by Vivian Arend
“We don’t have to,” he offered softly.
To his surprise—she was always surprising him—her left brow arched up. “I’m not breaking any of the Christmas rules. If we’re supposed to kiss under the mistletoe, then that’s what we’re going to do.”
She caught him by the collar and tugged him downward sharply, planting her lips against his. Sweet and soft. The moment went on longer than he’d expected, but not nearly long enough.
He opened and closed his fingers to keep from grabbing her, wanting to catch hold of her and cling tightly so he could continue. She was pressed right up against him…
This was all he was going to get, so he was going to enjoy every second. When she opened her lips for the briefest second and licked like a teasing kitten, he went breathless.
Hanna pulled away, cheeks flushed but grinning as if she was pleased with herself. She patted his chest then turned to her daughter with a nod. “There you go. One kiss under the mistletoe.”
“My turn,” Crissy demanded, rushing forward and throwing herself into Hanna’s arms.
Brad stood back and watched as Hanna laughed out loud, twirling her daughter and planting kisses all over her face. A sweet, loving act made up of layers of so much connection.
He was buzzing from the brief touch. What would it be like to have all of Hanna offered to him? Complete and pure, with all her layers.
He wasn’t sure, but damn if he didn’t want to find out.
6
It was eight days until Christmas, and Hanna Lane was annoyed with herself.
She’d spent the rest of the sleigh ride home chatting with her daughter as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but somewhere along the way she’d obviously lost her senses.
It wasn’t only that she’d kissed Brad, although heaven knows that was bad enough. The fact she’d lost her mind in front of her daughter, and the potential consequences of that kind of behaviour sobered her rapidly in spite of the effervescence rioting through her bloodstream.
Kissing him had been eggnog with hundred-proof rum, the entire glass drunk far too quickly.
He stopped to drop them off at the house. “Unless you want to help me put the horses away,” he offered Crissy.
Crissy looked up at Hanna, pleading in her eyes. “Please, Mommy? I’ll be very good and listen carefully to everything Mr. Brad says.”
“If you’re sure?” Hanna said, meeting his gaze.
“Not a problem at all.”
He waited while she climbed down, answering Crissy’s request to drive the horses the rest of the way with patience. It was too much to take in, and Hanna retreated to the house, slipping into Patrick’s domain as if she were escaping a dangerous situation. And maybe she was.
Watching Brad with her daughter wasn’t the way to keep herself under control.
“You find a nice one?” Patrick leaned on the doorframe, hands heavy on his canes.
She took her worries and packaged them up, wrapping them away tightly, at least for the next while. These people had been nothing but kind, and she’d do all she could to keep her end of the bargain, which meant holiday cheer.
“It’s a very pretty tree. Brad said he needs to set it in a stand to warm up and soak in water, so we can’t decorate it until tomorrow.”
Patrick nodded. “You can help me get out the decorations, though. They’ve been tucked away for a while, and I can’t get at some of them with these.” He tapped a hand on his legs before gesturing toward the back of the house.
One of the rooms down Patrick’s side of the bedroom wing must’ve been his wife’s. He opened the door and stood there, staring sadly for a moment before forcing a smile and tilting his head. “All sorts of doodads in here. I made this room for Connie. She’s got the biggest closet any woman ever could have, and she loaded it up with frilly things. We may as well use them.”
Hanna stepped in cautiously, as if she’d been given an opportunity to share something precious and beautiful.
Mrs. Ford had been handy, that much was clear. Now Hanna understood where the soft knitted blanket draped over the back of the couch had come from. The cross stitches on the walls were obviously her work as well. This room was filled to the brim with neatly organized craft supplies, including yarn and knitting needles.
Along one wall, two sturdy tables held a pair of sewing machines. A third table near the door was covered with wrapping paper. Between them was a comfortable-looking loveseat that faced the TV monitor mounted on the wall.
Patrick stepped in beside her. He sighed heavily then spoke. “She was always working on something. Even after the boys were gone. She called it her mom cave.”
Hanna was still looking around when Patrick pointed at the barn-style doors covering the third wall. She pushed them aside to see row upon row of Rubbermaid totes stacked from the floor to ceiling. Each one of them was clearly labelled with brightly coloured markers on gleaming white stickers.
“Must be a half a dozen of them that say Christmas decorations,” Patrick pointed out. “I shouldn’t make you carry them. Brad can get them when he’s back—”
“Mr. Ford, I am perfectly capable of carrying boxes of decorations.”
He eyed her and smiled. “Patrick, I am perfectly capable, etc. etc.”
She reached for the first set, pulling it forward easily on the carpet in spite of the weight. “Patrick. I want to help.”
He nodded, then reached up and lifted the top tote—the one she was far too short to reach—and placed it on the ground beside her. “There. We’ll all do what we can.”
By the time Crissy and Brad were back in the house, the boxes were stacked beside the kitchen table and Patrick had pulled out his wife’s recipe books to point out his favourite holiday recipes.
Not that he was demanding she cook anything, but the conversation had made its way back to cookies in a remarkably short period of time.
Brad chuckled as he put a pot of water on to boil. “I see he’s got you slaving already.”
