by Tawna Fenske
“Including the reindeer?”
“What?” I swing my gaze to the other side of the barn. “Oh, that’s Vixen. Irene, I mean. We stopped using the stage names in January.”
“Stage names?”
“They all have holiday alter egos.” Irene trots over and snuffs at my pockets, looking for treats. I scratch behind her left ear, and she leans into me. “She went into heat this morning, so we’re keeping her in here for a few days. She’s—uh—aggressively lovey right now.”
As if to demonstrate, Irene turns and noses Sean in the crotch. He dodges back before she can do any real damage.
“Whoa, hey,” he says. “We’re not even on a first name basis yet.”
“Sorry about that,” I tell him. “You’re lucky she lost her antlers last week. Otherwise, you might have lost a testicle.”
Awesome, Amber. Say “testicle” to a man you’ve just met.
Sean seems unfazed. He reaches out to scratch Vixen’s forehead, his long fingers skimming the stubs where her antlers used to be.
“She looks kind of like a cow without the antlers. Why’d she lose them?”
“It happens every year,” I assure him. “Males and females both, though the boys usually lose them a little earlier in the season than the girls do.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Probably a little. Maybe like losing a tooth as a kid?”
“Hi, sweetheart.” He’s rubbing her nose now, and Irene leans into him like the brazen hussy she is. He strokes his hands down both sides of her neck, and it might be the first time I’ve felt jealous of a reindeer.
“There’s usually a gap between when they lose the first antler and the second,” I prattle on like a deranged science teacher. “So they spend a few days walking around lopsided.”
“That sounds awkward.” Irene is practically purring now, pressing her whole body against Sean’s.
“Floozy,” I whisper, earning a laugh from Sean.
“She has cool looking eyes.”
“See how they’re all white around here? That’s another sign she’s in heat. I mean, if it weren’t already obvious from how she’s practically humping you.”
I need to stop talking about reindeer sex. Or sex of any kind. Wasn’t I the one who said we needed to keep things professional?
“Anyway, this is the space,” I tell him. “We can hold weddings outside in the pasture when it’s warm, and there’s the chapel, of course.”
“A chapel?” Sean’s eyebrows lift. “You have a chapel on the property?”
I nod, a little pleased by how impressed he sounds. “My great-grandparents built it. They held church services back in the day. It’s mostly been sitting empty for the last hundred years or so.”
“I’d love to see it,” he says. “I’m kind of a history buff.”
“Come on. We still have some daylight left.”
I lead the way to the other end of the barn and push through the door. The path is darker out here, and the shadowy shapes of reindeer amble along the fence line like creepy statues with branches on their heads.
“That’s Harold and Tammy over there,” I tell him.
“Do they have stage names?”
“Donner and Dasher. Tammy’s knocked up right now.”
“Is Harold the father?”
I laugh and shake my head. “I hope not. He’s castrated. Artificial insemination is safer for the herd.”
“Doesn’t sound quite as enjoyable,” Sean muses, shooting me a look that might be flirty or might not. I can’t tell.
“It is if you’re a female,” I tell him. “We had to stop breeding after Harold picked Sydney up in his antlers and held her like that for an hour.”
Sean shoots me a grimace. “Sounds like a guy who needs to refine his technique.”
“Or lose it entirely. That’s why he got the snip.”
I wonder if normal girls spend this much time talking with attractive men about animal sex and genitals. Then I remind myself this is a business relationship, not a date. Maybe awkward is okay.
“Here we are.” I unlock the chapel door and push it open, flicking the lights to illuminate the sanctuary.
Sean moves behind me, and I step aside so he can get the full view. Twelve rows of antique pews line each side of the room, with a narrow aisle between them. The woodwork gleams from the fresh coat of varnish, and the air swirls with cinnamon from the potpourri sachets I tucked under each seat. Pinkish light streams through the skylights as the sun snuggles down behind the mountains for the evening.
