by Donna Alward
“It’s perfect. I’ll start on the lights while you finish up. The lights take the longest.”
He was halfway through putting multi-colored twinkle lights on the tree when she came into the room carrying two mugs, steam curling off the top. He took a break and stood up, stretching out his back as she held out the mug.
“It looks good,” she offered.
“I like lots of lights,” he replied, thinking back to when he and Brad had been boys and their job had been to stand back and squint. The lights had all blurred together, and any blank spots in their vision had meant there were holes that needed to be filled. One year the tree had been so big that their dad had used over fifteen hundred lights on it. “It’s kind of a family tradition.”
He took a sip of his cider and raised his eyebrows. “Mmmm,” he remarked, angling a sideways glance at Hope.
Her lips were twitching just a little.
“I found some spiced rum in the cupboard, too. Thought it might warm you up after your cold hike.”
He swallowed the warm cider, felt the kick of the rum in his belly. It wasn’t just the rum. It was her, wasn’t it? She could have a fun side if she let it out to play more. She put a wall around herself most of the time, but behind that wall he had a suspicion there was hidden a warm, giving woman. A woman he could like. A lot.
Right now she looked barely past twenty, with her straight hair in a perky ponytail and hardly any makeup. He could think of more pleasant ways than mulled cider to warm up, and all of them included her, in his arms.
Which would be a very, very bad idea. They were hardly even friends. It was a big leap from their newfound civility to being lovers. And there was no point in starting something he didn’t intend to finish.
“It’s good,” was all he said, and he took another drink for fortification. It didn’t help that she looked so cute in her snug jeans, when her long fingers curled around the mug as she blew on the hot surface of the cider with full pink lips.
He got to work putting on the rest of the lights while she dug through the boxes for ornaments and the tacky red and green tinsel garland he put on the tree each year. By the time he’d finished she’d pulled out a box and was sitting on the sofa, surrounded by nearly a dozen porcelain shops and buildings—his mother’s Christmas village.
“This is adorable,” she said, lifting up an ornament that depicted a red square building with a steeply pitched roof and the word Schoolhouse on a sign above the door.
“My mom’s. Every year we got her a different building until she could build a whole town. Look.” He reached inside a large plastic ice cream container and took out a tiny LED light. “Put this inside and it lights up.”
“Pretty. Where do you normally put it?”
“On the long table in the hall.”
Hope held the porcelain carefully in her hands and looked up at him, dismay turning her lips downward. “But you can’t enjoy it there. You only see it as you pass through.” She looked around and then her eyes lit up. “Look. What about the two tables we pushed together?”
“It’s big enough.”
“We need a white cloth. Just a minute.”
She disappeared upstairs and returned with a snowy white towel. He watched as she draped it over the tables and put the schoolhouse down. She stood back and put a finger to her lips, then went back to the box again and again. She went into the kitchen and came back with something in her hand he couldn’t discern, but she tucked it under the towel and before his eyes a hill of snow seemed to appear. Tiny figurines of children followed, punctuated by green bottlebrush-like trees and a snowman in a black top hat. Before he knew it she’d arranged the whole village—church, school, bookshop, houses—along the table, with snowy white hills forming a backdrop.
“How did you do that?”
She beamed. “Do you like it?”
“I do. What’s more, I think my mom will, too. It’s a shame you’re not going to meet her.”
Not meet her...not be here for Christmas Eve and then Christmas morning...it surprised him to realize he wanted her there. He liked having Anna around, but there was something right about Hope being in the house, wandering through the barns. She added something to the place—a sense of sophistication and class that he found he appreciated. And ever since that first day with Cate he’d been able to tell that even when she held back, there was something about the children that she responded to. She was fitting in rather well, considering the hoity-toity photographer who’d arrived only days ago.
Perhaps fitting in too well. Considering lately he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
* * *
Hope saw the look in Blake’s eyes and nerves bubbled in her tummy. She’d seen that look before: a softening of the features, a warming of the eyes, the slight parting of lips. There were times she tried to elicit this precise expression for the camera. Other times she’d seen it in the moments before she’d been kissed.
And Blake was looking at her that way, making her knees turn to jelly and her pulse pound.
Kissing him would not be the smartest move. All it would do was complicate things. This was supposed to be an easy ten days, then off to Gram’s for Christmas and back to her life in Sydney, just as she’d created it. Granted, she’d been thinking about him a lot. Granted, she’d had to move past her own “rules” and face some old demons in order to give him what he wanted for the facility. That had put her out of her comfort zone.
Funny how out of her comfort zone it seemed kind of...well, cozy and right.
But in the end everything would go back to normal—which was Hope looking after Hope and not fretting about everyone else. Not getting involved.
She suspected that kissing Blake was definitely something a girl wouldn’t walk away from without fretting on some level, so she nodded toward the boxes, breaking the spell of the moment while the music station shifted to a horrendous version of “O Holy Night.”
“We should probably put on the rest of the decorations. Are they in this box?”
The warm intensity of his eyes cooled and he stepped back. “Oh, right.” He opened the box and pulled out the bag that had ropes of red and green garland poking out of the top. “This is next.”
