Keeping Cole's Promise

by Cheryl Harper

  Cole took the shirt and tapped it against his hand.

  “There you both are,” Shelly exclaimed as she buzzed into the room. “I’m so glad you haven’t left yet.” She squeezed Cole’s arm. “I’m afraid we have another job for you.”

  “I’ll be happy to do it,” Cole said easily. He didn’t ask what it was or explain that he’d already worked three extra hours that day in order to check up on the teenage volunteers. Again, Rebecca was reminded how lucky they were that Sarah had overridden her concerns and hired the man. “Whatever I can do to help out.”

  “Les and I were going to load up the van with Rebecca’s things for the bake sale tonight once he picks up the cakes at Brenda’s house. Then, in the morning, we could unload all the baking in the square before you and Eric need to start loading the dogs.” Shelly bit her lip. “But Les had an emergency call. His daughter’s horse isn’t well. As soon as he finishes at Brenda’s, he’ll drop the van off here. I could load it all by myself but...” She clasped both hands under her chin. If Cole had been wavering at all, Rebecca didn’t see how he could possibly ignore the plea in Shelly’s eyes.

  “Go with Les. He might need help. I’ll take care of getting Rebecca’s stuff.” Cole’s hand hovered near Shelly’s arm, but he abandoned the pat. He didn’t touch anyone if he could help it. Rebecca had never realized she was paying such close attention to his movements.

  What did that mean?

  And what did it say about her that she could still remember the feeling of his warm hands easing the tension in her shoulders? Sure, that had been about the dogs.

  Hadn’t it?

  “It’s a lot to do on your own. You’ll need to put gas in the van. Rebecca will help you load her cookies at her house, of course.” Rebecca was prepared to nod, but Shelly never glanced her way. Her agreement was a given. “I’ll grab the gas card. You’ll need to go to the big flashy station. You know, the one down the road?”

  Whatever else she said was lost as Shelly charged down the hall.

  Because she was still watching him so closely, it was easy to see the minute Cole’s amused acceptance faded into something else, something darker. She wasn’t sure what had caused the grim line of his lips or why she wanted to understand it so badly, but it was impossible not to offer him a way out.

  “I can do this if you’d rather not, Cole,” Rebecca said quietly. “I’ve already made so many cookies the entire town of Holly Heights will gain five pounds.” Her teasing smile faded when he didn’t respond. “Let me do it.” She wasn’t afraid to drive the van. She’d never done it, but the streets of Holly Heights were no challenge.

  His eyes snapped up to lock on her face. “Afraid I’ll steal the van? Or I’ll try to make some fast money again? I mean, gas stations are kind of my thing.” He strangled the rolled-up T-shirt. “My job. I’ll do it.”

  Rebecca held up both hands. “Okay, Mr. Sensitive. No one was making any accusations. Take it down about three notches.” She rested her fingers lightly on his forearm and both of them froze. Rebecca snatched her hand back. “Sorry. Don’t touch. It’s one of the cardinal rules for educators.”

  He grunted what might have been a laugh on another planet. “I’m only surprised you didn’t faint from the shock. Me, angry. You, in danger. Right?”

  “I’m never going to live that down, am I?” Rebecca muttered. She clenched her teeth in a fake smile and said calmly, “Listen. I understand you don’t want to deal with the gas station. That’s all. I didn’t mean to imply anything else. I was trying to help.”

  “Yeah. You’re always trying to help. I get that. I’m okay. You can find another project.” There was no anger or bitterness in his tone, but the slump of his shoulders convinced her that there were a dozen other emotions bubbling inside him.

  Not that he’d share any of them with her.

  “EW could come along.” This time, her hand hovered above Cole’s shoulder.

  “Yeah.” Cole shook his head like a man chasing away bothersome thoughts. “Sorry I snapped.”

