Snowflakes and Silver Linings

by Cara Colter

  Give up on Casey. A long time ago he should have sent her a note and hadn’t. Was it ever too late to do the right thing?

  The play-with-her part was a whole different story.

  He took his bowl of eggs, placed them in front of Emily and walked out of the kitchen in search of the uncomplicated companionship of Cole.

  Turner’s uncomplicated companion, Harper, followed him loyally.

  But when Casey didn’t appear for breakfast, Turner felt honor bound to track her down.

  “Come on, open the door.”

  “No,” she called through the door. “I’m just getting to the really fun part of War and Peace.”

  “There are no fun parts in war. I know from experience.” He wished, instantly, that he hadn’t said that. “You missed breakfast. I brought you an omelet.”

  She opened the door and looked at him cautiously. He suspected the door had been opened because he’d let it slip he had firsthand experience with war. He wanted to make her life lighter, not evoke her sympathy.

  “I don’t want the omelet.”

  “It’s only fair, after all the cheese you grated. Come on. The dog is tormenting me, thinking it’s for her.”

  Harper whined helpfully, as if on cue.

  “You’ve had enough eggs for one day,” Turner told her.

  Casey folded her arms over her chest, glaring at him. “What part of no don’t you get?”

  He wafted the steaming omelet under her nose.

  “You’re not used to women saying no to you, are you?”

  “You and Emily are onto me.”

  “Harper,” she said, addressing the dog firmly, “stop fawning over him. You’re a disgrace.”

  “I promise I won’t see it as fawning over me if you take the omelet.”

  “And then you’ll go away?”

  He nodded insincerely and handed her the plate. She took it, then set it on a dresser beside the door and crossed her arms over her chest again.

  He saw it as hopeful that she hadn’t slammed the door.

  “I’m waiting for the going-away part,” she said.

  She planned to resist his attempts to lighten up a life that seemed to have got bogged down in seriousness. He planned not to let her. For the first time in a long time, he felt almost lighthearted.

  He leaned his shoulder against her doorjamb. “I like your hair like that.”

  “Humph. I just haven’t had time to do anything with it yet today.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  “No.” She began to ease the door shut. He slid his foot in. She glared.

  “You missed all the discussion at breakfast. Andrea is handing out assignments like crazy. The vow renewal is going to be on the steps of the front porch, with the guests seated in a semicircle on chairs below it. She and Carol are making garlands out of real boughs. And wreaths. Cole and Martin are replacing the old Christmas light strings with new ones, LEDs to save the inn money. And you and I—”

  “You and I?” she asked, nonplussed.

  He nodded.

  “How did I end up with you?” she asked suspiciously.

  “It was your lucky day?” The truth was most women would have been delighted to have been paired with him. “Look, Casey, we’re the only two single people here. I think it’s natural we’re going to end up together from time to time. Can we declare a truce?”

  “What job did we get?”

  “Andrea has this idea that it would be fun to have an honor guard of snowmen at the front gate.”

  “What? A snowman honor guard?”

  The wariness faded from her face. She looked, however reluctantly, enchanted by the concept.

  “FYI, it doesn’t get any hokier,” he told her. He had been tempted to tell Andrea that he wasn’t sure about messing with such tradition as the military arch ceremony, but then he had reminded himself that if he wanted to help Casey lighten up, he was going to have to do a little lightening up himself.

  “It’s cute!”

  “Adorable,” he said drily.

  “And also very economical. It’s very smart of Andrea to use something free, like snow. Her budget for turning this place into a winter wonderland is limited.”

  Somehow he didn’t think he would win any points for saying he thought the budget should be limited, for a one-day event that had no real, pragmatic purpose.

  “Can you meet me in the front yard in half an hour?”

  “That doesn’t give me time to do my hair!”

  Good, he thought. Out loud, he said, “There is no sense doing your hair for snowman duty. It’s probably going to end up wet. Stuff it under a hat.”

  Obviously, she was torn between outright refusing to help him, and giving in. And he suspected, when she gave in, it had nothing to do with his considerable egg-juggling charm. The snowmen were luring her.

  “I’ll see you down there, then.” And she shut the door quietly in his face.

  Turner stood there for a moment longer. It occurred to him he had actually been holding his breath, waiting for her answer.

  It occurred to him she had said yes to building snowmen, not to the truce.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CASEY LEANED AGAINST the door. Hard as it was to admit it, Turner was right. They had to declare a truce. She could not let him get under her skin. If he got under her skin, she could not let him know it!

  And, of course, he already had got to her this morning, tossing eggs at her, throwing them around. She had actually laughed when he had broken them, that astonished look on his face saying he couldn’t believe he had fumbled.

  Sadly, she could not remember the last time she had enjoyed such a good chuckle!

  She had come here to find something: a part of herself that could be at peace with her life if she remained single forever.

  The truth? Yoga and calligraphy weren’t doing it, but she was sure that motherhood would.

