. “Just take me home.”

  “Home,” he said. “I like the sound of that.”

  Liv melted against him. And, once again, Scott Leroux held a crying female in his arms.

  But this time, he planned to hold on to her for the rest of his life.

  Epilogue

  “That one’s Mom’s.” Liv plucked the sequined bluebird gently from Scott’s hand.

  “I remember.”

  Liv wrapped the bird in tissue and gingerly laid it in the canister of ornaments her mother was keeping.

  It was January first. Time to put the silver tree away, but it wouldn’t stay in the box as long this time. It would go up again next year. And if all their plans worked out, they’d be putting it up together, in Nammy’s old house. The house they’d worked together to turn into a home.

  “Ow!” Scott said. “I got another shock.”

  “That’s the price you pay for beauty.”

  When all the decorations were down, Scott made one more trip around the tree, checking over the branches before they started to pull them off.

  “Scott, I already looked. We got them all.”

  “That’s what you think. Any tree I’ve ever decorated, there’s always at least one ornament that gets left over.” Scott circled to the back of the tree. “Aha!”

  He stepped from behind the tree, brandishing a flat golden bell and wearing an I-told-you-so grin.

  Liv frowned. “I already put away the be
ll.” She remembered putting it in the canister of ornaments she and Scott wanted to keep. And Nammy’s engraved bell hadn’t been in back; it had hung on a prominent place at the front of the tree.

  Scott studied the decoration with a frown of his own, then handed it to her. “I don’t remember this one. Did you hang it?”

  Liv shook her head as she examined the ornament. It was another flat, gold-plated bell, just like the one Nammy had gotten engraved for her first Christmas with Liv’s grandfather so many years ago. The one she’d ordered from the cereal they didn’t make anymore. But this bell was new and shiny. And there was one other difference.

  “The engraving space is blank,” Liv said.

  Scott came up, put his arm around her shoulder, and looked at the pristine bell for a moment in silence.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess that space is for our names.” Scott turned her to face him and smiled into her eyes. “All we need now is the date.”

  Mandy’s Hot Chocolate for Two

  ½ cup sweetened condensed milk

  3½ cups hot water

  ⅓ cup semisweet chocolate chips

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  ¾ teaspoon cinnamon

  teaspoon ground cloves (scant)

  In a medium saucepan, stir sweetened condensed milk into hot water and heat together over low flame. When mixture is hot—but not boiling!—add chocolate chips and stir continuously until chips are melted. Add vanilla, cinnamon, and ground cloves and stir over low heat until well blended. (If mixture is too rich for your taste, add a small amount of whole milk.)

  May be topped with whipped cream and your choice of cookie décor sprinkles, crushed candy cane, cinnamon, chocolate shavings, chocolate sauce, or caramel sauce.

  Add your own special touch of Christmas magic . . . and you never know what may happen!

  Please turn the page for an exciting peek at

  Sierra Donovan’s next

  Evergreen Lane romance,

  DO NOT OPEN ’TIL CHRISTMAS,

  coming in October 2017 wherever

  print and eBooks are sold!

  “Just once, couldn’t somebody kill someone?”

  Bret Radner bit out the words as soon as he hit the period at the end of his latest story for the Tall Pine Gazette. The headline read: EVERGREEN LANE SHOPS PREDICT SUCCESSFUL CHRISTMAS SEASON.

  Shocker.

  “I’ll get right on it.” Bret’s fellow reporter, Chuck Nolan, didn’t even glance up from his own computer screen. “Who’ve you got in mind for the lucky victim?”

  Bret released a long, slow sigh. Chuck had heard it all before. And there wasn’t really anyone in Tall Pine he was that annoyed with.

  “Okay,” Bret said. “A tourist.”

  Chuck battered out a few words on his keyboard with his oddly efficient hunt-and-peck method. He was in his early forties, and somehow Chuck had never learned to type. “And how about the murderer? I’m not doing your dirty work for you.”

  “Another tourist. How’s that? Two really rude tourists.”

  Bret returned his attention to the story on his screen, running the cursor down the text to proofread it once more before he sent it to his editor’s in-box. Holding back another sigh, Bret reached for the writing pad that contained the notes from his interview with the head of the local water district.

  “Radner.” His editor, Frank McCrea, stood in the doorway of his glass-walled office, twenty feet from Bret’s desk. “I need to see you for a minute.”

  A summons to the editor’s office at four o’clock was pretty unusual. Too quick to have anything to do with the story Bret had just sent over. And if it was a reaction to his mini-rant, that would be a first.

  Only one way to find out. Bret followed McCrea into the editor’s inner sanctum, aware of Chuck’s curious stare behind him. He sat in one of the straight-backed chairs facing McCrea’s massive oak desk. Massive, but scarred with age, like just about everything in the Gazette’s offices. At thirty, Bret sometimes suspected he was the youngest thing in the newsroom. Including the coffee machine.

  “What’s up?” Bret asked.

  McCrea—middle-aged, graying, and broadening around the middle—took his seat in the larger, cushioned chair across from Bret. “I’ve got a curveball for you.”

  Bret’s brows lifted. Ordinarily, he loved curveballs.

