PERFECT

by Autumn Jordon

  PERFECT

  by

  Autumn Jordon

  PERFECT

  by Autumn Jordon

  Dylan Kincaid totally screwed up Thanksgiving and now he’s faced with Christmas. Thrown into the frightening role of both mother and father while his brother and sister-in-law are off serving their country, all Dylan wants is to make Christmas perfect for his two nieces. But time is running out.

  Down on her luck Charleston, SC restaurateur, Darcy Witherspoon is licking a wounded ego when she arrives in Black Moose, VT and meets the handsome Maple tree farmer. Wanting a happy holiday herself, she teams up with Dylan to make a perfect Christmas.

  Neither is interested in a holiday affair, but the magic of Christmas has something more everlasting in store for the couple. An absolutely perfect love!

  Other Titles By Autumn Jordon

  Seized By Darkness

  His Witness To Evil

  In The Presence Of Evil

  Obsessed By Wildfire

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entire coincidental.

  PERFECT

  COPYRIGHT 2012 by Dianne Gerber

  A Noble Oak Publications/ published by arrangement with the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Contact Information: autumnjordon@yahoo.com

  Publisher: Noble Oak Publications

  Cover design by Autumn Jordon

  Copy editor Red Wing Editing Services

  Published in the United States of America

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Rita Henuber and Anne Marie Becker for their

  encouragement and help in brainstorming this story.

  Your friendship means so much.

  I wish you the happiest of holidays.

  And to my wonderful husband, Jim.

  You’ve changed my life. Without your support and love,

  I would not be who I am.

  You are my hero.

  Chapter One

  Even from a block away Darcy Witherspoon could feel the inferno’s heat.

  Gusts lifted off the winter bay and shoved thick smoke between the buildings on Market Street, shrouding the street lights decorated with French horns laden with holiday ribbons. The mélange charm of Charleston disappeared and all Darcy could do was watch as the black haze rolled towards her like a tsunami.

  She coughed into the back of her hand in quick little spurts that left her lungs aching for more relief. She pressed her lips together to keep the foul scent of everything that encompassed a charred four-star restaurant from coating her throat further. Her nostrils burned and she dug deep onto her wool coat’s pocket, fumbling around her car keys to release a tissue from its carrying case. She blinked over and over, tearing over the sting in her eyes.

  As much as she was trying to hold it together while watching her life’s work fold up like a Chinese puzzle box and collapse onto lapping amber flames, she couldn’t. Hot tears streamed down her ashen, soot-smudged cheeks.

  “Miss, you need to move back,” an officer, standing at her elbow, said. “We have more emergency equipment heading this way and if we don’t move now, they’ll run us over.”

  His cruiser’s flashing lights bounced off his golden name tag. Officer W. Tanner.

  “I need—” She nodded, but her legs remained still, even though she could hear the siren’s blare getting closer, and louder, and deafening.

  “Shit!” The officer wound an arm around her waist and swept her off her feet, dragging her between two parked cars to the safety of the sidewalk.

  To anyone who might have witnessed the cop’s heroic act, Darcy probably appeared to be a statue, or an idiot who had stood in the middle of the street, mesmerized by the fire. Most likely the last.

  The cop’s ash-speckled face appeared in front of her nose, followed by his very pointed index finger. “Don’t move,” he ordered between clenched teeth.

  Like he had chased her down already.

  She adjusted her pea coat and then latched onto his gaze. “My name is Darcy Witherspoon. The alarm company called me. The Sweet Grass Inn is my business,” she said, pointing beyond his shoulder. Her heart winced, thinking about the hundreds— no, thousands—of hours she had spent working her ass off over the past two years making Sweet Grass a beautiful restaurant. The dozens of baskets she had named the restaurant for and selected herself to decorate the marble-floored foyer and dining room were pieces of gorgeous art, and now gone.

  “Was your business.” The cop glanced over his shoulder at yet another crack of snapping timbers.

  She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind but someone in the distance screamed, “Blessed mother of… Get the hell out of there.”

  In the murky darkness of predawn, fire personnel scrambled, jumping over hoses that pulsed as if life pumped through them while sparks shot up into the dark sky.

  Officer Tanner looked back to her with wide eyes and his shoulders slumped as if someone had left the air out of them. “I’m sorry, Ms. Witherspoon. Nice place. I took my wife there for our twentieth anniversary last October. The food was excellent.”

  His tone was sincere. Words of praise usually had her walking on air and working even harder to make Sweet Grass into a renowned five-star restaurant, but now, all they did was add to her sorrow. She had lost what was the most important thing in the world to her.

  Tanner laid his hand on her forearm. “Do you have someone you want to call? Family? Husband? Someone to come and stay with you until the fire is contained. The fire marshal will want to talk to you.”

