He’d said, “You were already impressive. Never doubt that.”
And didn’t that just make her stomach twirl? She blinked hard to clear her vision and told herself it was due to the wind, the speed, and not to the fact that back then, her teenage self hadn’t yet lost her chance with Cole. Hope still existed, shiny and new.
She came to a halt at the bottom of the hill and yanked herself to the present. Standing, she shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and watched Cole take the trip she just had. This was the last of their snow-tubing fun for the day. Would they ever come here again, just the two of them? She doubted it.
After all, at this time in a year—assuming that the facts presented before her were actually facts—Cole could very well be a married man. He’d play in the snow with another woman, and a few more years down the road, his children. Heck, he might bring his family to this very spot.
That was fine. Well, it wasn’t fine now, but if necessary Rachel would adjust and grow into the idea. At some point, surely. Until then, she’d pretend she was fine. That was one thing, thanks to her parents, she’d had plenty of practice with.
Cole’s inner tube swerved and slid down the remainder of the hill, and she had her smile ready when he approached. “You were right,” she said. “This was a great way to spend the day.”
“Yeah? Good. That’s real good.” He pulled off his gloves and tweaked her nose. A simple touch, barely more than a brush of his fingertips against her skin, but her heart picked up an extra beat. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. We sort of skipped right by lunch. Feel like grabbing a bite, or do you and Andrew have plans for dinner?”
Tell him now, her inner voice urged. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words. Later, then. She’d explain the situation regarding Andrew over dinner, or tomorrow, or—again, if the presented facts were reality—after she’d returned to New York. From a distance, where she wouldn’t have to see the pity in Cole’s eyes. She absolutely wouldn’t be able to handle pity.
“Um, no. We didn’t make plans for tonight.” That was the honest to God truth. “He’s likely buried in work at the moment, so I’m free.” Also true.
Besides being hungry, she could use the opportunity to ask Cole a few of the questions she hadn’t been able to earlier. Silly, she knew, but Lola’s certainty that he didn’t have a girlfriend had given Rachel hope. For what, exactly, she wasn’t sure, because it couldn’t be what she’d originally thought. Mary had to be real.
Why would Cole make up a woman? Hadn’t Margaret Foster just about glowed with pleasure over her son’s relationship status? She had. And hadn’t Dylan agreed with Cole’s explanation about keeping the relationship a secret? That was a yes, as well.
But something was off. And Rachel intended to find out what that something was. Because if she hadn’t lost her mind, then the crazy might not be so crazy. The crazy might be real. And then—
“Where to?” Cole asked. “Foster’s again?”
“How about your place instead?” she asked. “It will be quieter there, more relaxed. We can stop by the store and pick up supplies. I’ll even cook.” Then, testing out her idea, as crazy as it was, she said, “Oh, wow. I’m an idiot. You probably have plans with Mary. I can cook for her, too, if you’re ready for us to meet.”
“Nice try, Rachel, but not yet,” he said easily enough. The muscle in his jaw twitched, so slight she would’ve missed it if she hadn’t been staring at his lips. “She’s busy tonight.”
“That’s too bad. I guess you two probably spent most of the weekend together, right?”
“I worked most of the weekend.” Cole put his gloves on again. “But yes, men typically spend their weekends with their girlfriends.”
And that was not an answer. Not really. Trying another tack, Rachel said, “How is she liking the gifts so far? You haven’t mentioned how your plan is working. I’m curious.”
“So far so good. Based on her reactions to the gifts, I’d guess she likes them just fine.”
And another non-answer type of answer. “A few details would be nice,” she prodded. “What has been her favorite so far?”
“Uh...her favorite?” he asked.
Twitch went that muscle, and darn if Rachel didn’t think of what Dylan had said about Cole having a tell. Was this it? Smiling sweetly—and hopefully, innocently—she said, “Yes, you know, her favorite, meaning which gift of those you’ve given her does she like the most?”
“I haven’t asked her that particular question,” Cole said after a long pause. “But I’ll be sure to when...the correct opportunity presents itself.”
“Why don’t we call her after dinner and ask her then?”
“You want to talk to her?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” he said. “It might be...somewhat of an uncomfortable situation, you talking to...Mary.”
No twitch that time. Hmm. “Never hurts to try, does it?” Rachel spun on her heel without waiting for a response, her mind abuzz with a thousand-and-one insane possibilities. Wishful thinking? Probably. The Cole she knew would never—
A snowball smacked her in the center of her back. All thoughts of Mary fled. Without missing a beat, she knelt down, scraped snow into her gloved hands and formed a solid-but-not-too-firm ball. Raising her arm, she stood, spun again...and didn’t see Cole anywhere.
The sneak. He was hiding...somewhere. Waiting for the perfect moment to take her by surprise. Again. She felt her lips curve into a grin. Yes, even with her questions, this fell into the most fun day in a long, long while category.
Squinting against the sun, she turned in a slow circle, looking for denim-covered legs and a red-and-black coat. Several folks were wearing red, more wearing jeans, but none of them were Cole. The wind lifted her hair, tossed it in her eyes. And...slam, another hit. This one on her right arm.
