by Amy Vastine
Eric couldn’t help being suspicious. Chief Redmond loved thinking up unorthodox ways to torture his underlings.
“All ears, sir.” Despite the heat blazing off the collapsing building, Eric gritted chattering teeth. The late November Adirondack air had a bone deep bite.
“Thanksgiving’s in three days and I want the fire department to host a meal for the kids.”
Eric nodded. “Sounds good.”
“And I’m putting you in charge. Reach out to local restaurant owners. Get whatever help you need. Make this the best holiday these kids ever had.”
They certainly deserved it.
Eric’s thoughts flashed to the one person who could help put on such a large event, the same woman he’d avoided these past six months. The woman he couldn’t forget.
Should he call her?
He looked at the chief’s firm expression.
Orders were orders, even the kind that actually terrified him.
* * *
“What a shame.”
“Those poor kids.”
“And it’s Thanksgiving.”
Maggie James listened to her customers as she bustled around the packed diner she co-owned with her best friend, Vivie Harris. The Homestead buzzed with news of yesterday’s heartrending fire and planned charity drives.
On the tip of everyone’s tongue: Eric Langley; hero.
At her disgusted exclamation, a road crew stopped jabbering about Eric and shot her speculative looks. Her cheeks warmed. She refilled their water glasses and strode away, head high, imagining the conversation erupting behind her back.
“Didn’t she and Eric used to…”
“Seemed serious.”
“Haven’t seen `em together in months.”
Yep. She hadn’t seen her ex in six months, actually, and wished she didn’t have to hear his name either…over and over… She shoved a curl under her bandana and tightened the knot at the nape of her neck. Maybe her lipstick could use freshening.
Life always looked brighter after a touch-up.
And she needed a break. Her thoughts spun so hard they made her dizzy.
How could a guy who risked his life saving kids never want his own? It’d been the sticking point that’d halted their two-year relationship and ended her only real love.
“I’m going in the back office for a sec, Vivie.”
The bell above the front door jingled.
“Holy…” Rowdy, their short order cook, muttered. He leaned on the through ledge and stared over Maggie’s shoulder.
The noisy customers muted themselves and Maggie stiffened. When she met Vivie’s wide eyes, she read everything in her best friend’s horrified expression.
Eric.
Had to be.
CHAPTER TWO
Maggie felt the eyes of the entire restaurant boring into her back.
She inhaled sharply and lifted her chin. What would her idol, Katharine Hepburn, do? What would she say? Something witty. Sarcastic. Flippant.
None of which Maggie felt at the moment.
She shoved her shoulders back and pasted on a carefree smile before turning. No way would Eric see the girl who still cried during black and white romance movies, imagining what might have been.
“Eric.”
And there he stood. Nearly as tall as her doorway. Wide shoulders filling out a tan Carhartt jacket. Faded jeans low on slim hips, hands shoved in his pockets. He rocked back and forth in his work boots. A muscle jumped in his square jaw.
A couple of state troopers crowded over and slapped him on the back. Pumped his hand. Despite all the congratulations, Eric’s eyes never left hers. And she couldn’t stop looking at him, either. At his kind brown eyes, at the shape of him, familiar to her very bones. She’d forgotten the utter joy just looking at him used to bring her.
And now he’d come back. Why?
“Excuse me,” she heard him murmur. Then, in a few long strides, he reached her.
“Hi, Maggie.” His dark eyebrows angled up. “Can we go somewhere? Talk?”
Maggie’s insides turned briefly to water. When she opened her mouth, nothing came out. What did they have to speak about? Could she even speak? Apparently not, so she nodded instead, trying to look unconcerned. Unruffled. Just like the gutsy glamour gals she’d grown up watching with her grandmother. Cool as a cucumber.
Yeah. Right.
She’d hidden her misery when they’d agreed to split and wouldn’t let Eric see it now. Or her patrons. A low muttering circled the room. Rowdy growled somewhere over her shoulder.
Eric stared at her. “Where?” he prompted. Gently. The way you’d speak to a spooked horse. Was she the spooked horse?!
Like heck.
“Here’s fine.” She lifted a desert slicer. “Would you like some pie? We’re running a special on Humble—”
He caught her elbow and angled his body, shielding them from their avid audience. “Alone.”
“I’ve heard more tempting offers.” She jerked her arm free. “Why just the other day, the IRS—”
“Enough, Maggie,” Eric growled. “It’s important.”
“Fine.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, hoping it bounced the way plucky heroines managed. Not the kinds with broken hearts like her. “Follow me. Though, FYI, I’m not at my friendliest in the morning.”
“Tell me about it. And it’s 12:30,” he grumbled, his arm brushing hers as they strode behind the register to the back hall.
She snuck a glance at his strong profile and something electric jolted through her. “I make exceptions for people I don’t like.”
“Lucky me,” he drawled and the left side of his mouth lifted.
He gestured for her to precede him at the office door. As she swept by, she breathed in the tangy, citrus aftershave she’d always loved. His clean male scent made her a little giddy.
Oh. My.
She needed a clear head to deal with Eric.
Once she was seated behind her desk, her throat loosened, as did her lips.