“Oh my God,” Seth breathes. “This is unbelievable. You own this?”
“Yep.” My chest bubbles with pride, but I keep myself from grinning too big. “It’s how we came up with the idea for doing weddings. It seemed like a shame to have this beautiful building just standing empty.”
“Is this woodwork original?” He runs a hand along the back row of pews, and I nod.
“Most of it. Our dad helped us rebuild that area up there by the pulpit. It got wrecked in a windstorm a few years back.”
“Those windows look new.” He gestures to a gleaming bank of glass that offers a view of the snow-capped Cascades draped in orangey-pink sunset.
“We put those in last year. There used to be this old stained-glass piece, but it had a really weird crack that made it look like Jesus was peeing on the disciples.”
“I can see why that wouldn’t be the ideal backdrop for a wedding.”
I skim a hand over the windowsill, sending a puff of dust into a sunbeam. “When we were little, Jade told me the dust motes were fairies.”
I don’t know why I just told him that, but he looks at me like he’s noticing something new about me. Something he likes.
“Gotta love sisters,” he says. “Mine convinced me to eat a mud pie once.”
“Let’s hope you’ve refined your palate since then.”
Sean grins and turns toward the window. A sunbeam catches his eyes, and I lose my breath.
Those eyes. My God.
A memory hits me of the stained-glass window before we took it out. There was a panel of forest green in the bottom corner, and when the light hit it at sunrise, it bloomed with an otherworldly green glow.
Sean’s eyes are like that.
His gaze swings back to mine, and I have to force myself to breathe again. “I can’t imagine having this kind of family history,” he says.
“Your dad’s property—er, your property, I guess—there’s some cool historical stuff there, right?”
He shrugs. “An old barn we did our best to preserve. The pond has been there forever.”
A faint smile tugs the corners of his mouth, and I remember his skinny-dipping story. I had no idea he was a witness to that, and I find myself blushing unexpectedly.
“There’s a cave,” Sean says, the shape of his smile shifting to something more nostalgic. “On the north side of our property, under that big rock outcropping.”
“The one that looks like a giant dick.” I hear my own words in my head and grimace. “It’s probably rude to point out a big penis pillar on your neighbor’s property.”
Sean laughs. “Only if the neighbor is unaware of it. Bree used to call it Boner Rock. She never knew the cave was there until I showed it to her last week.”
“Was it your hideout as a kid?”
“Sort of.” He touches a hand to the back of a pew. “I used to hang out in there playing with these old pots and pans I found, pretending to be a TV chef.”
“Wow.” I picture Sean as a freckle-faced boy making dirt soup for imaginary dinner guests. “Did you always want to be a chef?”
He gets an odd look on his face and glances away. “I suppose so.”
I’m not sure how to read his expression, or if he wants me to just drop it. He’s running a hand over the pulpit, but seems a little lost in thought.
“It must be cool to have this kind of family history,” he says. “I never knew my great-grandparents. The ones who used
to own property out here.”
“You said they were your mom’s grandparents?”
“Yeah, but my mother hasn’t set foot out here since I was a baby.” He shrugs. “She referred to the property as ‘Cort’s little playground.’ Didn’t even fight him for it in the divorce.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say to that. “I hope she did okay in the settlement. Some women get screwed.”
His laugh is sharp and a little hollow. “Oh, she did just fine. Got the ski house in Aspen and the condo overlooking Central Park that used to belong to Bree’s mother, but my dad did something shady with the title, and my mother’s lawyer pounced. Oh, she also got the villa in Milan and—”
“Oh, wow.” I bite back a snarky comment about seeing how the other half lives. “So she’s doing okay.”
He doesn’t respond to that. Just turns and studies a thick maple beam next to the side door. He steps closer and peers at the letters carved there. “JK + SP forever.” He turns back to me. “This looks old.”
“My grandpa carved it when he was thirteen.” I step closer and trace a finger over the familiar carving. “He fell in love with a girl who lived two farms over.”
