The Heavenly Bites Novella Collection

by Christine S. Feldman

  But the devil could take many forms, after all.

  Ian’s fingers closed around hers, and Trish tried not to stiffen at the contact. She hastily withdrew her hand from his. “No, I—not at all.” The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them, a dogged testament to her parents’ tireless efforts to bring up a polite young lady. Crud, she thought. This was not the speech she had practiced. She had to get things back on track before she lost her righteous momentum. “I—”

  “Please come in,” he invited her, stepping aside to let her enter. “You must be freezing. It’s like the Arctic out there today.”

  For a moment she considered launching into her rant right then and there on his front porch, but that made it much too easy for him to simply slam the door shut in her face midway through it. She had not driven all the way down here to risk that.

  Besides, the icy wind up her short skirt was freezing her nether regions off. No woman could deliver a proper tirade under these conditions. With a curt nod, she crossed the threshold, careful not to touch him as she brushed past.

  Sudden warmth enveloped her as she stepped into a small living room that was tidy but bland in its lack of color. She couldn’t quite suppress a grimace. No bright accents to cheer the place up, no framed photos—nothing on the walls except for a single still life painting of a bowl of fruit. Really? she thought as she eyed it critically.

  The only other attempt at decoration that she could see was a sparsely-trimmed miniature Christmas tree on an end table. The room’s one saving grace was the crackling fire in the fireplace that looked old enough to be part of the home’s original construction, but it wasn’t enough to make the place truly inviting. The contrast with the charming yard out front was downright astonishing.

  Ian’s hand touched her shoulder, and Trish gasped and pulled away from him. She turned to see him blinking at her in surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding abashed. “I was just going to ask if I could take your coat.”

  “Oh.” She felt her cheeks flush. “Um, no. I’ll hang on to it.”

  “Okay.” After an awkward pause, Ian tried again. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee maybe?” He looked wary as he asked it, as if he wasn’t sure if she might respond oddly to this, too.

  Her flush deepened. “No, I’m fine.” A moment later, since good manners dictated it, she added grudgingly, “Thanks.”

  This was not going at all as planned. The longer they spent on pleasantries, the harder it was going to be to say what she had come here to say. She was supposed to show him how poised and desirable she was now. So much for poised, she thought ruefully. Maybe she could still salvage the desirable part. As he turned to gesture at his front window, she unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off her shoulders.

  “So this is one of the windows I was hoping you could do something with,” he said. “Along with one of the back bedrooms—” As he turned back to her, he did a double take, and his voice stumbled over his words. “Uh, down…down the hall.”

  “I see.” Trish felt the first small surge of triumph since arriving on his doorstep. Apparently the deep v-neck of the clingy red sweater she had chosen to wear had achieved the desired effect. It showed off more cleavage than she normally liked to share with the rest of the world, but today she had made an exception. Pursing her lips, she went over to stand next to him and pretended to examine the dimensions of the windowpane.

  After his initial startle, he didn’t seem to know where to look but finally settled on staring very intensely at the glass.

  The balance of power had finally shifted in her direction. Thank heavens for feminine wiles, she thought happily. It was time to make her move. Turning to face him directly—and leaving him little choice but to face her directly as well, although he seemed very careful not to let his gaze drop anywhere lower than her chin—she injected some steel into her voice. “Mr. Rafferty, I’m sure your windows would look great with a little paint on them.”

  “Ian.”

  “But I came here—what?”

  “Call me Ian, please.”

  “I—fine. Ian. But the real reason I came over here today was to tell you something.”

  A shadow of dismay crossed his face, stronger than Trish would have expected over mere window art. “Something’s come up? I understand the holidays are a busy time, but if you could find some way to fit me in, I’d pay you whatever you think is fair, Miss—I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your last name on the phone last night.”

  Because she hadn’t offered it. She’d preferred not to risk sparking any memories of the old Patricia Ackerly until the new one was standing right in front of him in all of her dolled up, push-up bra’d glory. She lifted her chin high and plunged ahead “My last name is Acker—”

  The shrill ring of a cell phone cut her off mid-name, and Ian pulled the offending object out of his pocket.

  Trish felt a flicker of annoyance. Seriously? Was he really going to take a call right when she was in the middle of talking to him? Well, of course he was. He was Ian Rafferty.

  But he only frowned at whatever number he saw displayed on the phone before turning it off and sliding it back into his pocket.

  Oh, she thought, somewhat mollified. But only somewhat.

  “Sorry. You were saying?”

  She took a step closer to the window and turned sideways to allow him a chance to better appreciate her profile before she let him know the full extent of her disdain. “I was saying that the reason I came here today was to tell you that you—” Trish stopped and frowned.

  For Pete’ sake, he wasn’t even looking at her. His attention was drawn to something outside the window instead. Apparently her sweater wasn’t cut low enough after all. Her eyes narrowed. She was never going to get this speech off the ground at this rate.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for her answer, Ian hurried grimly out through the front door.

  You’ve got to be kidding me, Trish thought incredulously as she stared at the empty space where he’d been standing a second ago.

  And then she turned around and did a double take of her own as she glanced out the picture window.