  “I’m not married.” She had been married to her work and her only close relative, her mom’s older sister, Aunt Emily Ann, was on an extended holiday with her senior social group somewhere off the coast of Spain. Her friends… Her mind whirled, thinking of who her friends were. Most of her relationships had fallen by the wayside because of her work ethic. She had people she could call, and they’d come stand by her side, but they wouldn’t understand her loss. The only person who would understand what she was feeling was Tom. “Tom.”

  “Good.” Tanner nodded. “Where’s your car? Or did you take a taxi?”

  “No. My car is right there. The black Mitsubishi.” She pointed across the street behind them to where her car was parked at an angle with its front tire on the curb and the ass end hanging out into the traffic lane. She hadn’t taken time to correctly parallel park between two other vehicles before jamming her car into park and jumping out into the middle of the deserted street to watch the fire obliterate her life. “I guess I didn’t do a good job parking. Did I?”

  “I wouldn’t ticket you.” The officer led her by the elbow across the street toward her car. “Get in and stay put. Call Tom. I’ll bring the fire marshal to you as soon as I can.” He gave her a final nudge before racing toward the inferno.

  Darcy stood holding onto the cold handle for a moment before pulling her cell from her coat’s left pocket and her keys from her right. As she slid onto the seat and closed the door, sealing her off from the smoke and muffling the noise a four-alarm fire created, her phone rang through to Tom’s cell. The moment she heard his mumble, “This better be fuckin’ important,” she let loose the flood of tears she’d been trying to hold back to a minimum. “Everything is lost.” She swiped the
tissue under her nose and down her cheeks. “I feel so—lost. What am I going to do?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s me. Darcy.”

  Tom flung the covers off his head, clutching the phone tighter. His bed moaned its disapproval as he jumped and shifted up to sit against his headboard. Darcy’s sobs had him twitching to grab his pants and race to her side, but it wasn’t that easy. They were a thousand miles apart. “Calm down. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  His stomach churned, listening to her wretched account of the last hour. When she was through and all he heard was sniffling, he said, “I’m sorry, hon. At least no one was hurt. It all can be replaced.”

  “It! Replaced! It was Sweet Grass. My dream.”

  A honk came through the line and he yanked the phone back from his ear. She had blown her nose and he knew her gloves were coming on. Good girl. She’d need that fighting spirit.

  “I thought you’d be the one person to understand how I’m feeling right now.”

  She was right. He hadn’t chosen the best words. Even though they were the absolute truth, they were not what she needed right now. “You’re right. I do understand. I’d probably be at the end of my rope if The Grist Mill went up in flames. I know how hard you’ve worked. I know how much Sweet Grass meant to you. I do.”

  “I know,” she murmured so softly, and he wished he could beam himself to her side and wrap her in a hug.

  “I know you know. That’s why you called me.” Swinging his legs out from under the blankets, he clicked on the light next to the bed and grabbed the pen and pad out of the nightstand drawer. “Now, this is what you’re going to do. I’m sure you have to hang around the scene and be interviewed by the fire marshal or a cop.”

  “Yes. An officer told me to stay put already. What do you mean interviewed?” Her weary tone elevated and he knew he was in for a real bout.

  “He’s going to ask you a million questions. I don’t want you to get your southern bloomers all twisted and get defensive with the guy.”

  “Why would I get defensive?”

  “Because some of the questions are going to sound like he’s accusing you of starting the fire.”

  Without seeing her, he knew without a doubt, flames just flared in Darcy’s green eyes. Her sudden intake of air gave away her shift in attitude. She went from docile-keep-to-herself Darcy to you-don’t want-to mess-with-me-Darcy in under three seconds. That intake of air had caused him to take a step back on several occasions—especially after the first time he poked her self-control too hard.

  “I would never do anything like that. You know how hard I worked my ass off to come up with the money to buy that old building when it went up for sheriff’s sale. And the effort it took to remodel it. It was perfect. Why in God’s name would I destroy it all?”

  “Insurance.”

  “What do you mean insurance?”

  “The economy is tough. Businesses are closing.”

  “Yeah, well. I was doing just fine.”

  “And that’s why you don’t have to worry.” Tom glanced at the clock. Five a.m. He had just crawled into bed two hours ago after a very busy night at his own restaurant. He swiped his hand over his face and back over his bald head. “Look—it’s the man’s job to find out what caused the fire.”

  “I want to know too.”

  “Yes. Yes, you do. It’s just like when someone is murdered. The first people the police look at are family members and close friends, because believe it or not, most times the victim is a victim at the hands of one of them. The same happens with a fire. If it’s deemed arson, there’s a good chance the owner set it.”

  “I-did-not-set-Sweet-Grass-on-fire.”

  Boy, he was glad she called him, because he had a feeling if she hadn’t, she would be calling him from jail later. He smiled because he could just see her set jaw and arms folded across her chest. “I know. The fire marshal is usually the head officer on this type of case. You need to treat him like a good customer. Hell, you need to treat him like he’s the food critic for the Charleston Times.” That analogy should make her understand exactly how carefully she had to handle the guy.

  Her heavy sigh whooshed into his ear, a sign he’d finally made connection with the responsible, level-headed Darcy.

