by Beth Andrews
So, no, once he took a minute to think about it, it wasn’t a shock that he hadn’t heard about Gracie being with another guy.
But it still pissed him off.
“Oh. That’s...great,” he said, and fully expected a bolt of lightning to strike him dead for the lie. “Bryce is a good guy.”
The worst part? That he actually was a good guy. There was nothing wrong with Bryce. He was a decent kid, played soccer, was marginally popular and well-liked by most people.
“Yeah, he is nice. I’m not sure we have all that much in common, though,” she said.
Luke’s heart lifted. “No? Well, I guess I could see that. I mean, he’s really into soccer.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Soccer is about the only thing he’s into at the moment. That and watching reruns of American Horror Story on Netflix, but that doesn’t matter.” She lifted her chin as if he’d pushed her buttons. “I think maybe what people say about opposites attracting might be true after all. Not for long-term or anything, but for shorter relationships.”
He didn’t like hearing her call dating another boy a relationship. And he couldn’t help thinking her comment about opposites attracting was directed at him since they’d had plenty in common, and look how that turned out.
“So I guess you’ll be going to the dance with him, then?” he asked.
The school was putting on a Winter Wonderland dance on Christmas Eve.
“Yes.” She hit the brush against the toilet bowl to remove the excess water. “Are you going?”
He tugged his gloves on harder than necessary. “I don’t know. Probably.” And he turned his back on her and squirted the mirror with glass cleaner, his movements jerky as he wiped it clean.
He was so stupid. He’d been thinking about asking Gracie to go to the dance with him, had thought it might be a good way to ease back into the way their friendship used to be. Now she was going with someone else.
He’d waited too long. And he’d lost her again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WELL, OAKES HAD been right about one thing, Daphne thought as she climbed out of the car that the bed-and-breakfast had provided to bring her from the airport in Pittsburgh to Bradford House—there definitely wasn’t much green. As a matter of fact, everything was white. The ground was covered in snow, as were the rooftops and several vehicles that obviously hadn’t been moved in a few days.
Snow fell softly from the sky now, dusting her hair and coat—a coat that wasn’t equipped for the cold weather—despite her earlier vow to Oakes that she’d bring one. But at least it looked damn good.
Her feet were frozen before she’d even reached the porch of the Victorian house. As a lifelong Houstonite, she was seriously out of her element in the frigid temperature and snow.
She gratefully stepped inside a warm and welcoming foyer. A wide staircase to her left, with a glossy wooden banister, curved as it went up before disappearing on the second floor. There was a large mirror over an antique dry sink in front of her with an arrangement of huge red poinsettias in a white pitcher-and-bowl set. Aaron, the driver, came in behind her and set down her luggage.
“Thank you,” she said, handing him a generous tip. She’d learned on the ride that he had two kids in college and worked as a driver to help make ends meet. “I’ll be sure to ask for you on my return trip.”
“You do that,” he said with a toothy grin and she had a feeling that had he been wearing one of those jaunty, chauffeur caps, he would have tipped it. “Have fun at the wedding.”
“I will,” she assured him, then waved as he went out the door. Leaving her bags where they sat on the floor beside an ornate wooden bench, she helped herself to one of the dark chocolates in a bowl next to the flowers and walked down a short hallway.
The scent of gingerbread reached her as she stepped into a small dining room. Tables were set up to the left, scattered around the room, several in an alcove surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, the scene of softly falling snow outside reminding her of a snow globe.
She shivered. Who knew snow came with such bitter, bitter cold temperatures? She’d rather have rain. Though what they usually ended up with a few times a year in Houston was ice. Maybe snow wasn’t so bad after all.
There was a small plaque marked Office next to a closed door, but since she wasn’t sure whether she should knock or just walk in, she went with her instincts—and her nose—and ignored it completely, heading instead for a large wooden door on the opposite wall. She pushed it open and stepped into paradise.
Or, a very warm, very cozy kitchen with a large center island topped with dozens upon dozens of several varieties of Christmas cookies.