Crissy climbed up in the chair next to her. “What’re we going to make, Mommy?”
“Gingersnaps. And sugar cookies.”
“Gingerbread men?” Crissy begged. “So we can ice them?”
“I have to agree with her,” Patrick said with a slow nod, stroking his snowy white beard. “Gingerbread men taste a whole lot more delicious than simple gingersnaps.”
“If you haven’t already noticed, my father has a sweet tooth,” Brad said in a teasing tone.
“I guess you come by it naturally, Mr. Three-spoons-of-sugar-in-my-coffee,” Hanna said, without looking up from the recipe.
Laughter rolled across the room, and suddenly Hanna realized she hadn’t been very polite. Truthful, but not polite.
Thankfully, Crissy hadn’t noticed. Patrick continued to grin as he bookmarked a dozen pages in his wife’s recipe book. Hanna fought her embarrassment and slid up to where Brad was pouring a mountain of macaroni noodles into boiling water. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” she murmured.
Brad’s deep chuckle stroked her. “I’ll be the first to admit I like sweet things.”
She glanced up to find his gaze drifting over her. His lips were still curled into a friendly smile, but the heat in his eyes grew, and while her girlfriends might tease her that she was an innocent, Hanna knew what was going on in a man’s head when he had that look.
Bradley Ford wasn’t daydreaming about sugar cookies.
She pulled herself back, opening space between them as she straightened. “I’ll wait until after lunch to start the baking. I don’t want to keep you from your day, but I will need help finding everything.”
“Dad will give you a hand with that, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a few things to do first.”
Sudden guilt at having consumed his entire morning rushed her. “Of course. You’ve already been more than generous with your time—”
“Hanna.” His chuckle interrupted her, and he was no longer looking at her, instead
staring into the pot as he stirred the noodles. “Promise you’ll stop saying thank you every two minutes.” He glanced over her shoulder at where Patrick was slipping through the worn cookbook, pointing at pictures and sharing stories with Crissy. “I mean it. You being here is huge. I’m the one who should be saying thank you.”
He was serious and sincere, and the bit of tightness inside her relaxed slightly. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Grab the milk and cheese for me, please?”
She moved quickly to help, stepping back out of the way as he competently placed cutting boards and graters on the counter beside the stove. It was too easy to get enthralled as he unwrapped the block of cheese and pushed it up and down against the grater, shreds sliding into a neat pile on the cutting board. Competent and…
Hanna needed to admit it. The man was mesmerizing. The way the tendons flexed in his forearm as he adjusted his grip, the way he moved smoothly back and forth, rinsing his hands and draining the water from the noodles—
She really needed to turn away because who in their right mind got turned on while watching a man measure butter into a pot?
A low sizzling noise began, and Brad wiped his hands on the towel hanging in front of the stove. “Hey, Crissy. I need your help.”
She came quickly, eyeing him with curiosity as he pulled a stool to the counter. “I’m not allowed to turn on the stove,” she told him.
“That’s a good rule, especially if you’re all by yourself. When you’re with a grownup is the best time to learn to cook.” He grabbed the wooden spoon off the counter and held it out. “Are you ready to make macaroni and cheese?”
Crissy glanced at Hanna for approval.
Hanna wasn’t sure what was going on, but Brad had a point. “You follow all of Brad’s instructions, yes?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Let’s get to work,” Brad told her firmly, gesturing toward the pot. “Spoon at the ready, and…stir.”
Hanna inched away slowly, trying to give her daughter some breathing room. It was easier after she saw how careful Brad was to make sure the situation was safe. When he started telling Crissy a story about the secret rules of a chef, which were cleverly disguised safety tips at a child’s level, that’s when she managed to turn her back and rejoin Patrick at the table.
Brad’s father had been watching closely as well. As she settled, he reached over and patted her hand. “She’ll be okay. That’s the spiel my wife gave the boys back in the day. She taught them to cook that same way. Heck, I think that’s even the stool they used to climb up on.”
Hanna took a peek, but there wasn’t much to see except two backs and Crissy’s arm moving vigorously as she stirred. “My mom taught me how to cook as well, but…”
She stopped, suddenly unable to continue because the past was one part of her world that was impossible to think about or discuss. Coldness slipped in like always when she reminisced about her family.
No. Not family—simply the people who’d raised her. That was a more accurate description, considering family was supposed to mean love, and the way she’d been treated wasn’t based on love.
Hanna snapped her gaze up. She’d been sitting in silence after stopping abruptly.
Patrick took a deep breath, but he didn’t say anything about her sudden drop of conversation. He must have realized they’d hit a hot button because instead he pulled the cookbook forward and reopened it to the page that held the gingerbread recipe. “If you want, I can walk you through where everything is.”
Hanna bounced to her feet, grateful for something to do that didn’t involve feelings of rejection or sadness. She had so much to be grateful for, but as Patrick pointed at the cupboards and she slowly gathered all of the ingredients for the Christmas treat, it was impossible to completely get rid of the bitter emotions.
The goodness of being accepted and made welcome stood in powerful contrast to the memories dancing through her brain.