Sean studies the letters with a look that’s almost reverent. “I love that you left it here.”
“They were married fifty-three years before he died. It seemed like good luck.”
He turns again, and the sun catches his eyes just so. Dust motes dance in front of his face, and I hold my breath to squelch the urge to reach for him. He waves a hand through the sunbeam, scattering the twinkly particles. “Looks like your fairies are still here.”
“Looks like it.” My voice comes out raspy, and I hope he can’t read my mind. That he can’t tell how much his closeness is affecting me.
“For me, it was mermaids,” he says. “My father told me they lived in the pond. I used to stand out on the back deck watching for them at night.”
There’s that swell of embarrassment again, pinching the center of my chest—the realization that I had an audience that night I got busted for skinny-dipping. I’m determined not to let it get to me. “So that’s why you were spying on me that night? You were mermaid hunting?”
He grins and tilts his head toward me. “You did seem like some kind of mythical creature,” he says. “I always wondered what you were really like. In real life, not in mermaid fantasies.”
Interesting. “And now that you’ve met me?”
He looks at me a long time with such intensity my throat gets tight. “You’re different than I expected.”
“How do you mean?”
He must read the confused look on my face. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” he says quickly. “You’re more…real. Complex.”
“Complex.” I’m not sure if that’s a bad thing or a good thing, but the way he’s looking at me suggests the latter. His eyes lock with mine, and my heartbeat does a funny little kick-step.
There’s a flicker of heat in his eyes, and I wonder if I’m not the only one whose thoughts keep straying to kissing. We stand there staring at each other in the pinkish light, breathing in dust and cinnamon and something more carnal than sunbeams.
A soft buzz fills the silence, and it takes me a second to realize it’s a phone. My butt isn’t vibrating, so it must be Sean’s.
“Is someone calling you?”
He pulls out a sleek silver iPhone and frowns. “My mother.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but maybe he doesn’t need to. The thud of those three syllables says a lot.
“Do you need to answer?” I ask.
He shakes his head and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. “No. Not right now.” He clears his throat. “Want to go try the food?”
“I’d love to.”
We turn and make our way back toward the house, detouring to Sean’s car for a cooler and a lidded tray that I carry carefully along the grass-lined path that leads to the wide front porch.
“What’s in here?” I ask, hoping he didn’t just hear my stomach growl.
“You’re holding smoked salmon bruschetta with capers and chive cheese spread,” he says. “And I’ve got ricotta butternut squash soup shooters with crème fraiche and toasted hazelnuts, plus some Caesar salad in mini parmesan cups, along with a phyllo tart with melted brie, caramelized onion, and roasted pear. All sourced from around Oregon, by the way.”
“Oh my God, that sounds incredible.” My stomach growls again. “That’s exactly what the wedding couples have been asking for.”
“I aim to please.”
I shoulder the front door open and lead Sean up the stairs to the kitchen. As I set my platter on the concrete countertop, Sean starts unpacking the cooler. “I didn’t do the full presentation thing with fancy plates and utensils,” he says. “I wanted to let the food speak for itself this time.”
“Mmm, right now it’s saying ‘eat me!’”
Sean doesn’t look up, but a funny look crosses his face. Did I seriously just say “eat me” to a hot guy in my kitchen?
Face flaming, I turn and busy myself with getting plates and napkins and silverware out of the cupboards. I’m about to suggest we move to the dining room when he thrusts something at me.
“Here, try this.” He holds a tiny little cup fashioned out of crisp parmesan and filled with the littlest Caesar salad I’ve ever seen in my life. I take it from him and pop it in my mouth. My taste buds flood with flavor and texture and so much yummy goodness I moan.
“God, that’s amazing.”
“Those are always really popular at weddings,” he says. “And they pair beautifully with the soup shooters.”
He hands me a tiny paper cup that’s still steaming, and I take a slow sip. Then a bigger one. Holy wow. “This is incredible. Jade would love this.” I down the rest of it in one sip and set the cup on the counter.