“Why are you here, Eric?”
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “I have a proposition.”
She twisted sweaty hands in her lap. What could he say that she’d ever, in a million years, agree to?
“You should have read the sign at the door. No solicitors.”
“Mags…”
She shoved to her feet and clutched the edge of her desk. “Don’t ‘Mags’ me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. Composed. Not crazy. Not still crazy in love with him for goodness sakes. “We agreed you wouldn’t come here again. Am I dreaming? You look so real.” She pinched herself.
He frowned. “Still here. And I wouldn’t be, except this is important.” His nostrils flared above full lips. For a moment she imagined them on hers. Tracing her jaw. Nibbling her ears… The way he laughed against her throat. Made her tremble.
Stop staring, she warned herself, ignoring the spike of warmth in her gut. “You have ten seconds.”
His brown eyes delved into hers and her traitorous heart flipped the way it always had. She should have given him five seconds.
“The fire department is hosting Thanksgiving for the foster kids. I’m in charge and need local help.”
“So I’m the ‘local help’?”
The tips of his ears, visible below the clipped edge of his thick brown hair, reddened. “You know you’re more than that,” he said, voice deepening. His eyes rested on hers just a moment too long.
Maggie coughed, realizing she had stopped breathing.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t—” She gestured between them, her pulse speeding. “Do that. Us.”
His lips firmed and he nodded briskly. “Right. And my ten seconds are up. So, will you help? Please?”
She stared into his handsome face and her rejection withered on her lips.
“Yes,” she said at last, heavily.
It was for the children, and she�
��d planned to help with Thanksgiving anyway.
Just not beside the man who’d stomped her flat.
“Thank you.” He pulled on a baseball hat. “So where do we start?”
“Shopping. Tomorrow.”
He grimaced. “Torture. Pick you up at nine?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I think you already made it.” He shot her a cocky grin, tipped his cap and disappeared through the door.
After he left, she stared at the vacant doorway, her heart swooping low in her chest.
She’d spent months learning to forget Eric. Slogged through weeks, convincing herself she didn’t need him. And now, all her hard work, undone in five minutes.
How would she get through the holiday with him by her side?
She dropped her aching head in her hands.
Katharine Hepburn’s words about life being hard echoed in Cassie’s ear. As her idol quipped, eventually, it kills you.
True enough. And working with Eric might finish off the last of her tattered heart.
* * *
Eric pushed an overflowing cart down one of the discount supercenter’s aisles. He and Maggie had been at this for an hour and a half. Could he call time? Who spent this long shopping without going insane? And how were pumpkin pack and pumpkin pie pack different?! He tugged at his thermal shirt’s collar. Ignored the insistent voice telling him to run.
He’d promised the chief he’d put on a great holiday for the kids.
And Maggie… Since seeing her yesterday, she’d occupied his thoughts. He needed to avoid her but couldn’t resist this time together. Although he’d shut away his pain when they’d broken up, his old feelings rushed back after one glimpse of her beautiful face.
“Lightning sale on holiday table cloths. Aisle ten,” crackled the overhead speaker.
Maggie jolted to a stop. “Let’s go!” Her face glowed under the dim fluorescent light as she wheeled around and gestured. Wispy curls sprang around her face. The rest of her deep auburn hair swung from a ponytail. She tugged the weighty cart’s end and he lunged for a wobbling, toaster-sized carton of bread cubes.
“Where’s the fire?”
She shot him a sidelong glance as they pivoted the screeching cart. “Maybe you should find one. I don’t need help.”
He dragged his gaze off her cherry-red mouth. Her mobile face fascinated him as did that sharp, clever mind and the sassy come-backs that kept him on his toes.
“Maggie. I know neither of us wants to work together.” He shifted his eyes from her penetrating stare, sure she’d see right through his lie. “But let’s call a truce.”
He watched some brief, internal struggle before she blew out a long breath. “It is the holidays.” The animosity lurking in the corners of her eyes retreated.
“And a good cause,” he said.
“For the children.”
“And you need me.”
“Hah!” Her right eyebrow arched. “Now you’re pushing it.”
He forced a nonchalant shrug. Searched for a lighter tone. “Who’s going to make sure you grab the unsalted butter instead of the salted?” Her mouth pursed. “Remind you to get both heavy cream and whipped cream? Oh, and half-n-half. And,” he paused, enjoying the sparks shooting from her eyes, “Explain why onion salt is completely different than buying salt and onion powder, separately. Big catastrophes.” He gestured wide. “Huge.”
The corners of her lips hooked up, though her pinched expression stayed put. “You might have a future in personal shopping.”
“I hope not,” he said and sighed, enjoying their banter too much for comfort.
Her polka-dot skirt swung around long legs as she trotted ahead, leaving a dewy fresh smell in her wake.
Did he still love her?
He stifled the answer that came in a rush. Better not to know. After watching his vibrant mother retreat from life following his father’s death, he’d vowed never to inflict that pain on anyone, especially Maggie. When she’d begun talking kids, marriage, it’d nearly killed him to break things off. But how could he take the risks his job required, if he worried about a family counting on his safety?
