Christmas at Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  “Real estate is a great investment. In fact, sometimes I wonder why I went toward the tech sector. I love houses. I always loved Monopoly.”

  She grinned. “I liked Clue.”

  “Great game. You got a billiard room here? Or a conservatory?”

  “No, thank God.” She stirred a few pots. “And no neighbors named Colonel Mustard or Professor Plum.”

  “That’s good.” He liked how light things were.

  She opened a cupboard and brought out two mismatched plates. Apparently, she was done cooking. Everything was hot, steaming, or fried to a golden crisp, and smelled fantastic.

  Of course, nothing smelled as good as her flower scent, the one he’d liked the other day. He was tempted to lean in. And he did—

  Just as she turned around to face him.

  He pulled back.

  “Wow,” she said, looking adorable in her Santa hat. “You’re right there.”

  “You smell good,” he said. Like an idiot.

  But it made her blush. “I do?”

  “Yes. Like flowers.”

  “Thank you.” She gave a light sigh. “All I can smell is bacon.”

  “Really?” He lifted his chin. “You sure you can’t smell my new soap on a rope? Aunt Fran got it for me in the British Virgin Islands.”

  She made a skeptical face. “Really, Banks?”

  “Why not, Frost?” He crossed his arms. “Soap on a rope is key to leading a manly life.”

  She shot him a small grin and leaned in. “Mmm,” she said. “It’s very nice.”

  “Why, thank you.” This was the point where he’d usually try to kiss the girl. He always knew what the next step would be.

  But not with Macy.

  “Is there anything here you don’t like?” she asked expectantly, hovering over the food.

  “Uh, no. I like it all.” He meant her, of course. But he still wasn’t sure exactly why. He’d met many gorgeous, charming, smart women over the years, several of whom were amazing cooks. What was it about this one that threw him off kilter?

  “I’m glad you’re not a picky eater,” she said, her manner brisk. “Have a seat. I put a file from Two Love Lane next to your place setting. You can start looking through it while I dish up.”

  So he did. He sat, and it felt like home with the little blue vase and the single lush pink blossom in it. His ancient floral linen placemat had to be from the 1950s or early ’60s. Macy had paired a faded red linen napkin with it. He also had a fork lying primly on the left, with a seashell pattern on its end, and a matching butter knife, blade turned in, on the right.

  Damn, that cutlery was heavy.

  “That’s my grandmother’s sterling silver,” she said.

  “You use it every day?”

  “Sure do.”

  So she was old-fashioned but eclectic, too. He couldn’t call her formal. She was too warm for that. George would love her style.

  “What kind of flower is this?” He eyed the blossom in the vase and thought how well it went with Macy’s personality. It was sunshiney and open but elegant, too.

  “A camellia from my back garden.” She poured two glasses of orange juice from a glass pitcher.

  “You didn’t squeeze that juice, did you?”

  “Of course,” she said, and held up an old hand juicer. “Good for my grip.”

  “You play tennis?”

  “Yes. But badly. As for camellias, they bloom in winter. Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  “Yes.” He wanted to play tennis with her—that morning. Too bad she had to work. He opened the file on the women, and words, words, words leapt out at him. He didn’t feel like reading. He wanted to talk. But he tried to read the file because this was business, and she clearly wanted to keep it so.

  He perused the names and photos at the top of each page: Tiffany (cuddling a kitten; absurdly pretty). Louisa (outdoorsy in hiking boots). Rena (dark-eyed; holding an artist’s paint brush in front of a canvas). Barney (wearing glasses and a ponytail; definitely pretty).

  But anyone could be pretty. Go to any makeup artist and be transformed. It took someone special, someone different, however, to be striking. It meant something intriguing in a woman’s personality was revealed on her face. He much preferred to keep company with a woman who could claim his attention that way.

  Although gorgeous didn’t hurt. Gorgeous kicked off that instantaneous man reaction in him which had everything to do with sex and nothing to do with long-lasting rapport.

  Macy was gorgeous. But she was also striking. That was a deadly combination when Deacon wanted to keep thinking bachelor thoughts.

  “Barney’s an interesting name,” he said.

  “Barney is short for Barnwell, a surname in her family,” Macy explained. “Barney’s great. You’ll love her. She’s a firefighter.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes. She’s got some great stories to tell.”

  A few seconds later, she brought over his plate with everything on it. Somehow he was supposed to eat all that.

  “Do you prefer real maple syrup or the fake kind?” she asked.

  “Either.” He liked how she fussed over him.

  “I like Log Cabin,” she said, “and I will never change. But I have both.”

  While she retrieved them, she asked if he wanted blueberries and/or whipped cream on his waffle, or just butter, along with his preferred syrup.

  “Just butter, please.”

  “That’s how I like my waffle.” She beamed. It was too early in the morning to tolerate people beaming at him, but somehow he liked when she did. And he was glad he’d pleased her.

  What was wrong with him? Everyone understood why he’d want his aunt’s approval, considering that she gave up so much just to raise him. But this girl … he barely knew her.

  She sat down opposite him and slathered her waffle with butter. Then she poured Log Cabin syrup all over it and sighed. “I love breakfast,” she said. “Please dig in.”