It was tacky and cheap and slightly gaudy to Hope’s artist’s eye. Still, it was his tree, his house. And having grown up with Gram she did hold the slightest remnant of knowledge that traditions were not to be messed with—especially on the holidays. She took the first mass of tinsel in her hands and began looping it around the tree in a precise scallop pattern while Blake held the end.
“You’re very exact.”
She frowned and adjusted a swoop of garland. “I like things balanced. If they’re imbalanced they have to be intentionally so, you know?”
“Not exactly. But you’re having fun with it, so go for it.”
He was teasing her now, and she didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed.
Together they added ornaments to the tree—cutesy homemade types that were hand-painted or stitched: old-fashioned gingerbread men and knitted skates and bells, red and green boots with paperclips as blades, and gold-shot yarn bells with tiny brass jingle bells dangling from the centre, catching the light of the bulbs.
It was a long way from her red-and-white tree and the delicate glass balls that she had at home.
It was, she realized, a family tree. A tree with years of memories and love. And Blake was here alone. His brother was gone and he was stuck decorating the tree with a stranger.
Well, not exactly a stranger—not anymore. But definitely not family.
She wondered if the tree was up at Gram’s. Wondered what Beckett’s Run looked like, dressed for the holidays. Wondered if Gram had baked Hope’s favorite holiday cookies—the chocolatey ones in powdered sugar.
Good heavens. She was homesick.
“Are you all right?” Blake’s voice brought her back to earth and she realized she was standing holding an ornament, the string looped over
her finger.
“Oh. Of course. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
She drew in a breath that was shakier than she liked. “It’s silly, really. I was just remembering Christmas in Beckett’s Run. No matter what was going on in our lives, we always went home for Christmas.”
“Good memories, then?”
She nodded. “Mostly.”
She hung the ornament and saw Blake was holding a small oval one in his hands. His face changed, a mixture of love and pain twisting his features. When he’d hung it gently on the tree she could see it was a photo frame, and when she stepped she closer realized it was black with a big red “C” on it—the logo of the Calgary Flames. Inside the frame was a picture of two boys in oversize jerseys, hockey sticks on the ice, grinning widely for the camera.
Blake and his brother, Brad. Eleven, maybe twelve years old. Blake without the jagged scar down the side of his face, before puberty hit full force. His twin, Brad, looking so much like Blake it was uncanny, but with something different around the eyes and mouth.
She touched her finger to Blake’s figure. “That’s you, right?”
“Not everyone could tell us apart.”
“It’s the eyes and the shape of your mouth. And you’re big as a barn door now, Blake...stands to reason maybe you were a little taller than Brad.”
“I was the better checker,” he said softly, “but Brad had faster hands.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” He stared at the photo a while longer. “It is what it is. I miss him every day. But nothing will bring him back. I stopped making those sorts of wishes long ago. Now I just remember.”
“And put this ornament on the tree?”
Blake’s mouth twisted, and once more Hope noticed how the stiffness of his scar pulled his lips slightly. She wondered how horrible it must have been for him as a teen, dealing with that sort of disfiguration. Dealing with people’s reactions. It wasn’t much wonder he’d been curt with her when she’d arrived. The first thing she’d done was stare at him like he was some sort of freak.
But he wasn’t. He was the strongest man she’d ever met.
“There’s just one thing left to do,” he said, clearing his throat. “Put the angel on the top.”
He reached into the box and took out a rectangular carton. He opened the flap and carefully took out the most beautiful Christmas angel Hope had ever seen. A flawless porcelain face was framed by a coronet of hair the color of cornsilk; a white circlet atop her head was a halo. The dress was white silk shot with gold thread, and softly feathered wings flowed from the center of her back, the tips nearly reaching the hem of the dress. It was a work of art—a family heirloom.
“Do you want to do the honors?” he asked.
“Oh, I couldn’t.” She put up her hands. “That’s gorgeous, Blake.”
“It’s been in the family a long time.”
“It’s your tree,” she said. “You should be the one to put it on.”
Blake disappeared to the kitchen and came back with a step stool. He put it on the floor and held out the angel. “It’s your tree, too,” he said.
“Blake...”
“Please?”
Her hands trembled as she took the delicate figure from his hands and stepped up on the stool. He stood beside her, and she was acutely aware of his shoulder next to her rib cage as she leaned forward and carefully placed the angel over the top bough of the tree. The cone inside the skirt slid over the pointed top and settled firmly into place as Hope let out the breath she’d been holding and turned around.
The step stool put her higher than Blake, so that his face was just below hers. He was standing close...so close she could feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint spiciness of his aftershave.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
He wasn’t looking at the tree. He was looking at her. Gazing into her eyes with his own deep blue ones.
She felt herself going, losing what was left of her common sense in the depths of them. Before she could think better of it she lifted her hand and laid it along his cheek—the one with the scar. She ran her finger down the length of it slowly, carefully, her heart breaking at the difference in texture of the scar tissue, its smoothness oddly perfect when its very presence was a symbol of such pain and loss.
His hands spanned her ribs and lifted her from the stool, put her feet firmly on the floor.