  McCrea continued, “I had a call last week from our corporate office in St. Louis. The editor at their paper in Chicago stepped down about six months ago, and the associate editor they promoted is making a hash of things. They asked me to step in and do some damage control until they find somebody permanent.”

  Bret blinked, trying not to show signs of whiplash. After all, it was logical enough. McCrea had headed up the Chicago paper before he moved his family to Tall Pine a decade or so ago. If he’d been looking for peace and quiet, he’d certainly gotten what he was after. What Bret had never understood was how McCrea had ever found Tall Pine. Tucked away in the mountains some two hours from Los Angeles, it was barely on the map.

  But any good newspaper story led with the most pertinent point of the article, and Bret had the feeling his commander-in-chief had buried his lead.

  McCrea moved quickly to correct that. “I’m putting you in charge.”

  That, too, was logical. McCrea had hired Bret when he came home from college, and Bret had spent the last seven years living and breathing the job, such as it was. When McCrea took vacation time, it was Bret who filled in. Although he couldn’t recall McCrea taking as much as a full week off at any one time.

  “Okay.” Bret couldn’t hold back a half-smile. “Sure you don’t want to trade and send me to Chicago?”

  “Were you listening? I’m going there to clean up the mess from another guy with years of experience in a major metropolitan area.” Bret flinched at that. McCrea pretended not to notice. “You’ll have your hands full here, I guarantee. The Christmas season is coming up next month, so you’ll have to work smart, with the holidays to schedule around. I know you’re not big on Christmas—”

  “It’s not my favorite thing, no,” Bret responded automatically. McCrea knew that better than most. And he’d remember why, better than most.

  “—but on the upside, as I said, this will keep you busy. It’s no secret you’d like more of a challenge.”

  Bret inclined his head. “You think?”

  “Trust me. There’s more to running this place on an ongoing basis than you realize. We get by okay on two full-time reporters plus me. But you’re going to need to delegate. I know your work ethic, and if you don’t watch out, you could end up trying to write the whole paper by yourself. By the time you figured out you were in over your head, you wouldn’t have time to look for someone else. So I hired one of our freelancers to fill in while I’m gone.”

  “A freelancer?” Bret kept his features still.

  Generally, freelance reporters were amateurs. They worked from home, usually as a sideline to another job. Their skills left a lot to be desired, and they didn’t tend to last long. More trouble than they were worth, in Bret’s opinion.

  “I know what you’re thinking. But this one’s consistent. She’s been working with us for nearly two years. Chloe Davenport.”

  The byline rang a bell, but barely. Freelancers were entrusted with less timely articles, the kind that even Bret tended to skip over. Church bake sales, prizewinning pickles, interviews with this year’s valedictorian. McCrea added, “She was in the office yesterday.”

  Bret remembered glimpsing the back of a blond female head through McCrea’s glass walls. “I thought it was one of your daughters coming in for lunch money.”

  McCrea shook his head. “Chloe graduated college a couple of years ago. You’ve probably met her. She’s a waitress at the Pine ’n’ Dine.”

  Bret frowned. He didn’t know of any blond waitresses at the local diner. Unless . . . A faint image surfaced in his mind.

  “She works nights most of the time,” McCr
ea added.

  The picture snapped into focus. Bret didn’t usually go to the Pine ’n’ Dine in the evening. But a couple of months ago, he’d stopped in to write up his notes on a town council meeting before he came back to the paper to file the story. A petite, blue-eyed blonde had waited on him. She looked like a china doll, for heaven’s sake.

  He dredged his memory further. She’d made some sort of joke . . .

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t important right now. But he wondered if McCrea was suffering from a touch of middle-aged crazy. His editor was a family man, ethical to the core, and Bret didn’t think he’d ever dream of cheating on his wife. But that didn’t mean a pretty face couldn’t cloud his thinking.

  “Are you sure about this?” Bret picked his words with care. “She’s awfully young.”

  “Older than you were.”

  Hard to get around that one. Bret flicked a brief smile. “Yeah, but I was a prodigy.”

  “Then you should have no trouble getting a newbie up to speed.” McCrea leaned back in his chair. “Unless you’re not up to it. I could always put Chuck in charge.”

  It was a transparent bluff, and both of them knew it. Chuck was a great guy and a good worker, but organization wasn’t his strong suit.

  “Hey, they say print journalism is a dying field,” Bret deadpanned. “No point in rushing the process.”

  “It’s a yes, then?”

  “I didn’t know it was a question. But sure. I’m your guy.”

  “Glad that’s settled. I’m leaving this weekend. You take over Monday.”

  Monday? “You’re telling me this on two days’ notice?”

  “Didn’t want to listen to your griping any longer than that.” McCrea sat forward again, resting his arms comfortably on his desk. “Now get out.”

  Most of their talks in McCrea’s office ended that way.

  “Fine.” Bret stood. “But you’re going to freeze your butt off in Chicago.”

  He walked back out, his head spinning. A lot had changed in ten minutes, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t salivating just a little bit. He loved a challenge, and he was overdue for one. Now McCrea had given him the keys to the kingdom.