“If I’m dreaming,” she murmured to the heavens, her hands in prayer, “don’t wake me. Not until I’ve had at least one of each. Amen.”
“Am I supposed to say ‘amen,’ too?” a soft voice asked. “Or is that only if I’m actually praying?”
Daphne turned and saw a petite teenager in a loose, floral top that hit her midthigh, a pair of black leggings and pink boots. “Excuse me?” Daphne asked, realizing the girl was looking at her expectantly.
“You were praying,” the teen reminded Daphne. “And I wasn’t sure if I needed to join in at the closing or not.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never been to church—well, other than for my grandpa’s funeral, but I was four and I don’t think that counts since they had to take me out of there for trying to swim in the holy water—so I’m not all that familiar with the rules. Do you need an ‘amen’ from me to make your wish come true?”
Daphne grinned, liking this kid already. “One ‘amen’ is plenty. I doubt God’s all that worried about a proper closing salutation, anyway.”
The teen nodded then turned to take a tray of cookies out of the oven. Daphne edged closer to the island and yes, okay, closer to the cookies, too. “If you made all of these and they’re half as good as I’m imagining, I’m applying to be your best friend for life.”
The girl set down the tray of baked cookies, put a tray of unbaked wreath-shaped cookies in the oven, then shut the door. “They’re delicious. At least, that would be my guess. Unfortunately, I already have a best friend. Though at the moment, she’s mad at me for not skipping work to go shopping with her in Pittsburgh. But you can be best friends with Damien,” she continued, using a spatula to move cookies to a cooling rack. “He’s Bradford House’s cook and the one who actually makes the cookies. I’m just baking them for him because he got called away unexpectedly.”
“Tell me, does Damien look as good as these cookies smell?”
The girl pursed her lips, obviously putting some serious thought into Daphne’s question. “He’s not traditionally handsome,” she said after a moment. “More like Dwayne Johnson handsome. Big. Built. Bald. And he has an unfortunate habit of wearing do-rags while he cooks. I mean, when I say bald, I mean the man’s head is one, round, shiny, smooth ball. Believe me, there’s no hair up there to fall into the food, so I say give the bandanas back to the eighties, where they belong.”
Daphne laughed. “I could live with bald, and even a do-rag or two, if it came with wicked baking skills. Forget him becoming my new BFF. I’ll just have to marry the man.”
“He’s already engaged.”
Daphne sighed and sat herself down on a stool at the counter. Set her chin in her hands. “Just my luck. I’m always a day late and a dollar short.”
The teen nodded solemnly, as if she, too, had that issue. “And in this case, you’re also the wrong gender.” She paused, perhaps for dramatic effect. “Damien’s gay.”
“Yeah, I figured that out with the whole wrong-gender comment.” God, but this kid was a kick. How she took everything so literally. Enjoying herself, Daphne slipped off her coat and set it on a stool. “Maybe I could convince him to switch back to the home team.”
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br /> The girl studied Daphne and Daphne had an insane urge to smooth her hair, as if she was serious about trying to convert some probably very nice gay man all so she could enjoy his...cookies.
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” the teen finally said. “I mean, I know some ultraconservatives think you can make it go away with prayer or therapy or whatever, but I’m pretty sure Damien was just born that way. And believe me, wishing that someone will change for you is nothing but wasted effort.”
“Such cynicism for one so young,” Daphne murmured.
“I prefer to think of it as hard-earned wisdom.”
“That a girl.” Daphne offered her hand over the cookies. “I’m Daphne Lynch.”
The girl set down the spatula and wiped her palm on the hand towel draped over her shoulder, then shook Daphne’s hand. “Gracie Weaver.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Gracie. Now, are you going to offer me a cookie or ten or do I have to beg?”
Gracie chewed her lower lip, a frown marring her adorable face. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “Cookies are supposed to be for guests.”
