What kind of show is this?
But Brooke’s question rips me from my thoughts.
“Who says I can’t make a gingerbread house? I don’t need his help.”
Maybe it shouldn’t bother me, but it does. “You couldn’t even fold egg whites. You think you can manage this?”
“It’s not rocket science. Children manage to build them. Besides, I don’t need your breath anywhere near my neck.”
“Like you’d be so lucky.” The girl has a way of getting under my skin in the worst ways.
“Yes.” Gina claps me too hard on the back. “Exactly like this. It’s gold.” Over her shoulder she yells, “Hey, Stevie. You ready?” Without waiting for confirmation, she motions to the four chairs around the table. I take my spot between Rex and Brooke. Gina turns to the camera. The red light blinks the show to action, but Brooke isn’t done.
“I’m not helpless. I manage quite well on my own.”
“That’s why your inn is failing.” I match her whisper, careful to duck my head toward her to avoid being picked up by the boom.
“Oh, shut up.”
“You’ve always got a witty comeback for me, don’t you? Is the next one gonna be about rubber and glue?”
Brooke turns in her chair, slender finger pointed in my chest as though she might stab me with it. “I can’t wait to wipe that smug look off your face. I’m gonna win this whole thing.”
“Not possible. I literally wrote the book on this subject.” Chapter seven in my newest book is purely dedicated to gingerbread house decorating. “It’s not even a fair fight.”
Brooke leans closer. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Lilacs, I think. “I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back. Heck, I could beat you with my eyes closed.”
A wicked thought occurs to me. “But can you beat me with broken pieces?” I pick up one of her gingerbread walls, pinching it between my fingers.
Her eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”
Rex snickers beside me. An audience makes it all that much better. Cameras still focus on Gina. No one will know if I get in a little trouble.
“Wouldn’t I?” I apply pressure. I’m loving this whispering challenge, each sentence bringing us closer together. The gingerbread warps. “Maybe concede that you’re not half as good as you say you are.”
“Oh, I’m every bit as good as I—” The gingerbread snaps in half, cutting her words off. “I can’t believe you did that.”
For a second I waver, feeling horrible that I ruined her chances at winning seconds before we start filming, but she tosses her curls over her shoulder and straightens her back.
“No matter. One broken piece isn’t going to wreck me.”
“How about two?” I stretch for her other pieces, but she slaps my hand.
Undeterred, I snatch a new piece, but Brooke captures my hand in hers. Heat from our silent battle warms my chest. I hate losing. My fingers wrap around a gingerbread wall just as Gina says. “Let’s welcome our gingerbreading showdown contestants!”
Focus turns to us, Brooke holding my hand, me holding the gingerbread, sprawled across her. Gina’s eyes widen, but she recovers quickly. “Of course we have Adriana Ross of the hit show, Chicago Beat.”
I drop my gingerbread piece, smug that I’ve won this battle. Brooke’s glare burns into me like a forgotten broiler. Like a star student, I play along with Gina’s introductions when she speaks to me, confident that I have this one in the bag.
“Okay, you know the rules. You have ten minutes to make the best gingerbread house using only the supplies at the table. Go!”
Like lightning, I grab my pastry bag full of stiff royal icing and start piping. It’s essential the walls are set and drying in the first couple minutes. I sense Brooke’s frustration next to me. Her pieces won’t stay together.
Maybe I should feel bad, but she baited me. Besides, I’m the one with something to prove. I’m the one with my entire future riding on my shoulders. My career is all I have. She could never understand stakes like that. I have to win at any cost. Through the mess of arms, gum drops and candy canes, I catch a glimpse of Brooke trying to make her house work. No way will she make it. She’s in over her head.
I’m a jerk for ruining her on national television. Something about her pricks all the soft parts of me I’ve tried to smother. She’s too morally innocent to torture like this. I’m about to help her out when she does the unthinkable.
She breaks her other pieces.