  Their eyes connected and breathing became a real struggle. Stripped of anger and mocking defenses, his warm brown eyes were beautiful. This close, she could see the little boy grinning from that photograph with his grandmother waving a bright blue ribbon. The urge to wrap her arms around that little boy and this man who needed someone to... She wasn’t exactly sure what he needed.

  “Prepare yourself. I’m coming in,” Rebecca muttered, and then carefully wrapped her arms around his chest.

  For half a second, she thought he’d push her away. Instead of slipping his arms around her in the universally accepted “return a hug” response, he held them out at his sides, so stiff she might as well have been hugging a fence post. Just before she stepped away, he gingerly ran a hand down her back. Every new inch he touched came alive, and the electricity that flowed from his hands to hers was surprising. She would have looked at him to gauge whether that touch was enough to rattle him, but he muttered, “Lemons” and settled his hands on her shoulders.

  Rebecca stepped back. “And lemons to you, too.” If that was a newfangled way of cursing enemies, she could get on board quickly.

  Cole rubbed his nose. “Of course you smell like lemons.” Then he turned on his heel and fled the room as if she might run after him, trailing her lemony scent all the way.

  Rebecca straightened the small stack of remaining T-shirts as she considered his reaction.

  Trying to make sense of his disgust at citrus scents was a lot easier than figuring out how she could stand so close to Cole Ferguson, close enough that she could have pressed her ear to his chest to hear his heartbeat, and feel so comfortable. If Cole was on her side, nothing would ever be able to frighten her again.

  Not that it mattered. Cole Ferguson would be keeping his distance if his reaction was anything to go by.

  And she was out of time to replay the conversation in her head. She had to get home.

  After a quick update with Sarah on the status of the volunteers and the bake sale schedule, Rebecca hurried through Holly Heights. She hadn’t had a chance to ask when Cole would stop by. Or to give him her address. Or to do anything except freak him out with a hug.

  She’d already finished twenty dozen cookies that she and Brenda would divide and price early in the morning. Thirty had been her goal, so she pulled out her mixing bowls and pans. If she had the time, she could finish the last ten dozen and send them on with Cole. If not, she could take care of packing them in the morning. Every cookie she made was a contribution to the dogs and cats at Paws for Love.

  And to her friend Sarah’s success.

  And to Cole’s, not that he’d thank her for it.

  “But which ones to make?” Her chocolate chip cookies were the most popular, but she was out of the chips. “Sugar cookies. I have everything I need for those.” But she didn’t have a sugar cookie recipe committed to memory. Her mother’s old standby cookbook, recognizable only because it was held together by rubber bands, was the answer.

  Rebecca opened the pantry and studied her shelves of cookbooks. The thing about loving to bake and everyone in town knowing was that she tended to collect new cookbooks for every holiday, birthday and end-of-school gift exchange.

  Given that she’d started her own collection before she could drive, Rebecca had more cookbooks than Texas had cowboy boots.

  The line of tattered collections from blue ribbon winners at the state fair over the years caught her eye and the picture of Cole and his grandmother immediately flickered through her mind. Could she find that recipe? Would he thank her or hate her if she managed to track it down?

  “You probably can’t even find the recipe.” There were so many books to choose from, but each one had the year stamped on the edge. Her best guess had Cole at eleven or twelve in the photo. With a hasty calculation, she pulled do
wn the year she would have been twelve. The listing at the front had zero sugar cookie recipes.

  “Forward or back?” Rebecca pulled the previous year off the shelf and tried not to puzzle over why she was wasting time on this. Her mother’s favorite cookbook was easy to find, mainly because it sat front and center for easy access. The sugar-cookie recipe inside was tried and true.

  It took five more books for her to find the sugar-cookie recipe. She refused to think about Cole’s age. He was younger than she was. “Rachel. His grandmother’s name was Rachel.” And all she knew about Rachel was that she’d lived in the same trailer, cleaned houses and loved her grandson. “And she could make a mean sugar cookie.” That was enough.

