A December Bride (A Year of Weddings Novella)

by Hunter, Denise

  “Yep.”

  She led him to a window booth, wondering how she was going to explain why she’d had a date planned with Cooper on the same night she’d turned up engaged.

  Cooper slid into the booth, stretched out his long legs, and leveled his gaze at her. “So you gonna explain yourself, young lady?”

  Layla notched up her chin. “Nope. Pepsi?”

  He leveled a look at her. “That’ll do. For now.”

  She took her time with the drink, hoping he wouldn’t press hard. She could always just refuse to answer. They were friends, but not the spill-your-guts type. Layla didn’t have any friends of that sort. Having been raised with a father, a grandfather, and a brother, she’d grown up accustomed to men and their ways.

  She returned to Cooper’s table with the Pepsi. “Decide what you want?”

  Cooper cocked his head, gave her a half grin. “I want to know how a last-minute date turns into a spontaneous engagement.”

  She gave him a sassy look. “Yeah, well, I want a high salary and a mansion on Main Street, but we can’t all have what we want, can we.”

  “So you’re not gonna talk, huh?”

  “Only about pizza.”

  “You know everyone else is talking about it.”

  Her stomach tightened at his words, but she kept a nonchalant smile. “About pizza?”

  He chuckled, tugging the hem of her polo. “Fine. Be mysterious. I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I don’t need luck.” He wiggled his fingers. “I got magic hands.”

  She gave in and laughed. “Which aren’t coming anywhere near me, buddy.” She raised her order pad, pen poised. “Did you just come to annoy me, or are you actually going to order something?”

  “All right, all right.” He frowned down at the menu. “Women,” he muttered.

  After taking his order, Layla headed toward the kitchen, spotting Murphy at a booth on the other side of the room. She couldn’t miss his scowl.

  Great. She hung the order, and when she spun around, he was right behind her. She stopped just short of slamming into his chest.

  His hands curled around her upper arms. “Can I talk to you?”

  “I’m working,” she said quietly, aware of the eyes on them.

  He was blocking her path. He didn’t seem inclined to let go. His eyes impaled hers.

  She huffed. “Fine.” She led him down the darkened hall toward the restrooms and break room. She’d talked to Cappy so many times about taking the paneling down. The whole place needed brightening.

  When they reached the end she turned, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

  He planted his feet and crossed his arms. “You shouldn’t be flirting with other guys.”

  “What? I wasn’t, I was just—”

  “Talking and laughing and tossing your hair—otherwise known as flirting.”

  Of all the nerve. “I was not—Who do you think you are?”

  He leaned in, driving his point home. “Your fiancé.”

  She lowered her voice. “In case it got past your radar, we’re not actually engaged.”

  His mouth tightened. A shadow flickered across his jaw. “But everyone thinks we are, and if they see you flirting with every Y chromosome that struts by, nobody’s going to—”

  “He’s a friend, Murphy. I have lots of male friends, and I do not flirt with them. And even if I did—none of your business, pal, fake engagement or no. Now, if you want a pizza, I suggest you find your table. We close in thirty minutes.”

  Seth watched Layla sashay away, his blood pounding in his ears. He wanted to grab Cooper from his booth by his shirt collar and toss him to the curb.

  He ran a hand over his mouth, making an effort to calm down. Fact was, Layla was right. They weren’t actually engaged. He had no real claim to her, no right to be jealous.

  But that didn’t change the fact that he was. Or the fact that she was so deep under his skin now, he was never going to get her out. He pounded the paneled wall with his closed fist. A black-and-white picture of a younger Cappy tossing pizza dough wobbled against the wall.

  His emotions were wagging him from one side to the other. Earlier today, with Layla pressed against him on the ladder, he’d been content, hopeful. It was clear his nearness had rattled her. Maybe it was only physical attraction, but it was a start. He could work with that.

  Now he wanted to put his fist through the wall. The woman was driving him crazy. And time was ticking. He had two weeks to make this happen, and he was starting to think he was in major need of a Christmas miracle.

  Nine

  Layla rooted through the bag of supplies. Where was the burlap? She’d seen it a few days ago, and now it was nowhere to be found. She tossed the bag to the ground, suppressing a growl.

  Nothing had gone right today. The nursery furniture for the spare room had arrived. Everything had to be taken apart and put back together to get through the door. It had taken almost two hours.

  She’d broken Murphy’s foyer chandelier while hanging evergreen boughs, and she was pretty sure the piece was irreplaceable.

  The garden center sent white poinsettias instead of the red ones she’d ordered, and they weren’t sure how long it would take to get the right ones.

  At least things were better with Murphy. He’d apologized the day after their confrontation at Cappy’s. The memory of his sheepish look was almost enough to put a smile on her face. Almost.

  The tour opened December 20. In eleven days Stanley would walk through the house and decide whether or not she was good enough for Malcolm Realty.

  And now she couldn’t find the flipping burlap. A growl escaped as she threw a bag of pinecones to the library floor.

  “Whoa. Bad day?”

  Layla jumped. “You scared me.” The man walked like a ballerina. And was it that late already? She checked her watch. Five o’clock. She hadn’t gotten squat done today.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She tossed aside another bag. “I can’t find the burlap. Have you seen it?”

