His Mistletoe Miracle

by Jenny B. Jones

  Will maneuvered them out of the neighborhood. “Want me to stop at a bar? Maybe pop into the convenience store and get you a pack of cigs?”

  His lame attempt at humor made her smile, then immediately tear up. The man had even switched the radio to Christmas music for her. Cordelia turned her head to the passenger window as her eyes pooled.

  “Cordelia?”

  She sniffed. “Hmm?”

  Will slowed, then eased onto the shoulder, stopping right on Main Street. As cars whizzed by, he unbuckled, learned toward Cordelia, then pulled her into his arms. A fierce wind rocked the vehicle and sparse snowflakes peppered the windshield. But Cordelia only knew the warmth and comfort that was her fake boyfriend.

  She breathed in the scent of him as her face pressed into his neck. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” His hand rubbed her back, infusing her with small bits of calm. “Then be fine right here for a minute.”

  She was embarrassed, mad, upset. Now add to that: confused, light-headed, and wanting things she couldn’t have.

  His words came in a low rumble near her ear. “You’re a good daughter, you know. How you handled yourself in there was higher-level adult skills.”

  She supposed a higher level would make the swan dive off even more spectacular. “My mom’s a hot mess.”

  “There’s one in every family.”

  But her mom was now her whole family.

  Will slowly released her, then took both her hands in his. “Is she always that antagonistic?”

  “It’s not usually that dramatic. The holidays get to her.”

  “I take it she’s not a fan of Christmas.”

  “Mom’s pretty much against anything that might elicit happiness.”

  “You clearly didn’t take after her in that regard.”

  “No, but according to her, I’m the misguided one.”

  “My journalistic instinct says there’s a story here.”

  A five year old with working ears could pick up on that. Cordelia swiped at a stray tear that had the nerve to cling to her cheek. “My mom was an inventor—a dreamer, an idea woman. She was always coming up with something, always on the verge of a breakthrough she’d say. About the time a big corporation stole her prototype for a robotic trashcan, my dad got sick.”

  Will’s thumb stroked across her hand. “I’m sorry. That had to be devastating.”

  “I was eight.” And so far removed from the trauma. “He was gone by my ninth Christmas.” The details sounded rusty on her tongue from years of keeping them to herself. “My dad had pretty much supported our family with his ‘real’ job of teaching, and when child services knocked on our door sometime later with complaints about my care, my mom was forced to go to work. Despite her PhD in quantum physics, she’s worked as a janitor in a plant that makes staplers for nearly twenty years.” Not that there was anything wrong with custodial work. But her mom had a degree that was nothing more than a forgotten piece of paper.

  “Does she still invent things?” Will turned on her ancient seat warmers.

  She had to appreciate a man who concerned himself with the temperature of her nether regions. “She tinkers occasionally, but she hasn’t attempted a serious invention since she was robbed, as she says.”

  “That couldn’t have been the most nurturing home to grow up in.”

  “I learned how to take care of myself—and her. I lived for the summers I’d spend with my grandma in Maine. Sometimes she’d fly me out for the holidays, knowing my mom would completely ignore them. Before my dad died, my mom went all out for Christmas. My dad loved it. He’d make her put trees in every room and mistletoe in every doorway.”

  “A man who encouraged kissing. I like him already.”

  “Suddenly being solely responsible for me and our finances was really hard for my mom. She didn’t exactly transition easily into her role.”

  “So, because of that, she doesn’t seem to condone your business venture.”

  “I try not to even discuss it with her because it always ends in a fight.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s right.”

  “My mom has a lot of crazy notions—like government takeovers and corporate mind control, but sometimes she says something that’s actually based in reality and common sense.”

  “I didn’t hear anything resembling that today.”

  Said the kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth. “When you came back from Afghanistan, you didn’t have to worry about a place to live, a car, a way to get back on your feet, did you?” It was a rhetorical question, and Will employed that big brain of his and chose not to respond. “If my business flopped, there would be no one to save me. I’d be living in my car and eating bologna sandwiches. You don’t know what it’s like to take a risk like this—to leave a good job and operate on a dream.”

  “You think I don’t know risk? I just spent four years in a hole with terrorists who foiled my every attempt at escape. Before that I got death threats on a regular basis at the network. I opened a school in a zone littered with terrorists.”

  He didn’t get it. “But did you ever worry if the network fired you, how you’d scrape up the rent?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then you couldn’t possibly understand. Foster children are a priority for me, and I need to be able to provide for them beyond the monthly payment from the state. It’s important I have stability and insurance and all of those things you take for granted.”

  “I don’t take any of that for granted.” The only heat in his expression was now one of temper. “I’ve got four networks calling me almost daily, and I don’t even know that I can ever return to that life. I wake up every morning and have no clue what I want to be—if I should pick up where I left off or try something new. Whatever used to drive me to follow a good story isn’t there anymore. My ability to craft an eloquent paragraph—gone. My passion for justice? Gone. I came home and all my assets had been sold and I had nothing. I had to start over in every way. So I know risk, Cordelia. Waking up for me some days was risk.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I—”

  “You got a grant last year that gave you an incredible opportunity, and you flourished—your business took off like crazy. I talked to Mitchell Crawford, and he said your profits tripled this year.”