She pivoted, fast. There he was. How had she missed him before? Rolling her shoulder, she aimed for his chest and let her snowball fly. Bull’s-eye! His deep, rumbling laugh carried on the wind to her ears, the sound of it causing her own laughter to ring loud and clear.
He had another snowball ready to go. Bringing one knee up like a pitcher in a baseball game, he wound his arm in an exaggerated motion...she dropped to her knees...and the snowball whizzed over her head. She laughed again, stuck her tongue out at him and crawled across the ground as fast as she could, taking cover near a small cluster of trees. And, knowing Cole wouldn’t be able to wait her out, quickly got to work on compiling an arsenal of snowballs.
As she did, she took in her surroundings, trying to deduce which direction he would come toward her from. Ah. There. Not too far away, on her left, was another grouping of trees. He’d go around the long way to get there, compile his own arsenal and try another sneak attack. After their many, many snowball wars when they were kids, he should know better.
For whatever reason, Rachel had almost always kicked his butt when they were on opposite teams. Which, she thought with another grin, was why—once he’d figured that out—he would typically team up with her against his brothers.
Cole liked winning. He liked winning against his brothers even more.
Sibling rivalry, she supposed.
A flash of red caught her eye, exactly where she expected he’d be. Pretending to have her attention focused in the opposite direction, Rachel angled herself to the right without losing complete view of her left. He might
double back as he got closer.
She shoved two snowballs in each of her jacket pockets, thankful they were deep enough, and grabbed two more. Hmm. He hadn’t left the protection of the trees yet. Maybe he was trying to wait her out? A new strategy for him, but he wouldn’t succeed.
Impatient, he’d called her...well, okay, he’d used the word determined, but he’d meant impatient. Rachel let out a soft snicker. She was determined, all right—determined to sit right here until he got tired of waiting and came for her.
The seconds ticked by into minutes. How many, she couldn’t guess, but long enough for the snow to soak through her jeans and freeze her knees into virtual ice cubes. Repositioning herself into a crouch, she twisted her upper body to the right and stared at the red parka. The red parka that hadn’t freaking budged... Oh.
Oh! Why, that rat. He’d almost fooled her. Rachel was ninety-nine percent positive that the coat she glimpsed was minus one Cole Foster, left there as a red herring, while he crept up and took her by surprise. It was, she admitted, an excellent plan.
Moving slowly, and oh-so-carefully, she again twisted her upper body to the right, expecting to see Cole skulking toward her with a sly grin on his handsome face. But...no. Drat it all, where was that man? Giving up any pretense of caution, Rachel pulled herself to a stand, ready to march over to his coat and holler out her surrender, when a snowball crashed into the left side of her head.
And then another hit her shoulder. Before she managed to turn around and volley a few at him—he’d been hiding in her clump of trees, directly behind her original position—one more slammed into her lower back. Oh, yes, this was war.
He may have gotten the jump on her, but she could still kick his butt. Silly, silly man, thinking otherwise. For the moment, Rachel let herself take that long, slow slide backward in time, when everything between her and Cole had been effortless and fun and...hopeful.
And wow, did it feel good.
Chapter Eight
When the last snowball on each side had made contact, and Cole’s face hurt from smiling so damn hard, he fell to his knees and admitted defeat. Rachel, as always, had proven her snowball-fight expertise and shown him—in no uncertain terms, even—who was boss.
He didn’t mind in the least. He sort of liked it, actually.
“You win, Rach,” he said. “I am at your mercy.”
“Oh, yeah?” She brushed damp hair out of her eyes and dropped down in front of him. “I like the sound of that. In fact,” she said with a delicious sort of wink that sent unmanly flutters rippling through his abdomen, “you can make dinner tonight.”
How could a woman with wet, clumpy hair, face scrubbed clean of cosmetics from exertion and wearing snow-soaked jeans be so ridiculously beautiful? He’d seen her dressed to the hilt in fancy clothes and expensive jewelry, with her makeup applied so that she looked like one of those centerfold models she’d teased him about at Foster’s, but damn if he didn’t find her more alluring, more sensual, more...everything, just like this.
“You are a strange woman, Rachel Merriday,” he said. “I tell you I’m at your mercy, and all you want from me is dinner?”
“I didn’t say that was all I wanted,” she countered, rolling backward and stretching out on the snow. “But it’s a good place to start.”
He crawled to her side and collapsed, mimicking her position. He was cold and hungry, worn-out to the bone, and thought nothing sounded better than hot food and a hotter shower, but he felt good. Real good. The type of good brought on by being outdoors and playing hard. Kids were used to feeling this way, but Cole hadn’t for a long while.
Too long. And he wouldn’t hurry this moment away for anything.
“I don’t know, darlin’,” he said in a teasing, laid-back manner. “You already said you’d do the cooking. Seems to me a woman should live up to her word.”
She elbowed him in the side. “What happened to being at my mercy?”