And once she was steady he took her hand from his face, squeezed her fingers and kissed her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“PERFECT,” Blake had heard himself say. But he couldn’t drag his gaze away from her.
The way she was looking at him made it impossible. He’d never talked about Brad like that before—not to anyone but his parents. It made people uncomfortable. But not Hope. She’d spoken in such a matter-of-fact way that it had been a relief to express how he missed his brother.
And then she did the last thing he expected. She rested her hand on his scar, tracing the length of it with warm, soft fingertips. Exploring. Caressing.
He spanned her waist and lifted her down, never taking his gaze off hers. She wasn’t backing away this time. The music played softly and the lights glowed around them. And right now all he wanted to do was feel close to someone. To her. He knew in his heart that this could never truly go anywhere, but what she’d given him broke down all his resolve. With nothing more than a touch she’d accepted him, scar and all.
He covered her hand with his, pulled it away and squeezed her fingers—the fingers that had given him back something he’d lost long ago: faith. Faith that someone would see past the scar and see who he really was. Inside, where it mattered.
He dipped his head and kissed her lips. Warm, cinnamon-spicy lips that opened beneath his and for one breathless moment made him believe that anything was possible.
* * *
All Hope’s senses were on full alert as Blake touched his lips to hers. The glow of the Christmas lights beside them. The scent of the tree and mulling spice in the air. The sound of Christmas songs on the television. It was the kind of holiday moment she saw in the movies and read about in books; the kind that never happened to a girl like her but kept her up late on Christmas Eve under a blanket, with a DVD, a box of tissues beside her glass of wine and a packet of store-bought shortbreads that were never quite as good as Gram’s.
But here she was, closing her eyes as Blake’s warm lips beguiled her, tasting of cider and something far more potent than the tot of rum she’d put in his mug. His arm slipped around her, drawing her closer, and she put her hand on his shoulder, feeling the exciting firmness of his muscles beneath her fingers. He drew back slightly, their breaths mingling in the charged silence as the song switched. She bit down on her lip and chanced a look up at him, desperately wanting more and terribly afraid he might just realize it.
Looking up was a mistake and a blessing. The first petals of curiosity had been plucked and had been replaced by the more exotic bloom of desire and need. Blake’s embrace tightened and Hope wrapped her arms around his neck as their mouths met again, hotter, more demanding. Her breasts were crushed against his shirtfront and his wide palm pressed against the curve of her back, molding their bodies together as their breathing quickened.
She hadn’t expected this explosion, this powerful craving for him. It would only take a word and they’d be in bed together. Hope knew it, and the thought made her blood race. It would be fantastic. Blake was the kind of man who would be gentle and physical all at once. Careful, yet thorough. Sexy, yet loving.
And that last was what made Hope hesitate, back away from the heat of his touch and the glory of his mouth.
This wouldn’t be a casual one-nighter. A brief encounter with no strings. Blake wasn’t that kind of man.
And she wasn’t that kind of woman either. She wouldn’t be able to simply get up and walk away.
The alternative was getting in way too deep...or backing off.
She gathered all her fortitude and took another step backward, nearly tripping over the step stool, righting herself while her cheeks flamed and her heart seemed to pound a mile a minute.
“Hope...”
“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “We can’t do this, okay?”
“You’re afraid?”
Damn straight she was. Afraid of everything she was feeling lately. Afraid of getting caught up in holiday nostalgia. And most of all afraid of getting caught up in him. It would be so easy.
“I’m here for a few more days and then I’m gone. I don’t do temporary flings, Blake. I’m not built that way.”
“What do you do? Because it’s perfectly clear that you don’t do serious or commitment either. What’s holding you back, Hope?”
Panic threaded through her limbs. “I’m just here to take pictures, okay?”
“Liar,” he said softly, taking a step forward. “Those pictures are just a reason our grandmothers gave us both. Surely you’d figured that out by now?”
The very idea frightened her to death. “Are you saying you’re...?” She choked on the next words. “On board with this? That you planned...?”
Oh, Lord. She was really starting to freak out now. Blake was looking at her in his strong and steady way, and she felt like a baby bird flapping its wings and still falling steadily toward the ground, waiting for the inevitable thud.
“Of course I didn’t plan it. When you arrived I knew you were the last person I’d be interested in.”
Ouch. That smarted. Even if it was what she wanted to hear, it stung just the same.
“Ditto,” she replied.
“And now we have this.” He swept out his hand. “It would appear we weren’t quite as right as we would have liked to believe.”
“It...it was just a kiss,” she stammered.
“Yes, it was.” He came closer and put his hands on her upper arms. “So why all the panic?”
“Because... Because...” But she couldn’t form the words for a coherent explanation.
Because she didn’t do emotional intimacy. And here she was, talking about it with him. Here she was, at his place, wiping away tears as she watched a young boy hug a horse or listened to the laughter of a girl who had very little to laugh about. This whole place was opening her up to a world of pain she’d shut the door on years ago. It was getting harder and harder to pack those feelings back into the box where they belonged. And what terrified her most was that she was afraid there would come a time that she couldn’t, and then she’d break.