“Well, then, it’s my lucky day because I am a guest. Or I will be as soon as I check in.” She chose a plump sugar cookie with extra icing. Bit the head off of good old Saint Nick. “Mmm...good.”
Gracie observed her with wide eyes. “I guess you’re not used to being denied something you want.”
“Not true,” Daphne said around a mouthful of cookie. “I’ve been denied many, many things over my lifetime. Though, you’re right, not by my own doing. The secret to getting what you want is to know when to push for it, when to beg for it and when to just...reach out and take it.”
And with that she helped herself to a round, crinkly chocolate cookie with a dusting of sparkling sugar.
“You seem to have the taking part of the equation down,” Gracie said without any judgment or rancor, simply making an observation of what was going on around her. She nodded toward the little wreath cookies. “Try a spritz cookie. They melt in your mouth.”
Setting the chocolate cookie on the napkin Gracie handed her, Daphne took a spritz, bit into it. Groaned. “Oh, my God. Where have you been all my life?” she asked the rest of the cookie. Then devoured it.
“Yeah,” Gracie said, watching Daphne with an intensity that bordered on creepy. “Those used to be my favorite.”
“Used to be?”
“I’m vegan,” the teen explained, not sounding so happy about her lifestyle choice now that she was faced with a plethora of cookies she couldn’t eat. “So no buttery, eggy cookies for me. Damien promised he’d modify the recipe for me, but so far all three of his attempts haven’t worked out. I mean, unless you know of someone who actually wants to eat cookies that taste like a combination of cement and sawdust.”
“You could always have one little bite,” Daphne said.
Gracie seemed tempted but then shook her head, and made herself busy dropping rounded tablespoons of dough onto a cookie sheet. “No. It took me almost a year to go completely animal-free and I don’t want to ruin it now by backsliding.”
Daphne admired her dedication. She’d never had very much willpower herself. And that fact probably explained the ten extra pounds she carried.
It was that whole unable-to-deny-herself-what-she-wanted thing.
“Please tell me guests are also allowed coffee,” Daphne said, spying the full pot on the counter next to an industrial-sized stainless-steel fridge.
“They are,” Gracie said, adding one more dough ball to the tray before getting a mug from a glass-fronted upper cabinet and pouring coffee into it for Daphne. “Are you here for the family Christmas party or the society wedding?”
“Thanks,” Daphne said, taking the cup. “The wedding.”
Gracie gestured to a tea set complete with chilled cream and sugar cubes. “Relative of the bride or groom?”
Daphne poured cream into the cup, added two sugar cubes, stirred and tried it only to add one more. “Neither, actually.”
“Then you’re a friend of Charlotte’s?”
“Not really.”
Gracie frowned and tugged at a loose curl by her temple. “I doubt you’re a friend of Kane’s. I mean, no offense or anything if you are, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man who has friends. Let alone a female one.”
“Good instincts,” Daphne told her. Kane was bad boy through and through, from his long hair, to his tattoos, to his penchant for motorcycles and not taking any crap from anyone. Especially his wealthy family. “I’m more of an...acquaintance, I guess you could say.”
“You’re not crashing, are you?” Gracie asked in a horrified yet intrigued whisper. “Are you paparazzi? Does Houston even have paparazzi?”
“Houston does, indeed, have paparazzi and the Bartasavich family members are some of their favorite subjects. But I’m not crashing anything. I just thought saying I was an acquaintance of the bride and groom was easier than explaining that I’m the half sister of one of Kane’s half brothers and am attending the wedding with another of Kane’s half brothers, but am not, technically, related to Kane or anyone involved in the wedding myself.”
Gracie stared at her for so long without blinking, Daphne wondered if she’d slipped into some sort of coma. Finally the girl nodded. “You’re right. That was easier.” Using a cookie press, she squeezed dough onto a tray, making irregular circles, her teeth nibbling her lower lip as she concentrated. When she was done, she raised her head. “Which half brother are you related to?”