✽ ✽ ✽
Brooke
I can’t believe he broke that piece on purpose. Yes, I goaded him on a bit, but what happened to an even playing field? Now I’m trying to make crumbs into a mansion made of flour and ginger.
I should be angry at him, but it’s hard when he grins at me, and I feel like we’re on the playground all over again. Mom used to say the boys only teased me because they liked me. It’s awful that a part of me hopes that’s still true.
Still, I’m sunk. Not just the house. But with Evan. He must know the effect he has on women. I think I liked him better when he was a grandma.
My fingers stick to each other better than the walls. Another wall snaps in half. I sigh. I meant what I said. I know I can do this, possibly better than him. I look over the pile of candies and seek inspiration of some kind. But instead I find myself distracted by Evan helping Rex build a candy cane picket fence. He’s not all bad. He seems to genuinely like helping people. Not quite a Grinch or a Scrooge, not really. I look back at my broken pieces.
At least, not always.
✽ ✽ ✽
Evan
Talk about one hand tied behind my back. I spent at least half my time helping Rex and Adriana on their houses. Meanwhile, their houses are masterpieces, and mine’s a barren landscape. That’s not going to beat Brooke. Not that I’ll need much. She’s turned her back to me, determined to hide her creation from everyone but the cameraman. I nearly roll my eyes. Some people are bad losers, that’s all.
I grab a couple sugar wafers for the front door. Quick piping and a sprinkle of sliced almonds make a shingled roof. For the walkway out front, I glue down peppermint candies and fill the spaces between with red sugar.
“Ten, nine, eight,” Gina starts her countdown.
Brooke leans over my shoulder, her breath lighting up my neck. “Hmmm quaint, but kinda contrived don’t you think? Almost expected.”
“I made two other houses first. How are you doing on your one broke down shack?”
“Six, five, four.” The countdown presses on.
“Don’t you worry about me. Your shutters are slipping.” She lets each word hang from her lips, and I’d be lying if I said the same thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Such lovely lips to hang from.
“Three, two…”
I glue my square pretzel windows back into place as Gina calls time. “Who’s ready to show their creations?”
The real celebrities go first, of course. I sneak a few more candies onto my house, despite Brooke slapping my hand every time. When I go to add my penguin made from gumdrops and a marshmallow, she grabs my hand to stop me.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. I jerk my hand back, but she won’t let go.
“You can’t be trusted. You’re cheating. I’m making you stop.” She speaks low enough that I have to lean close to hear her again.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I twist my hand, but she’s tenacious. “You’re crushing my penguin.”
“I’m crushing my competition.”
“It’s a daytime talk show.”
“You know it’s bigger than that.”
“You’ve got issues.” I mean to insult her, but I can’t help smiling. I haven’t had this much fun in years.
“And what about over here?” Gina’s voice catches us both off guard. Six inches from Brooke’s lips, not that I’m counting, I turn into the camera and try not to show my embarrassment.
“Brooke smashed my penguin.”
Sh
e releases my hand. I hold up my flattened gumdrop creation for all to see. To my delight, Rex and Adriana lead a chorus of “Awww.”
“He started it,” Brooke says, leaning back in her seat like a pouting child.
“Now, now, don’t make me break you two up.” Gina wags her finger like I’ve been naughty. I cast a glance at Brooke, wishing we’d been a little naughtier. I walk the imaginary audience through my creation, pointing out the technique used for each section. Of course, I relate them back to my book. I need those sales.
“And Brooke, what do you have hiding under that napkin?”
With dramatic flair, Brooke lifts the cotton sheet from her building. Expecting triumph, my breath hitches hard in my chest.
She made a castle.
Instead of being ruined by the broken pieces, she broke more. Every piece is held together like a stained glass window, white icing poking through at the edges like mortar.
“How’d you get them to stick together?” Gina leans close, motioning for the camera to follow.
“Interior bracing.” Brooke tilts the base to show the camera. Through the open top, I see her secret weapon.
Gumdrops.
She used them like a base and glued the exterior to the foundation, piece by piece.