They stopped in front of a display of paper table cloths.
Their hands brushed when they reached for the same one and his fingers burned at the contact. She was so soft. Skin like silk and cream. The need to hold her again whipped through him. Hit the pedal on his racing pulse. Suddenly his arms felt empty and he grabbed another cloth.
“This one!” they announced at the same time.
“Turkeys don’t dance,” he observed, nodding at her pick.
She huffed and scrunched her nose adorably. “Hello? Yours has Santas wearing pilgrim hats.”
He stared at the plastic package crinkling in his hand and laughed. “What were they thinking when they made this?”
Her expression relaxed and she chuckled, the sound setting off familiar fireworks in his chest. “It’s more like what were they drinking? These are all terrible.”
“There’s something to be said for the understated option.” He gestured to the plain white coverings farther down the aisle.
Maggie twisted her rose pendant then snapped her fingers. When she turned, her grin stole his breath. “Let’s have the foster kids decorate them. It’ll take their minds off everything.”
He nodded slowly. Though what would keep him from thinking of Maggie?
CHAPTER THREE
“Five turkeys?”
Ice water overflowed a bucket as Maggie dropped the last bird in its brining solution and covered it. “Not enough?”
Eric shot her a surprised look from the other side of the screened-in porch behind The Homestead. Outside, a light frost still covered the ground, glittering amongst shifting piles of brown leaves.
“Too much. How many people are we talking? Fifty?” White puffs of air emerged with each word.
She shoved frozen fingers into her wool coat pockets. “Plus the fire department.”
“They’re the waiters.”
The early afternoon sun emerged from heavy cloud cover and shone on the last blazing maple to hold its leaves. In the distance, geese honked.
“Right. None of those big guys will be hungry after hours of work.” She slapped her forehead with the heel of her palm. “What was I thinking?”
At Eric’s deep chuckle, her heart thumped erratically. Stop it, she warned herself for the millionth time today…and yesterday.
Dimples dented his cheeks and his brown eyes twinkled, warm as chocolate. “We’ll make them eat the leftover Jell-O salad,” he said.
“Your favorite was lime, right?”
When he stepped close, her breath caught in her throat. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Lingered. “I was always partial to cherry.”
She licked her lips, nervous at his proximity. Excited, too. If she stood on tiptoe, and he lifted her a bit like he used to, she could kiss him.
And did she want to kiss him.
When he traced the side of her face, she shivered, awareness fox-trotting up her spine.
“You haven’t changed, Maggie.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.” Despite herself, her answer came out breathy. Shaky. Another inch closer and she’d be in his strong arms again.
“Isn’t it?” He dropped his hand and stared at her with that confident, trust me expression that reassured those he rescued but set off every one of her alarm bells.
“Wasn’t it six months ago that you decided I wasn’t wife material? Not suited to be the mother of your children?”
He tilted his head toward her, his voice low. “I don’t want children.”
“Or a wife.” In the hush, she could hear her heart thumping.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t want you.”
Her skin burned where his gaze landed on it. “I’m a package deal. Wife. Mother. That’s me. Or will be. Someday.” She’d grown up vowing to have the traditional, nuclear family her loving parents provided.
Eric’s eyebrows crashed together and faint lines appeared around his mouth. “With whom? Are you seeing someone?”
“Maybe…” When she pivoted, he gripped her upper arm.
“Is it serious?” he asked, his words rapid fire.
“Why do you care?” She stared at his hand until he let go, wishing she hadn’t lied in the first place.
A strangled sound escaped him. “It shouldn’t.”
“But…” she prompted, knowing she was playing with fire but unable to stop.
A cloud passed over his face and a small tic began in his jaw. He stared at a distant spot over her shoulder. “Forget it.”
“Right. And I’m not seeing anyone.” She forced a nonchalant tone. What would Hepburn do?
Put on an awesome hat for starters…
She yanked on the rainbow-colored wool hat that’d been her disastrous first knitting project. The epitome of sophistication to be sure… At least it partially covered her burning cheeks.
When her fingers bumbled on the strings, he brushed them aside and tied a knot below her chin, his touch lingering.
“What are we doing, Eric?”
“Planning a Thanksgiving dinner,” he murmured, his voice growing rough. She could feel his gaze run over her cheekbones, her neck, her mouth. He tipped her chin up and it felt as though his eyes reached right through hers, down deep to her heart.
“We should get back to it,” she whispered, her voice unsteady.
“Yes.” He lowered his lips to a breath above hers. She felt electrified, as if each part of her were fizzing, transparent. “Yes, we should.”
She barely heard him. Her thoughts blurred, her senses narrowing to his proximity, the heat that seemed to radiate from him. She drew his face closer and the world evaporated around them.
She felt the rasp of his bristles under her palms, the warmth of his breath on her skin. His eyes studied her own, so seriously, a question in them. It felt as if he had only just seen her again and the past couple of days, circling each other like strangers, evaporated.
When she leaned forward, just a few inches, her lungs stilled, and she placed her lips on his. His hands came to rest on her waist and tightened reflexively. Then their mouths met, and she inhaled his breath, its traces of cinnamon and maple from breakfast.