“Zach Castro. So I guess Houston isn’t the only place where the Bartasaviches are well-known?” she asked, as Gracie had obviously heard about them.
“Not sure how well they’re known to the general public of Shady Grove but Ivy—Ivy Rutherford?—used to work here. Actually, she and I met while working at King’s Crossing, a hotel by the river. That’s where we became friends. And that’s where she met Clinton Bartasavich, Jr.”
“Ivy? You mean the goddess?” Daphne asked, remembering the gorgeous, confident blonde who’d gotten pregnant by C.J. and had, if Daphne wasn’t mistaken, given birth to a baby boy not very long ago. They’d only met once, when Zach had been transferred to a hospital in Houston, but it was hard to forget someone like Ivy. She was blonde and had the type of beauty to bring a man to his knees, even while pregnant. Or maybe, that pregnancy glow had only added to her appeal.
Gracie grinned. “Goddess pretty much sums up Ivy. Yeah, she was the chef here before she decided to go have the billionaire bachelor’s baby—which I told her would make a great title should she feel the need to write her memoirs. Not that I blame her for falling for the guy. He’s nice. Is rich enough to own his own island and is superhandsome. Though I could do without the cowboy hats.”
Daphne laughed. “He is handsome and I agree with you about the hats. Anyway, from what I understand, C.J.’s an all-right guy.” Though Zach, of course, couldn’t stand his eldest brother. But since he was biased, she tended not to take his opinions of his family too seriously. “He can be pretty arrogant,” she said, remembering how, when Zach was in the hospital, C.J. had tried to boss the doctors and nurses around, tried to get answers. “But I think that’s just his coping mechanism for being that wealthy and having so many people want something from him. There could also be some guilt thrown in there, too. For being born into a world of privilege and excess when so many others suffer.”
“You sound like a psychologist,” Gracie said, once again switching baked for unbaked cookies.
Daphne broke a piece off of the chocolate cookie. “Do I? Good. I’m actually starting grad school after the first of the year. I’ll be getting my PhD in psychology.”
“From what I’ve heard, you’ll have your hands full just with the Bartasavich family. But then, if you’re just an acquaintance, maybe you
won’t have to deal with them that often. Except for your brother, of course.”
“I wouldn’t have to normally, but I’m hoping all that will change. You see, I’m not here just to enjoy an extravagant wedding celebrating the love between two people I barely know.”
“You’re not? Do tell.” Gracie set the hot tray on the counter then circled around the island to sit on the stool next to Daphne. “This should be good.”
“All right, I’m going to share a secret with you, Gracie.”
Gracie raised her eyebrows. A pragmatic soul under all the fluffy hair and big, guileless eyes. “Do you think that’s a wise decision? I mean, you’ve only known me for approximately ten minutes.”
Daphne sat back, affronted. “Don’t insult either of us. Of course it’s a good idea. You’re a very trustworthy soul. I can tell. I’m excellent at reading people. It’s obvious you’re honest and hardworking and you have kind eyes.” She patted Gracie’s hand. “No, I trust you completely. Which is why I can tell you that the real reason I’m here is to figure out if I’m in love with one of my dearest friends. And, if I am, I plan on getting him to fall in love with me, too.”
Gracie didn’t look shocked or disgusted, or as if Daphne had lost her ever-loving mind—she knew she’d been right to trust the teen. Her gut was never wrong.
That’s why she trusted it when it told her that she and Oakes belonged together.
“Is this dream man a real, live person?” Gracie asked. “Or did you ask Santa to leave him in your stocking Christmas morning?”
“Oh, he’s real, all right. He’s wonderful. Smart, handsome, funny and so sweet. Seriously, once you meet him, you’ll see I’m right and how good we will be together.”
Gracie made a noncommittal sound, one that was way too adult for someone who resembled a Christmas fairy. “How long have you known this Mr. Wonderful?”
“Since I was thirteen, but it wasn’t until I graduated high school that my feelings for him changed. That’s when we became friends. Good friends.”