Her words forced his thoughts along a different path, a far steamier one than a simple dinner could provide, but he didn’t voice them. Doing so would only bring forth a slew of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. This entire day—snow-tubing and the snowball fight—had been light and carefree. Better, he thought, to keep that momentum going.
He raised his arms above his head, as if he were stretching, and grabbed two handfuls of snow. One quick move had him on his side, facing her. And then... Well, he stopped to take in the sight of her. Eyes closed, body posed in a loose and languid way, breathing slow and even. The impulse to kiss her was strong, unrelenting. It rode through him hard, compelling him to ignore all the reasons why he shouldn’t—couldn’t—lean in and take her mouth with his.
Screw it. Some things weren’t definable. Some things, such as his need for Rachel at that second, couldn’t be denied or explained. They just were. So he leaned in closer. And then, a little closer yet. Close enough that he’d be able to count her eyelashes if he wanted.
He didn’t. He had other ideas in mind.
And was less than a beat away from bringing those ideas to fruition, from tasting her lips with his, when her breathing stilled and her eyes popped open.
He froze, stared into her eyes, read the surprise there along with another emotion that Cole couldn’t identify. Desire, maybe, if he were lucky. Could just as easily have been something else, though. Something that would put an end to...everything he saw between them.
So he did what he’d started off planning to do, he brought his hands up and let the snow sprinkle onto her face. “Got you,” he said, hoping his tone had a light enough ring to it. “Couldn’t let you fall asleep, not when you promised me a home-cooked meal.”
“I can’t believe you did that!” She sputtered and blinked, blew snow out of her mouth and sputtered some more. “You, Cole Foster, are nothing but a sore loser.”
He smiled, sprinkled a little more snow on her for good measure and stood. “What I am is hungry, wet and cold.” Reaching down, he grabbed her hand and helped her up. “Let’s go.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll cook. While I do that, you can get Mary on the phone.”
Hell. Now, what in the world was he going to do about that one?
* * *
An hour-and-a-half later, after a quick stop at the store, a quicker shower, and a pair of borrowed sweats and a T-shirt—both oversize—Rachel had lived up to her word and put together an easy meal of tomato soup and grilled cheese with ham sandwiches. Now, Cole was finishing clean-up duty, which was the deal they’d settled on: she’d cook, he’d clean.
Up until two years ago, Cole had lived in the small apartment above Foster’s Pub and Grill. When he bought this place—a two-bedroom log cabin on the outskirts of Steamboat Springs—Haley had claimed the apartment as hers.
During Rachel’s visit last year, Cole had still been in the process of renovating the kitchen. With his attention otherwise occupied, Rachel looked over the changes he’d made. The room, while not overly large, had an airy, open ambience that she liked. He’d chosen sturdy oak cabinets and hardwood floors, cinnamon-and-cream pebbled granite countertops and what appeared to be straight-from-Grandma’s-kitchen white appliances.
Navy blue, deep green and splashes of russet were found in the dishtowels, curtains and throw rugs. The walls, unfortunately, were mostly bare and were painted the standard off-white. If she lived here, she’d add plants and pictures and maybe paint the walls an actual shade.
&nbs
p; Still, all in all, the kitchen spoke to her. It was, she thought, a room to relax and chat in after a long day. She could see herself here, almost too well.
More than that, she could see herself with the man. He was a stellar specimen of the male species, with his chocolate-brown eyes and thick, black-as-coal hair, and a strong body that looked damn awesome in a pair of jeans. She loved his laugh, too. That rumbling, warm, full-of-life laugh of his made her feel...secure, in some way.
Rubbing her hand across her face, she tried to dispel her tiredness and her confusion. Naturally, neither occurred. She returned to that moment when she was lying in the snow, relaxed and content, happy with how the day had progressed. All at once, a telltale tingle had whispered along her skin, raising goose bumps and forcing her eyes open.
And there he was. Right there, so very close.
She’d have sworn he was going to kiss her. Dear Lord, she’d wanted him to kiss her. Instead, she’d gotten snow in her face, and that deep, throaty laugh. In the snap of a finger, the moment ended, and they were—once again—nothing more than friends having fun.
Rachel pushed out a breath, and with it, the memory.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Cole said, hanging the dishtowel over the sink.
“Just thinking,” she replied with a yawn.
“About?” He returned to the table, sat down and cradled his arms behind his head. The action caused his shirt to tighten around his chest, accentuating his lean, muscular angles, and it was all Rachel could do not to stare.
Or imagine ripping that shirt clean off of him and leading him toward the bedroom. Oh, God. Not what she should be thinking about.
“Tomorrow, and the gifts we still need to get,” she said, forcing her thoughts into safer territory. She’d asked him, once again, to phone Mary before dinner. He’d refused. Stated that the conversation would be “uncomfortable” and “awkward,” and he’d prefer if Rachel stuck to their original agreement. Which, of course, meant zero contact with Mary until after the proposal.
Cole's Christmas Wish Page 12