  Rebecca pulled out the ingredients and poured herself into preparing the batter and loading up the cookie sheets. She was congratulating herself on choosing double ovens for maximum baking impact when the doorbell rang.

  In an instant, the calm satisfaction that always overcame her in the middle of a baking spree evaporated. Cole had arrived. No one else could be on the other side of that door, mainly because almost everyone in Holly Heights would open the door and come inside. That was the kind of house her mother had had, and Rebecca had never seen any reason to change that.

  But Cole would not be certain of his reception.

  And she was not going to be overly weird about this. She pulled out a clean cookie sheet to check her reflection. No dusting of powdered sugar on her nose. All of her hair was still there, but she couldn’t tell where it was, thanks to the distortion of the metal sheet. None of that mattered anyway. She still smelled like lemons.

  With a fine layer of vanilla on top. Maybe he’d like that better.

  “Doesn’t matter what he likes,” Rebecca muttered as she brushed her hands down the red gingham apron that had replaced her favorite floral one. She made tight fists in the fabric, reminded herself he was just a guy and yanked the door open.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NO MATTER HOW hard he’d lectured himself on the way over, Cole still couldn’t do anything but stand on her front step, speechless. The only break in the constant mental pep talk had come at the gas station. As it happened, he’d been too distracted by her hug to panic as he’d turned into the same parking lot he’d tried to rob a million years ago.

  Pumping gas had taken some trial and error to figure out the prepaid card and the buttons, but he’d managed without calling too much attention to himself. For the first ten seconds, he’d been certain the owner of the gas station would come out and threaten to call the police, but this wasn’t the old Gulf station. Whoever had built the modern neon multipurpose rest stop was comfortable in a city like Austin or Houston and had zero worry about the ex-convict pumping gas for a van filled with cakes.

  Then he’d leaned against the van and puzzled over why she’d hugged him in the first place and what he’d do about it at this point.

  Pity. Had to be. A gesture of encouragement for her pet project, the pitiful soul who didn’t have a dream. That was the only explanation thirty dollars’ worth of gasoline had provided. Once he’d decided that, he went from confused to irritated. The short drive into this old, established neighborhood close to Holly Heights Elementary hadn’t changed his mood. When he was a kid riding the bus, this place had seemed television-sitcom perfect.

  When she opened the door, he tipped his chin up and waited. He wasn’t going to be her project.

  “Hey, I wasn’t sure when to expect you. I have one last batch in the oven, but we can load the rest if you like.” Rebecca smoothed her hands over her apron, a white-and-red-plaid number that reminded him he’d managed to throw the one she’d left at his house on the front seat.

  She wanted to pretend they were friends or something. This wasn’t the mansion he’d buy if he hit the lottery but they still lived in very different worlds. Cole silently held out both hands.

  Rebecca didn’t answer, but her expression was crystal clear. Is that the way it’s going to be? Fine.

  She stepped back and pointed at the tubs lining one wall of her small but top-of-the-line kitchen. The sparkle off all the stainless steel was nearly blinding.

  Relieved to find that the cookie load was manageable, Cole picked up the two tubs easily and ignored her disgruntled sniff. Walking got easier when he left her behind in the kitchen. He slid the tubs into the only remaining space in the back of the van. Whatever else she had would be riding shotgun. That was an intense amount of baked goods produced by two women. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or afraid, but the shelter would gain a nice sum from the sale. What must it be like to have talent like that? Cole shook his head as he grabbed the apron from the front seat.

  His grandmother would have been mightily impressed with Rebecca Lincoln.

  Instead of ringing again, Cole opened the front door to her small, comfortable house and stepped inside. Rebecca was muttering to herself when he paused inside the doorway to the immaculate kitchen. The only signs that she’d been working so hard were the finished cookies and the tower of cookbooks stacked haphazardly in the corner near the oven. The ding of the oven timer snapped her out of her rant. If he had to guess, that was to his benefit.