  The little girl from the shrubbery sat on the curb in front of the house, shoulders hunched as she scuffed the toe of her boot at some unseen thing on the street. Ian approached her slowly and sat down beside her. The little girl merely hunched her shoulders higher up around her ears and didn’t appear to respond when he spoke to her. After a moment Ian sighed and gently rested one hand on her head before leaning over to kiss the top of her cap.

  Trish’s eyes widened.

  Could it be…the girl was his? Ian Rafferty had spawned? Suddenly the child’s sullen attitude seemed a lot more understandable.

  Her eyes widened further.

  Wait—then was he married? Was there actually a Mrs. Ian Rafferty in the picture?

  Suddenly the shortness of Trish’s skirt felt awkward if not entirely unsuitable for the occasion. This was not the way to meet anybody’s missus, not unless one was potentially looking to start a catfight. Heat blossomed in her face again, and she hastily put her coat back on to cover her exposed cleavage.

  As she clutched her coat closed, she watched Ian scoop the girl up in his arms and carry her toward the house. Despite her standoffish manner a moment ago, the child clung to him tightly and buried her face against his neck.

  An unexpected pang hit Trish.

  Ian entered the house with his daughter still cradled in his arms and headed toward the hallway. “Could you hang on a second?” he asked Trish softly. “I’ll be right back.”

  Wordlessly, she nodded, and he disappeared down the hallway with the girl.

  Trish blinked after them. Ian Rafferty was a father. And judging by what she’d just witnessed, maybe not such a bad one, either. This was her childhood nemesis? Somehow it didn’t seem possible.

  Ian returned a minute or two later, his expression troubled and his han
ds shoved deeply into his pockets. Something about the pose reminded her very much of the Ian from her childhood. He had never looked very happy then, either. “My daughter, Kelsey,” he offered, looking at a loss for words. “She’s having a hard time lately. Misses her mother, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh?” Trish mumbled brilliantly, wishing desperately that she had thrown Ian’s business card into the trash after all.

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, and despite the carefully neutral look on his face, there was a slight edge to his voice. “She just got remarried. Doesn’t call Kelsey much anymore.”

  “Oh,” Trish repeated, softer this time.

  “She’s having a tough time at school, too. Other kids just don’t seem to…” Ian trailed off and started again. “The thing is, Miss Acker, I was hoping the window art might be a way to draw her out and cheer her up a little bit.”

  “Look, Mr. Rafferty, I don’t think—”

  “She loves to paint, too. I’m kind of grasping at straws here, I know, but I just thought—Well, there’s a quality in what you do that I haven’t seen in a long time, something that just seems to leap out at you, and I was hoping you could help give my daughter a little holiday fantasy.” Ian smiled a self-deprecating smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes and waved a hand at the underwhelming Christmas tree in the corner. “As you can probably tell, holiday cheer isn’t my strong suit.”

  Her mouth opened and closed again as she struggled to process what he was saying.

  This was all wrong. She was supposed to be marching out triumphantly from his house right about now while Ian watched in shock and dismay, humbled by the righteous fury she rained down on him. How on earth had things veered off in this direction?

  His jaw clenched as if he wanted to say something more but had bitten his tongue to stop himself.

  Her anger toward him seemed to have dissipated right about the time she saw him pick up his daughter so tenderly, but that didn’t mean she had to get involved in the situation any further than she already was. His little girl’s troubles were sad, yes, and maybe not completely unfamiliar, but it really was none of her business, she insisted desperately to herself as she felt her resolve weakening. She didn’t owe Ian Rafferty anything.

  He continued to wait for a response, his expression growing more and more discouraged. It was then she noticed the tiny dark spots on the collar of his shirt and realized that was where Kelsey had hidden her face when he carried her. Tiny wet spots, as if from tears.

  Crud.

  “Yeah,” Trish sighed in resignation. “I’ll paint your windows.”

  Chapter Three

  “So he still has no idea who you really are?”

  Trish restocked cupcakes on a tray and placed it back into the glass-fronted case where customers could see the treats and be tempted to indulge. She avoided Nadia’s gaze. “Right.”

  “And you’re going back there tomorrow to start on his windows?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Her friend started to laugh.

  Trish shot her a dirty look. “I’m so glad you find all of this so funny. Pass me that platter of cream puffs, would you?”

  “What happened to ‘I’m going to make him drool, and then I’ll squash him like a bug’?”

  Arranging the cream puffs next to the cupcakes, Trish mumbled something.

  “What was that?”

  “I said I changed my mind. You were right, I was wrong. Satisfied? He’s not the jerk he used to be.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Trish paused and stared thoughtfully at the store window she had painted, the one Ian had admired. Something about it leaped out at him, he’d said. A part of her was shyly pleased about that. Not many people seemed to notice the detail she put into it. Or if they did, very few bothered to say anything about it. “He’s actually kind of…not awful.”

  Nadia grinned slyly. “Not awful?”

  “Rein it in, woman. I’m not saying I like the guy. I’m just saying maybe he’s not evil incarnate after all.”