Sean smiles, then makes an odd little gesture. “You’ve got parmesan on your upper lip.”
Great. Super sexy.
“Where?” I wipe at my mouth, determined to get it, but Sean shakes his head.
“No, not there.”
“Where?” I swipe at my face like a whisker-cleaning hamster, but I can tell from his expression I’m failing. “Show me.”
He seems to hesitate, then reaches for me. For a second, I think he just plans to point. That’s why his touch sends a white-hot electric arc from my lip to my toes. I suck in a breath as his thumb skims the corner of my mouth.
“There,” he murmurs, but doesn’t draw his hand back.
We stand there looking into each other’s eyes, neither of us blinking. My heart pounds in my ears, and I know he’s going to kiss me. Or maybe I’m going to kiss him. I’m honestly not sure who starts it. Only that we move toward each other like two balloons pulled by static.
His lips touch mine, and his palm curves to cup my face. The kiss is soft at first, tinged with nutmeg and sweetness. It quickly turns more urgent, and I stretch up on tiptoe to deepen it. He groans as the tip of my tongue grazes his, and he pulls me against him with one hand on my backside.
He slides his fingers into my hair, and I press my body against the length of him. We’re still kissing, but it’s more than that now. Our hands are greedy and eager, clawing at fabric, skimming hemlines, grasping for more.
“Amber,” he murmurs against my neck as he dots soft kisses in the space below my ear. “You taste so good.”
“Don’t stop.” I clutch at his hair, eager for him to keep going, to kiss his way down my throat, between my breasts.
Good Lord, this guy can kiss. The perfect balance of soft and rough, gentle and eager. I let my hands explore his back, amazed at how muscular he is. The tree-felling, gourmet-meal-cooking thing is working for him. His lips travel over my collarbone, and I will him to keep going. To press me back against the counter and—
A blast of music vibrates from Sean’s back pocket, and it takes me a second to register what it is. I pull back and stare at his butt.
“Is your phone playing ‘Sisters are Doin’ it for Themselves?’”
Sean steps back and fumbles the phone from his back pocket like it’s on fire. “I’m sorry, I thought I’d turned that off.” He hits something to make it stop ringing, then frowns down at the screen. “Jesus, Bree—eight text messages?”
“Your sister,” I say, relieved it’s not a girlfriend he failed to mention. “Do you need to respond?”
His gaze sweeps over the screen, and I watch as the color drains from his face. When he looks up, there’s something unreadable in his expression. “I—uh—can I call her back real quick?”
“Of course,” I say, waving him toward the stairs. “There’s an office on the first floor if you want some privacy.”
“Thanks.”
He’s already dialing the phone as he walks away, and I dig my nails into my palms and say a silent prayer everyone is okay. It’s only been a year since he lost his father, so the last thing he needs is another family tragedy.
I busy myself unpacking the rest of the food, resisting the urge to eavesdrop. It’s none of my business, and clearly there’s some kind of urgent situation. I’ve only met his sister a few times, but Bree doesn’t seem like the kind of woman to cause unnecessary hysterics.
I turn when I hear footsteps on the landing. Sean moves slowly up the stairs, his jaw set in a rigid mask. There’s a smudge of pink lip gloss at the edge of his mouth, and I flush at the memory of putting it there.
When his eyes meet mine, my breath stalls in an awkward little hiccup.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I have to go.”
I grip the edge of the counter. “Is everything okay?”
Of course everything’s not okay. The guy is white as a ghost, but he nods.
“Yeah. No one’s hurt or anything,” he says. “I just—there’s a situation with my mother.”
Yikes. “I hope she’s all right. Here, let me get the food packed up.”
“No, you keep it.” He’s already shrugging into his coat. “I’ll stop by some other time to grab the cooler.”
I stop gathering food and stand with my hands useless at my sides. “Sure, no problem. Or I could bring it by later if that’s easier for you.”