  “Get your head together,” Rebecca muttered as she pulled open the top oven and nearly grabbed the pan with her bare hand. Cole realized he’d been poised to launch into action, one hand held out and the word Stop trembling on his lips. Instead, she placed one hand over her heart and carefully slipped the other in a dog-shaped oven mitt. Of course.

  He should announce his presence. The pleasure he was getting from watching her work, completely unaware that he was there, was dangerous.

  “Smells good in here,” Cole said, his voice rough and too loud in the silence. She didn’t jump. She wasn’t quite as unaware of him as he’d imagined.

  He liked that.

  Rebecca slid the cookie sheets on the island countertop and slipped off the oven mitt. “These need to cool.”

  Cole nodded and shoved both hands in his pockets, afraid to step closer and completely out of his element. “Nice place here.” It was. Everything about this room screamed high-end. It was too bad he couldn’t come up with a logical reason to explore the rest of the house. Seeing the differences in the way they lived should make it that much easier to get the tempting scent of lemons out of his head.

  “It’s a kitchen. You like kitchens, don’t you? That’s where food comes from.” Rebecca picked up a spatula and carefully loosened one of the cookies, concentrating hard enough that he wondered if she was avoiding looking his direction.

  “Is that where food comes from?” The urge to make her look at him put a teasing tone of wonder in his voice. He wasn’t sure where that came from, either. Flirting was not an option. “I had no idea. Mine doesn’t do this. It mainly makes sandwiches.”

  Their eyes met as Rebecca held out the spatula. She wasn’t happy, but some of the tension around her eyes had disappeared.

  “Yeah, that has a lot to do with the person in charge,” Rebecca said as she watched him gingerly take the cookie.

  “Sure, but the expensive equipment can’t hurt.” Cole motioned with an airy wave. “You were slumming in my kitchen, weren’t you?” He pointed with his chin. “Your apron. Poor thing thought it had been abandoned.”

  Her clearly fake smile made him want to push harder.

  “Good thing I rescued it, brought it over to the nice side of town.” Cole waved vaguely at the kitchen. “Don’t see places like this much in Holly Heights, I bet. Surely not in the trailer park.”

  Rebecca tipped her chin down. “I grew up here. I know what fits in Holly Heights.”

  Some of it, maybe.

  He should go. Spending time on this side, with her, would bring nothing good.

  “You know, I’ve done a lot for this town, and not only since I
won the lottery,” Rebecca said. Her lips were curved in the kind of smile a shark might wear when it scented fresh chum. She was half a second from letting him have it. “If I want to spend something on myself, why should I feel guilty? I don’t, by the way.” She slapped a towel down on the clean counter and rubbed. Hard. “You should have seen it before. The stove was green. The refrigerator was...not stainless steel. I had no island. You think I could have made thirty dozen cookies for the shelter in the old kitchen?” She took a deep breath. “It would have been a lot harder.”

  Her lips were a tight line as she pinched sugar and scattered it over the tops of the cooling cookies.

  She had a point. In her place, both Holly Heights and a new kitchen in his old home would have come very low on his list of things to spend money on. Cole cleared his throat and then took a bite of the cookie in his hand. That one bite took him back in time. Way back. “This...this cookie is almost perfect, almost exactly the kind of cookie my Mimi used to make.”

  He made the universal good cookie noise as he watched Rebecca fidget at the counter. She opened her mouth a couple of times and thought better of whatever she was going to say. Was she still hung up on the appliances?

  “Can I have another? I was afraid I’d never find a cookie like this again. It reminds me of her. Mimi.”

  And it did. Funny how something so simple could call up all the times she’d celebrated large and small occasions with him in that tiny kitchen. The ache in his chest was a surprise. He would have held an imaginary hat in both hands and tried a meek, begging stance, but she slid a plate with four cookies on it across the island like a saloon barkeep. Then she reached over, grabbed a book and plopped it down in front of him.