“I call it Willow Brook Castle.”
“And you’re the princess?” I ask, hoping to throw her off.
She doesn’t falter once. “Oh honey, I’m the queen.”
That brings a round of laughter from everyone but me. Give it to Miss Perfect to steal my thunder yet again.
Gina turns back to the camera. “It’s up to you at home. Text the number on your screen to vote for your favorite.”
I lean close to Brooke, relishing the way she tenses. “I bet you think you won.”
“You know I did.”
“I think you cheated.”
“I think you’re a sore loser.”
I set my hand to the back of her chair, pulling only an inch away from her ear. “I thought you figured out by now, I don’t know how to lose. I always get what I want.”
“And that’s it!” Gina motions the cameramen to start packing up. “Evan, I was hoping you might sign my book.”
“Excuse me,” I whisper to Brooke, “my public awaits.”
Brooke rolls her eyes and retreats to the kitchen. I take the pen from Gina, but pause before I set it to her outstretched book.
“Who do I…”
“Oh, to my mom, Fran, if you don’t mind. She loves your books.”
She misunderstood my question. I’ve never signed a book before. It didn’t even cross my mind to ask who to inscribe it for, not when I have identity issues to deal with. “No, I mean, should I sign it with my name or as Granny McPherson?”
“Your name if you don’t mind.”
I scrawl my signature across the title page, struck by the experience. I’m not sure it’s ever sunk in before that people would want to know me. For the first time, I think about the thousands of cookbooks with my recipes all over the world. Gina’s book opens the door for the rest of the crew, and even Rex and Adriana, to ask for their own autographs.
I glance toward the kitchen. Brooke haunts the doorway, only a sliver of her visible through the crack in the door. It falls shut. I’m sure Andrew wants me to go after her, make some gesture and stir the pot, but I hold still. I won’t be here forever. She’s a brunette. Hardly my type. She’s wholesome, smart and pure. Not my normal crowd. Best to keep my distance when the cameras are off. But as I retreat from the solarium, I snag her gingerbread castle from the table.
✽ ✽ ✽
Brooke
It’s not like I’m avoiding him. Some of us have work to do. I add four more envelopes to the stack of bills waiting to be paid. Only half are past due. I don’t have time to think about Evan, or his dreamy eyes, or crooked grin, or the way my heart races when he stands close. I certainly don’t have time to obsess about the way his thumb felt on my lips. With the town Snowball Showdown tomorrow, there’s too much to do to stand around day dreaming about how it might feel to have Evan’s arms wrapped around me.
I organize a sleigh ride for Rex and Adriana. They offer to save some space for Evan and me, but an afternoon watching them make out while I stress over bills sounds like pure torture. When they return, I call a driver to take them, Evan, and most of the crew to a restaurant in town for dinner and drinks. I don’t hear them leave, but the town car returns around eleven p.m. while I’m still sequestered in my office.
Through the icy window, I watch Evan help Adriana from the car. My mouth goes dry at the way his suit highlights all his masculine features. I could’ve gone with them. For a second, I let my mind wander to a night next to Evan, dressing up, playing the part, letting him pull close all over again.
Banishing the thoughts, I sit back at my desk. I have six more guests checking in tomorrow morning. Thankfully, none are celebrities, but still likely Evan’s fans. Let them fawn over him and feed his inflated ego. My world doesn’t revolve around the infuriating, obnoxious, six-foot celebrity chef hunk in the west wing.
My thoughts do, but that’s another story.
I fall asleep at my desk. Waking up in a pool of spit, I detach myself from my keyboard. My stomach growls. Three a.m. is generally Evan’s prime baking time, and I’ve eaten my stockpile of snacks. I did buy his supplies. It’s only fair that I get to eat the spoils.
The house is quiet, only my footsteps echo down the stairs. I move to the kitchen, brace myself and push open the door. As usual, the table is filled with baked goods. A couple dozen thumbprint cookies, two loaves of bread, the leftover sweet rolls, and a tray of tiny sandwiches. I press my lips together to keep the drool in. Grabbing a plate of sandwiches, and tucking a loaf of bread under my arm, I make a quick exit.