  “Sorry, I haven’t.”

  Did he have to stand over her shoulder like that? She rooted through a bag of ornaments, the cellophane rattling. “It was here, in one these bags, I’m sure of it.”

  He squatted beside her, grabbing her hand. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

  She huffed. “I can’t.”

  “You’ve been at it since six a.m. Did you even stop for lunch?”

  She gestured wildly. “Look at this place. I have eleven days. There’s a lot riding on this, Murphy. For you, it’s one home show. For me, it’s my job. My future.” She grabbed another bag.

  He captured her shoulders. “Layla.”

  She slowed down enough to look at him.

  “Put the bag down. You have to get a tree, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we’ll grab a quick bite and head over to the Christmas tree farm.”

  She looked into his calm eyes. She could use a little of that. Maybe a lot.

  “If you don’t get one soon, it’ll be slim pickings, and you’ll end up with a Charlie Brown tree. You don’t want that, do you?”

  He knew the right buttons to push. She couldn’t settle for anything less than perfection. She pulled in a breath. Maybe she did need a break. She was starting to see dancing Christmas lights when she closed her eyes.

  He jerked his chin toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go get a tree.”

  The Christmas tree farm was on the west side of Chapel Springs, in the gently rolling hills by the state park. The private lane used to be a popular spot for teenagers to make out, but Layla had never been past the white wooden sign that proclaimed the farm’s name and hours.

  She scanned the landscape as they rode down the long gravel drive. A soft blanket of snow pillowed the ground. Pine trees in varying sizes lined up alongside the lane. In the distance the sun squatted low on the horizon, giving off the day’s
last light.

  “We don’t have much time.” She tossed her wrapper into the Burger Barn bag and drained the last of her soda.

  “It won’t take long—unless you’re going to hold out for the perfect tree.”

  She smiled wide, blinking innocently, and he groaned.

  A few minutes later they were out of the truck and walking toward the barn. The fresh scent of pine hung heavily in the crisp air. There weren’t many customers, she was glad to note. Just a few families here and there.

  Outside the barn, a sign explained the variety and costs of trees. Tree wagons were lined up against the barn’s red exterior, and a teenaged employee shoved a tree through a machine. It came out the other side netted and ready for a waiting couple.

  “Okay, so how does this work?” she asked.

  “You’ve never been here?”

  She shrugged. “We always got our trees at Walmart.” When they got one at all. Sometimes money was just too tight. Some Christmases had passed with hardly a mention, though Beckett and her grandpa had always made sure she had something to open. These days a small artificial tree sufficed. It didn’t always make it out of the box, though.

  “First we grab one of these.” Beckett took the handle of a tree carrier. “Grab a saw. What were you thinking—blue spruce, Frasier fir?”

  “Um … let me look.” She stopped in front of the sign and read about needles, fragrance, and cost. “They’re expensive.” No wonder they hadn’t always bought a tree. It was more than they’d spent on gifts.

  “Get what you want.”

  She settled on Scotch pine, and they headed toward the appropriate section. She pulled up her hood against the bite of the wind.

  Murphy tugged his cap lower, his ears and the tip of his nose already pink. “The needles are going to be prickly with a Scotch.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll wear gloves.”

  They walked side by side over the packed snow trail that was lined with evergreens. Layla scanned the fields. Hundreds and hundreds of trees. She tucked her gloved hand into her pocket, balling it into a fist for warmth.

  “We used to come here every year,” Murphy said. “Dad would point to about a hundred trees before Mom finally agreed to one. Then she’d supervise as Dad and I took turns with the saw. She got us hot chocolate while we waited for them to get our tree ready, and we sipped it while she proclaimed this year’s tree the best ever.”

  Layla’s heart tugged. His parents had died several years ago in a small plane crash while they’d been out west on vacation. His father, who’d started the hardware store, had retired the year before.

  “Sounds nice,” she said.

  “It was. The holidays have been a little lonely since they died.”

  She wondered if that was why he didn’t seem to have any Christmas decorations.

  “What about you?” he asked. “What were Christmases like growing up?” His breath fogged in front of him. The tree wagon bumped along behind him.

  “They were great.” Guilt pinched her, and she bit the inside of her lip. He’d been honest about his memories, painful as they probably were. She shrugged. “Maybe not so great.”

  She felt his appraisal, but he didn’t press her. Maybe that’s why she felt safe to continue.

  “I don’t remember much before my mom left.” Before her dad became a drunk and life had fallen apart. “We put up a tree and had presents. She used to make us gingerbread cookies. That smell still takes me back. That’s a happy memory. But after she left, things changed. Sometimes Dad was in jail, and it was just Grandpa and Beckett and me. Other times Dad was drunk. We didn’t make a big deal of it. Grandpa always took us to church, but the tree and decorations … that didn’t always happen.”

  They walked in silence for a minute, the only sounds their footsteps on the packed snow and the creak of the wagon wheels.

  “So Christmastime doesn’t bring back good memories.”