  “Okay. He’s just doing his job. Understood,” she said.

  “Good. After you’re done with him, you go home, take two sleeping pills or knock back a twelve-ounce glass of good wine, and crawl into bed. When you wake up, call me. We’ll discuss your next steps.”

  Silence.

  “Darcy, are you there?”

  “Yeah. I’m here. It’s just so hard.”

  Her little hiccup of sorrow tore at his heart. “I know. I wish I was there, holding you up.”

  “I wish you were too.”

  He stiffened his spine even though she couldn’t see him. “Chin up. Be the Darcy Witherspoon that loves to kick ass. This fire is your competition. Don’t let it take you down.”

  Her mumble of “I won’t” was feeble at best, but before Tom could say another word, the line went dead.

  Sweet Grass was truly Darcy’s life. Besides a mother who lived in her own world in France, an elderly aunt who spent most of her time traveling and a brother she hadn’t spoken to in a year, the woman had no one. She was a good person. A loner who kept the world at bay by being a work-alcoholic junkie. Darcy reminded him of another friend. One who lived right here in Black Moose, Vermont.

  If only the two could meet, maybe fate would give them both something to live for besides their jobs. Hmmm. His chin’s stubble rasped as he scratched. To hell with sleep. He jumped from the bed and headed to the kitchen for a good strong cup of coffee. He had thinking to do before Darcy called him again.

  Chapter Two

  Did little girls even like dolls that pissed anymore?

  Parked outside of The Lone Grist Mill, Dylan Kincaid sat alone in his SUV and stared at the snowflakes drifting onto his warm windshield and melting away. He should go home before the predicted storm started in earnest, but he needed a few minutes to himself. Hell, he needed to feel like himself again. The last four months he’d been running at high gear and his fumes were nearing exhaustion.

  He pulled the keys from the ignition and pushed away tonight’s memory of the pretty snow bunny offering him her room key. A few seasons ago, he would’ve skied around the girl all night, flirting, even though it was against the Black Moose Mountain ski patrol regulations to fraternize with guests of the exclusive Valley View ski lodge. The urge to rebel against the establishment came from his perpetual flower-child parents.

  Back then, he’d probably be zeroing in on the little brunette’s sweet spot right about now, instead of wondering what toys to buy for his nieces other than the dollhouse furniture he’d ordered. How much of a big ass tree was really necessary for him to cut down and haul into the living room. And, what the hell he could cook for Christmas dinner—since the Christmas dinner he wanted to serve the girls didn’t come in a can.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the weight of responsibility bowing his shoulders. How the hell was he going to pull off a jolly Christmas for Jillian and Katy?

  Giving into the urge for a stiff drink, he shoved the driver’s door open and stepped out into the frigid Vermont night air. He left the vehicle unlocked. It was Sunday night, after ten. The mountain top closed down, except for the locals, and he’d trust anyone of them with his Trailblazer. The crunch his steps made on the snow-covered parking lot broke the eerie silence that accompanied single-digit temperatures.

  The Lone Grist Mill, owned by his friend, Tom Angleman, had closed over an hour ago, but he could see through the large-paned windows that Tom and some of his staff were still inside.

  He needed a drink because he needed to feel like the carefree guy he used to be. He’d have just one, because he had to get home to the girls. His sitter, Willa, had to get up for school tomorrow. Here, in the Green Mountains, schools
didn’t cancel because a few inches of snow had fallen overnight.

  One drink. Something to warm up his toes. Tom wouldn’t have a problem accommodating him.

  Through a dining-room window, he saw Tom directing one of the clean-up staff. The boy looked as bored as any teenager could look doing a job he had no intention of making his life’s work.

  When the burly man smiled at the boy, Tom reminded Dylan of Curly, the famed Third Stooge. But Tom was far from being a stooge. The man was a celebrated chef and a damn smart business man. Five years ago, he purchased the old grain mill along with twenty acres for next to nothing and converted the old structure into one fine restaurant.

  Dylan reached between the snow-laced shrubbery decorated with tiny white lights and rapped on the glass with his keys to catch Tom’s attention. Tom waved, signaling he’d be a second, gave the boy a final direction and headed out of the dining room.

  Dylan shoved the keys into parka’s pocket. He blew on his fingers, having left his gloves in the truck, and stomped his boots clean of snow while waiting at the front entrance.

  “What’s up, buddy? Did you bring the extra greens for the window sills?” Tom said, upon opening the heavy oak door.

  Damn. He forgot all about lopping off a few branches for his friend. “Sorry. No. I’ll get them to you tomorrow.”

  “No problem.” Tom clamped his shoulder. “You looked like a man who gambled his last dollar away.”

  “I need a drink.”

  Tom tilted his head slightly and studied him. “You haven’t had a drink in months.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Sounds like you need an ear, Kincaid.”

  “That could be, but I’d still like the drink.”

  Tom nodded, affirming he understood. “Come on in.”