  So he did. Their eyes met across the table. He read sheer enjoyment in hers. And he was happy too. Food was good.

  But so was sex. And a man eating a delicious breakfast opposite a beautiful woman who’d cooked it for him and fussed over him would also be thinking about sex with her.

  He tried not to. They talked about the nice weather for December. He’d never had such a temperate holiday season. She told him about the Christmas boat parade that night. She ate a piece of bacon with obvious gusto. And then another.

  “I’m sorry you have a bacon allergy,” he said with a straight face.

  “Yeah. It’s terrible.” She chuckled.

  They had a companionable ten seconds together watching Oscar roll on the floor, hoping for some tummy scratches. Deacon took the file folder and scratched him behind the ears with it.

  Macy rubbed Oscar’s belly with the tip of her shoe then looked up at Deacon. “Hey, your aunt should have a little boat parade party.”

  “She is,” he said. “Celia arranged it.”

  “Oh, great! I’ll gladly watch it from your balcony.” She paused. “Not that I’m inviting myself.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “We’re neighbors. Aunt Fran was going to ask you today, so I will, instead.”

  She was quiet. Some sort of awkwardness descended where it really should not be, not after their happy little breakfast. She took a few sips of coffee without speaking. He made another cursory glance through the papers in the file, but none of those women interested him at all. He was sure they were perfectly nice and would make for enjoyable dates for any man. But his heart wasn’t in it.

  What was he doing in Charleston? That question popped into his head, even though he already knew the answer: He was here to give his aunt a month of his time. He’d carved out this time, just for her. Everyone he worked with had prepared themselves. So had he.

  Yet he didn’t know what to do with so much unscheduled time. He wasn’t comfortable with it. He had too much time to think.…

>   But he didn’t even know about what.

  “You seem really tense right now,” Macy said. “Is something upsetting you? Is it this dating thing?”

  He shook his head and focused on his over-easy egg.

  She took another bite of hers. “No date has to last longer than two hours. Honestly, if one of these women isn’t your type at all, the date could be concluded in an hour and a half. That’s considered long enough to be respectful and polite.”

  “Fine.” But it wasn’t fine. He wanted to go on a date with her. He didn’t want her to be his so-called tour guide at Waffle House. He wanted more.

  When Deacon knew something, he confronted it head-on. But for some reason, with Macy he felt he had to tread carefully. Maybe it was because she was Southern, and he felt like an outsider here. He didn’t want to step on toes and totally ruin his chances with her.

  He wanted that chance.

  She kept eating. So did he.

  Suddenly, she put her fork down. “I’ve heard from Fran and George that you’ve had a lot success with women.”

  He lofted a brow. “And I’m sure that’s just how they explained it.”

  She smiled. “They said you love ’em and leave ’em. Actually, that they leave you because you’re not into commitment.”

  “That’s more accurate.”

  “But is dating itself hard for you? Plenty of CEOs know what to do in the boardroom but have a difficult time partnering on a date—the give-and-take that’s required. So they never bother to learn. I mean, powerful men often have women waiting in line, so dating isn’t something they need to put a lot of thought into.”

  He put his fork down, too. “Do you really think I might have that issue? Not knowing how to be a good date?”

  She popped a blueberry in her mouth with her fingers. “I’m not sure. You were awfully demanding in my office. But that was business. So was Fast and French. I have no idea how you’d be on a real date. It’s something to watch out for, is all.”

  “Duly noted.” She was in pro matchmaker mode. He wanted her back as Macy the wannabe Waffle House cook.

  “It’s also okay,” she said, “not to be familiar with or like this artificial way of dating. Blind dates are hard.”

  “I’ve been on blind dates. That’s how I met my last girlfriend.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said. That weird awkwardness was back. She pressed her napkin to her lips, then stood, her coffee mug in her hand. “Can I get you a refill? Coffee? Juice?”

  “No, thanks.” He stood too, and followed her to the counter, but held back a ways. “Thanks for a great breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Don’t forget your file, okay?”

  “Right.” He strode quickly back to the table and picked it up.

  When he turned back around, she’d lifted her mug to her lips, and all he saw was her eyes, which were deep, and warm, and bright beneath her Santa hat. He knew then that he’d keep that image of her forever, might even dream it at some point.

  She put the mug gently on the counter and said, “I think these four women are all great.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “Feel free to set up follow-up dates on your own. And you might even meet someone else at one of the parties you’ll no doubt be invited to. This goes without saying, but ask out anyone who seems interesting to you.”

  “Right.” Except he couldn’t ask her out. Not yet. And she was the one he wanted to take to dinner, pull out a chair and buy a glass of champagne for. He wanted to woo her, the old-fashioned way.

  She went to work rinsing their dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. “I’ve got one more thing before I have to head out. You know how I get to work on finding you a soulmate?”

  “You like to remind me of that.” He put the leftover orange juice and the butter in the fridge before grabbing a paper towel, dampening it, and wiping down the Log Cabin bottle.

  She shut the dishwasher. “There’s something bothering me about this so-called arrangement.”

  “And that is?”