  Any sympathy she had died a quick death. “You talked to Crawford about Daring Displays? What business is that of yours? What made you think for a second—”

  “He doubled your grant amount for this year’s award.” Will grilled her like she was a crooked politician. “And you’re not going to take it.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind.”

  “I think you have.” He jerked his head in the direction of her mom’s. “Or that lady back there did it for you.”

  Who did this man think he was? “So I have one more year of the grant. What happens the year after that? And the one after that? I won’t have that cushion of Crawford’s money any longer.”

  “I saw the data you submitted to him. You don’t even need his help now.”

  She sat in her seat with her mouth slack like a concussed cartoon character. “You had no right to look at my financials. Or my application to the grant.”

  Will didn’t appear the least bit contrite. “Is it any of my business? No. But do you need someone to talk some sense into you? Yes.”

  This conversation was over. It was one thing to have to listen to guff from her mother, but to be lectured by a guy she’d known a week? No thanks.

  Cordelia flung open the car door, letting the wicked wind swoop in and hopefully frost Will’s know-it-all self. “Goodbye.”

  “Wait—”

  She slammed the door and started walking, ignoring the waves of a few familiar folks shopping downtown.

  The car crawled by her, window rolled down. “Get back in the car, Cordelia.”

  Grabbing the tail of her scarf, she threw it over her shoulder as she marched in the directio
n of her home. “Go butt into someone else’s business, Sinclair.”

  “You tell ‘em, honey!” An elderly woman called from a park bench.

  “Hello, Mrs. Cooper,” Cordelia called then continued to hotfoot it down the street.

  “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?” Will asked, with his warm, cozy heat pouring out the window.

  “No. Go away.”

  “This is nuts. You can be mad at me, but let me drive you home. You’re gonna get pneumonia.”

  It sounded like a welcome alternative to spending one more second with him. With a perfect stop and pivot, she turned down Main Street and carried on, a soldier of independence, a champion for her right to privacy, a Shonda Rimes of Sugar Creek, taking control of her own life and destiny and—

  Was that a new crepe food trailer?

  No, soldier on, Cordelia!

  Will drove the car at a snail’s pace, following right by her side. “I’m sorry, Cordelia. Are you hearing me?”

  “Pretty sure every soul in Benton County hears you!” hollered a nearby kid on a skateboard.

  Cars piled up behind Will, and he waved them on. “I shouldn’t have taken a peek at the documentation you sent Crawford,” he called over the honk from a passing SUV. “I know a little about business, and I thought I’d help.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “So you’re just going to let your mom talk you out of your dream?”

  She stopped and planted a hand on her hip. “My original childhood dream was to marry Prince Harry, develop a British accent, and own a lot of corgis. I accepted that wasn’t going to work out, and maybe I can see the writing on the castle wall for this lofty goal as well.”

  “I’ll buy a pack of corgis if you get in the car.”

  “I have to do this my way.” Shonda Rimes would totally have brought a coat. “You don’t understand.”

  “Maybe I don’t,” Will admitted as a tractor slammed on its brakes and gave him a one-fingered salute. “But I know when someone’s running in the opposite way they should be going—and for all the wrong reasons.”

  Men! Rich, handsome, brooding men! “We’re breaking up.”

  “What? No, we’re not.”

  “Oh, yeah, we are.” The words flew off her tongue, and there was no going back. “The deal’s off.” Lord, she was tired. Had she slept at all last night? All that was left of her was caffeine and rage.

  “Tomorrow’s a family dinner at my parents’ place.”

  “Too bad for you.”

  Will drove onto the shoulder of the road. “How are you going to get money for the Mason family?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Cordelia, listen to me. You’re being— ”

  She whirled on him then, pointing a finger in his infuriating, butinsky direction. “If you tell me I’m being irrational and overreacting, I will post your entire profile on Frannie’s favorite dating site. I don’t need your help with my business, and I don’t need you meddling in my life.” A fierce gale blew her scarf over her face, and she fought to dig herself out, completely giving up on any remnants of dignity. “And another thing! Maybe if you dealt with your own issues, you wouldn’t be so invested in mine. Don’t tell me to take a chance when you can’t even handle a family dinner without a female security blanket.”

  “I’ll be your security blanket, honey!” Mrs. Cooper yelled.

  Cordelia cut into Walter Smith’s manicured yard, admired his icicle lights, and disappeared behind the next house.

  Leaving Will.

  And a little piece of her heart.

  Chapter 15

  The Blue Bunny would fix everything.

  Two days later, Cordelia piled groceries around Isaiah as he sat in his carrier in the middle of the shopping cart. “Do we want cookies and cream or caramel coffee crunch?” Isaiah sucked on his thumb and burped. “You’re right.” She grabbed the ice cream from the freezer. “We’ll buy both.”