  “I see. So he’s just a single dad who’s a devoted father, he’s got his own business, and he looks as yummy as anything we sell here. That’s all.” Nadia leaned her elbows on the counter, her eyes twinkling at Trish. “Ooo, girlfriend, I have a good feeling about all of this.”

  “Hey, I just feel sorry for his kid, all right? I’m painting his windows, and then I’m getting out of Dodge. That’s it.”

  “Uh huh. So what are you wearing to paint tomorrow? Mini skirt again, or thigh-highs and a divide-and-conquer bustier?”

  Trish calmly made a rude gesture and went back into the kitchen to start on a batch of lemon scones while Nadia’s laughter followed her.

  * * *

  The next day Trish chose a turtleneck that came up so high it practically covered the lower half of her face. Paint-splattered jeans, a bulky coat, and safely flat-bottomed boots finished off the ensemble. To top it off, she held a spiral notebook in front of her chest like a shield of modesty. If Ian noticed the complete one-eighty she’d made in her wardrobe choices when he opened his door to her knock, he gave no sign—although he did seem more relaxed about making eye contact this time. Too bad Trish wasn’t.

  “Hi,” Ian greeted her. There were dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept well, but he smiled nevertheless and rubbed a hand over his face, looking surprised to find morning stubble there.

  Rough night? Trish couldn’t quite bring herself to return his smile, but she nodded her head in response and even managed to maintain eye contact for a full two seconds before averting her eyes to look past him. “Hi.”

  He stepped back to let her enter. The fire was crackling pleasantly again, and the warmth it gave off was a welcome relief from the blustery cold outside. This time Ian made no attempt to reach for Trish’s coat, but she could have sworn she saw his mouth twitch as if fighting a smile when she removed the coat herself and draped it over the back of a chair. Remembering her behavior the other day, her face turned warm for a moment from more than just the fire.

  Ian cleared his throat, and the twitch disappeared from his lips. “Coffee?”

  Trish nodded again. If nothing else, at least drinking it would give her something to do besides struggle to make polite conversation. “Thanks.”

  “Kitchen’s this way. Kelsey,” he called out as he passed the hallway. “Miss Acker’s here.”

  Acker. She had neglected to correct him the other day. She started to open her mouth to remedy the situation, then paused. Why bother? After a couple of days, they’d go back to being strangers again, and in the meantime there was something comforting about the anonymity the phony name gave her. Patricia Ackerly was a tongue-tied mess around Ian Rafferty, but Trish Acker could be anything she wanted. At least for the next few days.

  She followed him warily into the kitchen and sat down at the table toward which he waved a hand in invitation.

  “Cream and sugar?” he asked, reaching for a bubbling coffee pot.

  Another nod. God help her, could she not get two words out? Something, anything—Her eyes searched the kitchen unsuccessfully for inspiration. She could do this. She was a confident, poised woman. “So…”

  He held out her coffee to her. “Yes?”

  “Cold out, huh?” Oh, good grief. Scintillating stuff. Maybe she could follow up with an insightful comment about how the coffee was hot and the table was hard.

  She was saved from trying to come up with anything else by the arrival of Ian’s daughter. The girl appeared in the doorway and eyed Trish as if sizing her up, and Trish found herself sitting a little straighter under her scrutiny. The child couldn’t have been more than six or seven, and her jaded expression looked out of place on her young face. Scooping her long brown hair behind her ears, she plopped herself down in the chair opposite Trish and stared at her. “Where’s your paint?” she demanded.

  “Try again, Kelsey,” Ian suggested wryly, taking a sip of his own coffee.

>   Kelsey sighed a long-suffering sigh and frowned. “G’morning,” she said grudgingly.

  “Hi,” Trish returned, feeling woefully out of her element. “Paint’s in the car.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t start painting until you tell me what to paint.”

  “Oh,” the child said, apparently satisfied.

  Trish set her notebook down on the table and pulled a pencil from its spiral spine, prepared to sketch. “So a little Christmas fantasy, huh? You like reindeer? Snowmen?”

  “I hate snowmen.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Trish blinked, taken aback. Who on earth hated snowmen?

  Off to the side, Ian sighed.

  “Snowmen are stupid,” Kelsey explained as if it was obvious.

  “Oh. Okay. Well, what about reindeer?”

  The girl made a face.

  “Santa? Candy canes? Christmas trees?” Trish got an eyeroll in response. “I see. Why don’t you tell me what you do like then.”

  Kelsey stared thoughtfully into space for a moment. “I like zombies,” she said finally.

  “Zombies?” Unable to help herself, Trish threw a startled glance in Ian’s direction. What had she signed on for here?

  But he seemed as blindsided as she was, because he nearly spit out his coffee. “Zombies?” he repeated, coughing and sputtering as he stared at his little girl. “What do you mean zombies?”

  “They’re cool,” she insisted, folding her arms across her chest. “Everybody likes zombies.”

  “Not for Christmas, they don’t.”

  Trish got a mental picture of zombies in Santa hats and cheery scarves caroling around a Christmas tree, and a hiccup of laughter escaped her before she could help it. Both father and daughter looked at her in surprise. “Sorry,” she said hastily, forcing a serious expression onto her face. “So we’re going for a Tim Burton kind of Christmas then?”