  She turned to face him, her hands behind her back on the counter. “I can’t work my end well when you’re not being honest with me.”

  “I’m being truthful,” he insisted.

  She pushed off the counter. “I’m not so sure.”

  He pushed in both chairs at the table.

  She put on a jacket that hung from a wooden coat tree in the corner. “You said you’d never been in love as an adult—I’m talking the serious, non-puppy type of love between possible soulmates.”

  “I understand.”

  “But is it true? Or it is fun to let people assume it’s true? Maybe you get something out of having a playboy image.”

  He removed his Santa hat. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome.” She took hers off, too. Then she picked Oscar up, who was rubbing against her leg, and put him in his tote, slung it over her shoulder, and grabbed her purse. “I don’t expect you to be forthcoming about your present. But I do expect at least a foundation of truth about your romantic past when we work together. It’s only fair.”

  “You’re right.” He knew he was trying her patience.

  They walked outside together into blue skies and mild temperatures for December. It was a gorgeous day. Too gorgeous with that big yellow sun in his face to lie any longer.

  “What the hell,” he said, stopping on the pavement beneath his aunt’s house. “Shakespeare said, ‘Love is merely a madness.’ I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been in love. Real love, the soul-searing kind. And so if people want to call me a bad boy for that, it’s better than being known as that loser guy with no heart and no luck.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Standing there in the sunshine on that glorious day, Macy couldn’t help it—her mind was blown. Deacon was like her. She was so excited, she just said what came to her: “Do you like hot wings?”

  “Hate ’em.”

  “Basketball?”

  “Love it.”

  “I do, too. I have season tickets for the men’s basketball team at the College of Charleston. I don’t play myself, but I know the rules better than the refs. And sometimes, I lose control and yell at them.”

  “You ‘lose control.’” He laughed. “You’re funny. How about you think the refs suck? And you’re the boss and they’d better listen up, or you’ll knock ’em over?”

  “Yeah.” She felt so happy that someone understood.

  “I’d love to see you at a game.”

  “How do you know Shakespeare?”

  “Same way most people do. School. And Aunt Fran. We read the comedies and the tragedies together. She got me into musicals, too, believe it or not. It’s hard not to love ’em when you live near Broadway.”

  Macy laid her hand on his arm. “I’ve never been in love either.”

  “Really? You’re the matchmaker who’s never been in love?”

  “Yes.” She could see the shock in his eyes and shrugged. “I’ve had a million crushes, all right? But not the real thing. I recognize what love is, though. Otherwise, I could never do what I do.”

  “Wow.” He peered intently at her. “You’re definitely not the type I’d think had never been in love.”

  “There is no type for that,” she said. “It is what it is. It doesn’t mean people like you and me aren’t suited for love. It just means we haven’t found it yet.”

  “Or maybe we don’t want it and don’t miss it. I fall in that camp. I’m happy the way things are.”

  “That’s not another line to pacify the critics?”

  “Nope. It’s the truth.” He gestured to Oscar’s tote. “May I? I’d love to walk off breakfast with you two.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Oscar retreated into his little nylon canvas cave when Deacon took over carrying him. But Macy liked it. No one else had ever carried Oscar before. And she’d never had someone tag along with her as she walked to work. She l
iked the change-up.

  “I’ve been in a serious relationship twice,” Deacon said. “They wanted to make it permanent. Have babies. Move in next to family. And that was when I realized I didn’t love them. I just liked them a lot.”

  Macy sighed. “I know the feeling.”

  “Besides, I’m crazy about my work.”

  “I get you there too.”

  “Most women I meet are looking for either a money grab or a power alliance or both.” He spoke in a careless, cool manner, blissfully unaware that Macy was seeing deep beneath his alpha-male exterior to a sensitive soul. “Being related to Aunt Fran makes me even more of a so-called catch. She’s got a lot of cash and influence in her own right.”

  “I can see how having a famous person in your family might have its perks, but also its serious drawbacks,” Macy agreed. “On a smaller scale, I’m in somewhat of the same dating boat in Charleston. I come from a well-connected family. I’m never sure if a guy likes me just for me.” It was a heady confession to make. It was scary too. She wished she could grab his hand.

  And then he grabbed hers. He squeezed hard and pulled her across Broad Street. “We’re a lot alike, aren’t we?”

  “I guess we are,” she said, her heart pounding in her ears. She knew in that second, her crush was not just dialed up to a ten. She was all the way to eleven with this guy.

  When they reached the curb, he dropped her hand, and she had about half a second to regain her composure. She reminded herself that he was only being a gentleman, taking her hand the way a friend would when you’re talking and you don’t want to lose track of the conversation, and bang—next thing you know, you’re yanking that friend across a busy street.

  Oscar’s face had come back out. His whiskers twitched at the smell of Deacon and salt air. They were coming up on Roastbusters.

  Deacon was quiet. But he was thinking. Macy could tell. There was a serious cast to his expression, an alertness with which even Oscar, who thought he was a lion on the prowl, couldn’t compete. They passed a narrow street lined with tightly squeezed old houses that ended at a pier on the harbor. In the distance, the Ravenel Bridge, with its two white triangular towers, gleamed against the blue sky.