  “Not especially, no.” Now Grandpa was in the nursing home with Alzheimer’s, and Beckett was joining the McKinley family. There was just Dad, and she knew better than to count on him. She supposed she was about to be as alone as Murphy.

  “You can always make new memories.”

  She thought of her tiny apartment with its treeless living room. “Sure.”

  When they reached the Scotch pines, he veered off the path, trudging through fresh snow. “Have you decided where we’re going on our honeymoon?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii for Christmas.”

  She nudged his arm. “You seem to be forgetting there isn’t going to be a wedding.”

  “I could get into a warm, sandy Christmas. Although now that I think about it, Maui would be better. Less touristy, more private.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  His gaze bounced off hers, wearing a disarming half smile. He stared off into the distance. “A guy can dream,” he muttered into the wind, and Layla wondered if she’d heard right.

  An hour later Layla stood back, surveying the naked tree. The Scotch stood eight feet tall in the alcove of the built-in bay, thick, dark, and lush. Perfect.

  “You’re worse than Mom ever was,” Murphy said from under the tree.

  “I told you, my future’s riding on this.”

  He poured a pitcher full of water into the reservoir, his backside sticking out. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on a tree.”

  She trimmed another branch. “I think he’s up for the challenge.”

  Murphy backed out and looked up from his spot on the wood floor. “He?”

  She shrugged. “Christmas trees are male. Everyone knows that.”

  “And you think I’m delusional.” He softened the words with a smile, sitting back on his haunches. “Should we decorate tonight, or are you beat?”

  She looked at her watch. “Yes and yes.”

  “Okay, let’s do this right, then.”

  Twenty minutes later there was a fire crackling in the fireplace and Christmas music playing from his state-of-the-art sound system. They were carefully placing strands of candles. It was a challenge to make each one straight.

  She realized halfway through that they wouldn’t be able to go much further without the popcorn strands. She’d hired a teenager from her old neighborhood to make them.

  Layla moved the ladder around the tree next to Murphy and stepped onto it. It wobbled, throwing her off balance, and she tightened her hold.

  “Murphy …!” she said.

  He grabbed her waist, steadying her. The ladder stilled. His hands were warm through her thin sweater.

  “I didn’t do it,” he said.

  She gave him a look over her shoulder.

  “Scout’s honor.”

  She had her doubts he was ever a scout, but let it pass since he looked so sincere. She followed his gaze to the floor where a trimmed bough rested under the foot of the ladder.

  “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”

  She started to step down, but he hadn’t moved. His hands still rested on her waist. They felt nice. Strong and sure. The step evened their heights, bringing them eye to eye. Calling attention to the silver flecks flashing in a sea of blue. To the perfectly sculpted nose trailing down to a nice set of lips. Bowed on top, generous on bottom.

  His thumbs moved at her waist, sending a shiver up her spine. Her eyes swung back to his and locked there. His words from earlier came back to her. A guy can dream.

  Did he really have feelings for her? The look in his eyes said he did. They said that and so much more.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth.

  Layla’s lips tingled with want. Her hands tightened on the metal rung. No, she couldn’t want Murphy after what he’d done to her and Jack.

  He leaned in. The movement sent panic flooding through her. She stepped down, slipping past him. “I think I’m about done for the night.” She couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice.

  Seth grabbed the ladder rung with both hands.
The space where Layla had just stood was empty now. His head dipped forward as she scrambled for her coat behind him. Stupid! What was he thinking?

  “See you in the morning,” she said.

  He turned, mouth open for a reply, but she was slipping out the door. The door slammed, and a cold gush of wind drifted across the room. A minute later the sound of her engine cut through the night. Headlights chased across the wall as she backed from the drive, and then she was gone.

  He ran a hand over his face. Idiot! The engagement is fake, Murphy.

  As much as he might lie to himself, tell himself it was real, it wasn’t. All the public displays in the world didn’t give him the right to kiss her or hold her or even touch her. Her response made that clear enough.

  And yet, he’d thought he’d seen something in her eyes. Something promising. Something hopeful. Maybe Layla’s feelings were starting to change. Maybe she’d be willing to give him another chance.

  Or maybe it was only wishful thinking.

  Ten

  Layla set the white votive inside the Mason jar and slid it down the table to Murphy.

  He caught the jar and cut a length of twine. “I swear they’re going to revoke my man card.”

  Layla scooped sugar into the next jar and arranged red berries around the votive. “You own a hardware store; I think your manhood is intact.”

  He scowled. “I’m tying bows on glass knickknacks. Don’t you need some wood chopped or something?”

  “What I need is thirty of these to line the walkway, so butch up and tie the bow.”

  It had taken a couple days for the awkwardness of Tuesday’s incident to pass. Layla spent the time convincing herself Murphy hadn’t really intended to kiss her. Had he actually leaned in? Maybe she’d only lost her balance and swayed a bit.

  No sense dwelling on that when there was so much to do. The main floor was almost complete, but she still had the upstairs and the exterior. And only one week to go.

  The fire crackled in the fireplace. Her gaze swept over the mantel where a pine swag draped lazily between three old-fashioned stockings. On the hearth a set of wooden milking buckets overflowed with boughs and pinecones. The sled above the mantel had turned out nice too.