Before I jog up the stairs, a sound catches my ear. I reverse, searching it out.
“Dang it,” the voice says again. I tiptoe down the hallway, headed for the living room. Edging around the open doorway, I spot Evan on the couch. Splayed in front of him are broken gingerbread house pieces, a stack of gumdrops, and enough icing to frost every cake in every one of his cookbooks. Piece by piece, he sets broken gingerbread to the gumdrop foundation. With careful expertise he tries to glue them together, but they fall off into a mess of sweet goo.
Maybe I shouldn’t feel this smug, but the idea that I’ve rattled him for once brings way too much wicked joy to my heart.
I groan internally.
Now who’s the Grinch?
Chapter 8
Brooke
Guests arrive earlier than I expect, but thankfully my midnight baking elf has taken care of breakfast for them. Sweet apple fritters with fresh apple cider wait on the dining room table. At least I know why he needed thirty pounds of apples. I retreat to my room, change into my snow clothes, and barely make it downstairs before the cars start pulling into the parking lot.
For years Willow Glenn, the nearest town to my country inn, has been having a snowball fight. Last year they had problems with traffic interfering and couple of kids got hurt. Not anything serious. A sprained wrist, a bruised knee, but the way the locals talk about it, it might as well have been a massacre.
Enter Willow Brook Inn.
Knowing I needed the positive press, I offered to let the town host it on the rolling hills lining my property. Granted that was at my opening over the summer, before Granny McPherson and not making bills. My dad used tell me no good deed goes unpunished. I’m sure this fits under that bill.
“Well howdy ho, innkeeper-ette!” I recognize the voice immediately. John Tucker, the town mayor. I’m a happy person, but his sunshine personality makes me look like a gloomy day in the dead of winter. “You ready to sling some balls?”
I cringe at his phrasing. “I thought it was just the kids playing.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. Your friend has some mighty fine ideas. I think we’ve got teams forming. You might want to jump in be
fore he’s got all the good ones.”
I hitch on his words. “My friend? You mean Winnie?”
The mayor waves me off. “I haven’t seen Winnifred yet this morning, but your buddy Evan has been teaching the kids a thing or two about the snow, that’s for sure.”
“Evan?” I search the white hillside while rubbing my hands together. I’ve never been one for the snow. Another reason why this inn might have been doomed from the start. I spot him on the hill, a crew of fifteen kids spread out in front of him like troops awaiting instructions from their general.
This won’t end well.
✽ ✽ ✽
Evan
“Okay, the really little kids are on the far side, so we don’t have to worry about them. You, my young warriors, need to split into two teams.” Movement on the field catches my attention, movement in the shape of a five-foot-five angry innkeeper. “Shoot, the enemy found us. Scatter, troops, scatter.”
It’s too late. None of us make it real far. Brooke snags the two largest boys by the ears and drags them back to me.
“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Skruggs?”
“Evan.” It must be the tenth time I’ve corrected her. “We’re having a snowball fight.”
“Miss Brooke,” the smallest boy speaks up, “Evan helped us make some snow forts. We’re gonna play capture the flag with snowballs. That’s okay, right? Please?”
A chorus of whining rises up from the crowd of kids. I catch Brooke’s eye and smirk. Want to talk about winning? I’m pretty sure I’ve got this one in the bag.
“Fine.” Her arms collapse to her sides. “If that’s what you guys want, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Well it’s not just that, Miss Brooke.” I emphasize the name the kids use, because I know it’ll drive her nuts. Her jaw tightens and my smile spreads. “We need another team captain.”
She looks over the crowd of kids and points to a redheaded boy in the back. “Jeremy will do fine.”
“Miss Brooke.” A small girl pulls on the innkeeper’s snow jacket. “You promised you’d play with us.”
Christmas With Granny McPherson Page 6