  Consulting the list on her phone, Cordelia pushed the cart to the next aisle. They needed baby formula again. And diapers. And maybe some brownies. Because if she dissolved into a mindless sugar coma, at least she wouldn’t have to think about Will.

  After their fight, he’d lit up her phone with calls and texts.

  Until today, when her phone went eerily silent. Not even a telemarketer had called.

  She had every right to tell him to mind his own business. Will had gone too far by getting her financial information from Mitchell Crawford. Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have told him off in such a public and dramatic fashion. But there hadn’t been any Christmas activities scheduled for the square that afternoon, so she’d done the town a service by providing some entertainment. They could’ve sold tickets. Watch holiday sweater-wearing girl have a total meltdown as the grieving journalist drives by!

  Cordelia threw some lunchmeat in the cart and made her way to the bread aisle.

  She normally wasn’t one for hysterics, but she’d been so exhausted the day of their fight. Isaiah had woken her up three times the night before, and her brain had been jelly. Add to that, Mr. Fillmore had contacted her again, putting a little more force behind his nudge to return to work. This time he’d dangled an office with a window. People committed crimes and misdemeanors to get that kind of perk.

  In another hour Will would be leaving to have dinner with his parents. All by himself. Without her.

  He was a big boy. He could handle it, right?

  Right!

  She shoved her cart forward. And plowed into another shopper.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  The man turned around and recognition lit his face. “Cordelia?”

  “Steve.” She looked for Isaiah’s siblings. “Didn’t mean to bump into you. I guess I got distracted.”

  “I remember when I used to have ice cream for dinner.” Longing filled Steve Mason’s tired voice as he studied her grocery selections. “Now it’s balanced meals, eat your veggies, don’t hit your brother, and we don’t eat spaghetti with our hands, John Thomas.”

  Cordelia laughed, not because it was funny, but because she understood. She knew what it was like to be that worn out and not know how to take care of these new small people in your home. To love being a parent, but miss the indulgences and freedoms of your old life. “Where are the kids tonight?”

  “The church is having a foster-parents-night-out. I might’ve had them at the doors of the Sugar Creek Methodist before they even opened.”

  “It sounds like you deserve some ice cream too.”

  Steve reached in the cart and gave an interested Isaiah his finger to hold. “I’d planned to hang out with the guys and have a fun night out, but instead, I’m gonna go fold laundry and take a nap.”

  A nap. That sounded divine. “Time’s a ticking. You better get to it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Steve took two steps before turning back. “Thanks again for the presents you’re getting the kids. I took them to see Santa yesterday, and they each had lengthy requests.” He dug into his coat pocket. “I actually wrote some of them down—in case you want to see.” He caught her hesitation. “But if not, that’s okay. Whatever you have in mind will be much appreciated.”

  Cordelia blinked. “I’d love a list. Of course I would.” She reached for the paper and felt it warm her palm.

  “I was thinking maybe a Christmas morning delivery would be cool. Like Santa’s stopped by.”

  Steve Mason had really been giving this some thought.

  “Okay, then that’s when I’ll deliver the presents.”

  Growing bored, Isaiah let out a wail, and Cordelia scrambled in her bag for what was left of a bottle.

  “I won’t keep you anymore,” Steve said. “But I wanted to thank you again. Your offer to help has been like a miracle.”

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes and one bowl of ice cream later, Cordelia stood on Will Sinclair’s front porch, the moon shining overhead like a spotlight guiding her there.

>   He opened the door on her first knock, not bothering to hide the surprise on his face. “What are you doing here?”

  “You have a family dinner tonight,” she said.

  “I’m all too aware.” He stood there in the door, a paragon of tangy cologne and frustration. “But we broke up, remember? You tossed our love on the rocks and stomped all over it downtown while a giant inflatable Rudolph looked on.”

  Why wasn’t he throwing himself at her feet in appreciation? “You were being a first class jerk. And Rudolph was definitely on my side. ”

  “You jumped out of the car and walked down the street, shouting your dissatisfaction for all to hear.”

  “We have a large population of senior citizens in this town, so you can probably assume thirty percent of Sugar Creek totally missed it.”

  “What a comfort.” His gaze roamed over her, taking in her candy cane sweater, matching earrings, and the ribbon that threaded through her braid. “You look beautiful, by the way. Almost like you’re ready to come back to me and denounce your public rejection.”

  She bit her lip on a smile. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Depends. Is there going to be more arguing?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Pity,” Will said. “I was kind of enjoying it.”

  Her heart lightened at that rakish grin, and she knew coming here had been the right choice.

  Slipping past him, Cordelia gravitated toward the fireplace where a warm blaze snapped and danced.

  “Where’s Isaiah?” Will asked.

  “My friend’s babysitting. Plus, I told Isaiah what happened, and he’s mad at you right now.”

  “I don’t blame him.” Will stood beside her at the hearth and gave her braid a light tug. “My delivery a few days ago might have been without finesse, but I meant what I said. Your business is fully thriving and—”

  “We’re not going to talk about that tonight.” She couldn’t handle the heavy thoughts another minute. “Let’s go do this dinner before I chicken out and change my mind.”