Brad kept his attention on Crissy until the potentially dangerous parts of preparing macaroni and cheese were done, but the entire time he was completely aware of Hanna’s presence in the room.
And while she spoke with a fine, clear enunciation, all of her words were soft, fading into a gentle murmur as she conversed with his father.
There was something far too right about having her in his house, digging into the cupboards as she followed his father’s attempts to remember where everything was stored. Brad was the one who did most of the cooking these days.
“Is this really going to be good?” Crissy asked with suspicion as she waited to one side for him to finish closing the door on the oven.
Brad gasped. “Have you never had homemade macaroni and cheese before?”
Crissy shook her head, staring at the cheese clinging to the wooden spoon with suspicion. She took a sniff. “It’s not the same colour as what Mommy makes.”
“Nope. Trust me, that’s not a bad thing.” He leaned in close. “Are you going to lick the spoon?”
She frowned. “Maybe?”
Laughter sounded behind them, and Brad and Crissy turned to find Hanna waiting. “Now the secret is out. I’m a boxed mac-and-cheese chef.”
Crissy wrapped her arms around her mom, the spoon waving precariously. “I like your mac and cheese,” she assured her.
“I like that type too,” Brad informed them, “but sometimes I like to make it from scratch, the way my mom used to.”
Then he pointed Crissy toward the cupboard where the plates were so she could set the table, Patrick shuffling back just far enough so the little girl could work around him.
“Is it long until lunch?” Hanna asked. “I need to borrow your phone so I can confirm my work schedule for this week.”
Damn. “I’m sorry. I should’ve spent the morning helping get your things together instead of gallivanting across the countryside.”
Hanna’s eyes widened before she shook her head. “No. No, what we did this morning was perfect. I know we’ve got a lot to deal with, but it was magical to be able to go out in the snow. No matter what has to be done, it’s just over a week until Christmas, and it’s important to make the days special.”
Relief poured over him. “Tomorrow, though. When Crissy heads off to school I can help you replace your phone and start to deal with the insurance.”
She hesitated.
“What?” he demanded softly, sneaking forward and bending until their heads were on the same level.
Hanna shrugged. “You told me to stop saying thank you, but you’re making it tough because you keep doing nice things.”
“Of course I’m not. I mean,” he continued as she raised a brow. “Yes, I suppose it is nice for me to offer to help you, but it’s also logical. That’s what someone does when a friend needs a helping hand.”
A soft noise escaped her, and her mouth opened for a moment before she glanced away, cheeks flushing.
What was going on in that head of hers?
She turned back and nodded. “I’d appreciate your help. I’ll make a list this afternoon of the most important things I can think of.”
“Great idea. If you don’t mind, I can help you go through the list tonight.” It was too easy to show his unhappiness. “Unfortunately, I know too well all the things you need to deal with.”
The timer went off on the oven, and lunch was served. Crissy pronounced the homemade mac and cheese delicious. Although she eyed Patrick with suspicion when he upended a bottle of Tabasco sauce and doused the entire surface of his plate with red.
Brad forced himself from the room and left the three of them setting up with oversized bowls and cookie sheets lining the counter. It was bittersweet to see—the last time that many utensils had been in use, his mother had still been alive. The scents of Christmas were a happy memory.
He went and found Christmas music, turning the volume up lightly in the background before taking himself off to get a bit of work
done before sticky sweetness enticed him back.
Brad slipped on his coat and headed out to the barn, more to make sure he had privacy than because there was anything dire that needed to be done. He punched in a number on his phone and waited for his friend to answer.
One of the kittens from the most recent batch stalked his way along the wall joist, sliding in close and meowing piteously until Brad scooped him up for a cuddle.
Walker Stone spoke without even saying hello. “What are you up to?”
“About six foot five,” Brad drawled.
“Hearty-har-har. Don’t give up your day job because you’re not ready for Comedy Central.”
“My heart is broken,” Brad offered in return. “Hey, favour to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Not you, your fiancée.”
There was the barest hesitation before Walker shouted Ivy’s name then came back on the line. “I hear you’ve got house guests.”
“I do. Hell of a time for a fire, but my dad’s doing his best to cheer them up.”
A low chuckle echoed in the background. “Of course. Your father. You, on the other hand, wouldn’t be doing anything to try and cheer up a certain young lady. Nothing at all. Nada. It’s as if she’s not even there.”
“Shut up,” Brad muttered.
“Come on,” Walker insisted. “I know how much you like her. You’re sleeping under the same roof as Hanna Lane and you don’t plan to take advantage of the opportunity? And I don’t mean that in a creepy way.”
“Nothing to take advantage of.” Brad let out a heavy sigh. “I told her there were no strings attached to her staying here, and I meant it.”
Walker hummed sympathetically. “Good for you. But, damn.”
“Right?” But he hadn’t called to get sympathy from a friend over having the woman he was interested in close and yet untouchable.
Except for that kiss…
The kiss that wouldn’t have happened if there hadn’t been mistletoe…
Hmmm. Maybe he needed to do some shopping.
“Hi, Brad. What’s up?” Ivy Fields was on the other end of the line now.