  Something had drawn her to the inn, as if there was an answer here. In simplicity. In friendships. In the spirit of Christmas itself. These were things she wanted for her child!

  And she wasn’t going to find that answer locked in her room, hiding from Turner Kennedy and his considerable charms. He was the test, dammit, and she intended to pass it!

  She had to give herself over to what the day held, and today that was making snowmen.

  And she had to admit, reluctantly, that it did sound fun. It was something she would want to do with her child one day.

  And just as reluctantly, she had to admit that somehow Turner had hit the nail right on the head when he had insinuated that fun might be the missing element from her life. What kind of mom would she be if she couldn’t just have fun?

  Putting her pride aside—she would need her strength, after all—Casey gobbled down the omelet he had brought and then turned her attention to the all-important matter of what to wear for snowman building.

  Half an hour later, feeling like a large pink marshmallow in the snowsuit that had seemed so “fun” when she had bought it for this trip, and which now seemed faintly ridiculous, Casey headed out the front door of the inn. She had stuffed every strand of her wildly uncooperative hair under a knit hat that looked like an exaggerated version of what a hippie out of the sixties would have worn.

  The sun had come out and made the snow sparkle with a million diamond lights. It was a fairyland of delight.

  Turner was already outside, pacing out large steps. He had out a tape measure and ran it from the arbor at the front gate to the stairs. Harper marched up and down beside him, dogging his every step.

  “Would you go away?” he said to the dog.

  Harper pondered this, decided she had been ordered to sit, and sat down on his foot.

  He glared at the d
og, but indulgently, and let the tape roll up as Casey came toward him.

  “I was thinking eight,” he said, “four on each side. But I don’t think we have room for them. Not if the chairs start, say, right here.”

  “Eight snowmen?”

  “Too ambitious?”

  “Way.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. How about four, two on each side?”

  “I hope you know how to build a snowman.”

  “If I can juggle eggs, I can build a snowman.”

  “Hmm, I’m not following the relationship between the two, but I’m going to trust you have actually built one before.”

  “Who hasn’t?” he said, frowning down at his tape measure. Her silence made him look up and transfer his frown to her.

  “You’ve never built a snowman?” He seemed astounded by that.

  “I grew up in an apartment in New York, so snowmen were not part of my experience.”

  “You didn’t go to the park?”

  She shrugged, but could feel him looking at her intently.

  “You didn’t have a childhood at all, did you?” he said suddenly, his voice husky and deep. “Your brother’s illness stole all that from you, didn’t it?”

  Why did he remember that? Was it just part of his considerable charm? How did she play this game? Give herself over to having fun at the same time as protecting herself from Turner Kennedy?

  Casey felt terribly vulnerable all at once, standing there in the pink snowsuit she had never owned as a child. As if she was going to either burst into tears or run.

  How could she hope to be a good mother when nothing about her own childhood had given her the kind of experiences she would need?

  “I’ll show you,” he said, way too gently. “I’ll show you how to build a snowman, Casey.”

  She swallowed hard, and said with stiff pride that hid the gratitude blooming in her heart, “I’m sure it’s not rocket science.”

  “Or science of any kind, which puts you at a disadvantage.” He smirked, the sympathy gone, or mercifully hidden. “Now watch. Step one.” He scooped up a generous mittful of snow. “This stuff is absolutely perfect for it. Not too dry. Not too wet. Slightly sticky, like the rice you make sushi rolls with.”

  “I suppose you do that, too?” she asked skeptically, watching him form the snow into a smooth, perfect ball.

  “What?”

  “Make sushi rolls.”

  “It’s easier than you think. And it impresses, er, people.”

  But she got it. It impressed women people. And no doubt juggling eggs did, also. The touch of aggravation that made her feel—Turner Kennedy, dark, dangerous and suave, the man no woman could resist—was far superior to the way she had felt when he had guessed her brother’s death had stolen her childhood.

  “You do it, too,” he said, holding out his snowball for her inspection.

  She scooped up a mitten of snow, clamped her hands around it and watched it squish out either side.

  “Make a round ball. Like this.” He set his snowball down, scooped up more snow, placed it in her mittens and guided her hands around it. “Pat, don’t squeeze.”

  She wanted to keep her guard up against the man who knew how to make sushi to impress, but it was very hard with his hands wrapped around hers. She kept losing herself in his intensity about the correct procedure for building snowballs.

  Was he that serious? Or was he just pretending? It would do very well to remember it was hard to tell when Turner Kennedy was pretending and when he wasn’t!

  “Hey, Casey, this step is more important than you think. A mistake here could result in a square snowman.”

  “Maybe we could start a trend,” she suggested innocently.

  “You can mess with your hair if you have to, but don’t mess with snowmen.”

  She obediently patted the snow together, under his watchful eye. She peeked up at him. He wasn’t watching her hands, but her face, a little smile of pleasure on his lips.

  She held up the result and he inspected it carefully, standing way too close to her. She found his scent intoxicating, part of the clean crispness of a fresh wintry morning.

  “You’re a natural,” he decided, as he pulled a glove off one hand with his teeth. “Hey, some of your hair is escaping. Wouldn’t want that! Like a nun letting some come free of her wimple.”

  “I told you I was sensitive on the topic of nuns right now,” she said, and knew it was a weakness when, despite the mutinous expression on her face, she allowed him to push the little tendrils of hair back under her cap with his ungloved fingers. “What’s a wimple?”

  “That white thing that surrounds their face. And that is just about the full extent of my knowledge about nuns.”

  “Thank heaven for small mercies.”

  “Are you going to tell me why you’re sensitive to the subject of nuns right now?”

  “No.”

  “Seriously, I’m intrigued.”

  “Isn’t that just the story of my life,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Whenever somebody’s intrigued by me, it’s always for the wrong reasons.”

  “Oh. What would you like me to be intrigued about?”

  Whether she put bubbles in her bath. What kind of flowers she would prefer sent on her birthday.

  “I already know what your underwear looks like, after all. Caught a peek of it when your suitcase fell open.”

  “Oh, never mind,” she said a touch grouchily.

  He eyed her. For a man who knew how to make sushi to impress, he seemed a little stupid in the what-to-be-intrigued-about department.

  “I’m intrigued about why you aren’t married,” he said, cocking his head and considering her. “Geez. I hope that’s not the connection. You aren’t considering becoming a nun, are you?”

  “Maybe I am,” she said.

  “The underwear says no.”

  “It’s old. The new me is more practical.” He had sucked her into discussing something very personal with him. She thought he would snort with satisfaction, but he didn’t. In fact, he eyed her narrowly.

  “Some bastard hurt you.”

  Her mouth gaped open and then snapped shut.

  “When?” he said.

  “I haven’t even confirmed that!”

  “You don’t have to. I can tell.” He gave himself a little smack on the forehead. “The clues were all there. Yoga and calligraphy. The new revelation about practical undies. Sheesh. You’re practically a nun already.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him she was going to have a child, not become a nun, but she shut it again, thankful she had regained control, since she did not want that truth about herself open to his dissection.

  “When?”

  “It’s nearly a year ago. I’m so over it.”

  “Humph,” he said, with insulting disbelief.

  “I am!” Again there was a temptation to share with him just how she was getting on with her life, but once more she battled it down.

  “What did he do?”

  “Could we just build the snowman?”

  “Okay,” he said, tugging his glove back on with his teeth—was he doing that on purpose making her focus on his all too sexy mouth? “But this is not over.”

  “What if I say it is?”

  He shrugged.

  “You’re infuriating.”

  He smiled. “Yes, I am. Okay, set that extraordinary sample of the beginnings of a snowman on the ground and roll it, before you crush it between your fingers pretending it is my head.”

  She pretended it was his head and set it on the ground, gave it a very vigorous shove.

  He sighed. “I’ll show you with mine, first.”

  The
dog tried to help him with her nose.

  “A little bit this way and then a little bit that way,” he instructed. “Harper! So it stays nice and round. Only we’ll start on this side of the yard and roll toward the archway so we don’t have to move them too far when they’re the right size.”

  Casey watched him for a moment or two. There was something about watching a male apply all that muscle and strength to this task that was at least as lovely as watching him clear snow from the lake and chop wood. Harper’s dedication to him was endearing, too. Weren’t dogs supposed to be good judges of character?

  Then Turner caught her looking, and winked!

  Blushing, annoyed with herself, she dropped her own ball of snow and began to push it, first one way, then another. In no time she was totally engrossed in her task, tongue caught between teeth, grunting with exertion, hat askew and hair falling out of it.

  The snowball, she saw with pleasure, had picked up every ounce of snow in its wildly weaving path, leaving a trail of naked brown grass in its wake. It was becoming astonishingly large in a very short amount of time. She had to get down on her knees to push it.

  “Hey, is that downward-facing dog?” he teased.

  “Downward-facing, sweating dog,” she said, then gave a mighty push and ended up on her face. He roared with laughter as she sat up, brushing snow off her cheeks and clothes.

  “Here, you’ll need some ‘mus-cull’ for this part,” he said, making a fist and curling his arm to show her who had the “mus-culls.” Even under his jacket, his muscle popped up cooperatively. Casey told herself she was having trouble breathing only because of the heavy exertion of the exercise.

  To let him know she was not impressed, and that her heavy breathing had nothing to do with him or his childish display of strength, she rolled her eyes. “A man who quotes Popeye.”

  “I like a girl who knows her Popeye,” he said.

  But when he dropped down on his knees beside her, she knew exactly why her heart was beating way too hard. And worse, she surrendered something, as if his closeness was a drug and she was hopelessly addicted.

  She surrendered her need to be in control.

  She let go of her tight hold on her desire to protect herself.