Whispers of Winter: A Limited Edition Collection of Winter Romances

by Nicole Morgan

  Overcome with sentiment, I let her friendship fill me, making me feel whole again. However, Bethany had a way with words. “The Creep-—what a perfect label. Or liar. Or cheater. And FYI: I. Didn't. Sob.”

  “Righty-o. If you say you didn't sob, you didn't sob.”

  “You know I didn’t. I was furious because he was such a jerk. I wanted to kick his keister.” With a swing of my leg, I demonstrated exactly how I'd execute the deed kung fu style.

  “No joke. I'd aim for his VIP areas,” she said.

  My eyes rounded in a faux shocked mode. Setting my splayed hand to my cheek, I said, “I had no idea you were so violent.”

  “You should be grateful that relationship is finito.” Standing, she gripped my upper arms, giving me a tiny shake. “You know he didn't treat you special.” Shake. “Didn't do the little things like...buy you donuts.” Shake.

  How I wished I had identified The Creep's incompatibility from the get-go. Breaking from her grasp, I pointed at her. “Nor rub my feet. God, I love foot rubs.”

  She pointed back. “Or bring you lunch. Or flowers for no special occasion.”

  “Exactly.” I shrugged and threw my shoulders back like a Marine at attention to convey how I'd moved on. “A primo reason for why I wasn't invested too much emotionally.”

  “You were invested in”--she ripped a neon orange sticky note off a desk drawer and read--“exactly six months, twenty-eight days and forty-one minutes and broke up fourteen days ago.”

  My eyes went wide. I hadn't expected her to memorialize the moment. “You remembered exactly how long we dated and when we broke up?”

  “Sure. You texted right after his termination email, which goes down as the tackiest thing ever. I scribbled the momentous occasion on this.” She shook the sticky note at me. “Best girlfriends remember all the highlights.”

  “And lowlifes. I wasted too many hours on him.”

  “Break-ups are emotional. It's hard.” She tapped the paper I held. “So, will this recipe work?”

  I studied the sheet carefully. “It's perfect. Question: are candy orange slices still available?”

  “Absolutely. Saw them the other day at Super Saver in the sweet treat section shelved next to the circus peanuts, my mom's personal favorite.”

  “Then I'm set.”

  “Except for the”—-she wiggled her fingers in quotation marks—-“competition.”

  “Like you said, if Crazy Wanda puts in a submission, it's not a problem. And since you don't participate, I see victory on the horizon. In fact”–-I shaded my eyes and stared into the distance-—“almost taste it. And it tastes like...oranges.”

  “Very confident, aren't you?”

  “Hey, someone has to be.”

  “So that leaves--”

  “The hunk from the pool,” I said.

  “Do you really think some guy will make anything for an apartment complex's holiday baking contest? I can't believe he would.”

  “We haven’t had many entries from guys.”

  “Who knows?” She flopped in her chair and resumed the swiveling. She sing-songed, “Men...are the...strang-est... creatures.”

  I turned for my work cube, letting my words trail after me, “The most truthful statement I've ever heard.”

  Another Friday night and I'm all alone. I could have joined Bethany and her Mr. Wonderful for the annual tradition of watching the time-traveling Snowman movie and eating take-away pasta, but I’d said no. In recent days, I'd been a fifth wheel more than I could count.

  Instead, I carried my wicker basket filled-to-the-top with soiled clothing to the laundry room. The ceiling light gave off a butter glow while a dryer hummed a soft whumpa-whumpa, sounding soothing in a “familiar from home” style.

  After setting the basket of dirty clothes on a washer, I opened the two next to it, being careful to toss whites in one and the rest in the other because I sure didn’t want the red T-shirt to turn my plain jane panties pink. I dropped a detergent packet in each, and for the whites, threw in a non-bleaching additive.

  The moment after I closed the second lid, Mr. Va Va Va Voom from the pool came in. I clasped my undies to my chest. Something there clutched in an excited grab, the kind that makes one’s heart go all springy, like receiving an unexpected bouquet of beauteous flowers and cutesy puppies rolling on the floor. He wasn't hard to look at, not at all, and truthfully, wouldn't be no matter what he wore or at whatever age he attained.

  Dressed for the occasion in blue jeans and a ratty gray Henley, he caught me staring at him and winked while setting his plastic basket on the washer across from me. Walking my way, he extended his hand. “Hi. Dixon Roberts. Didn't I meet you by the pool a while back?”

  “You did.” When I slid my hand into his grasp, a heat flashed up my fingers to my wrist. An embarrassing burn continued to my hairline and inched along my face. “Samantha Greene.”

  “Nice to see you again, Samantha.”

  I ducked my head. “My friends call me Sam.”

  “Sam,” he tried, and then shook a negative. “Works for guys, but not for a pretty redhead like you.”

  “You're just trying to charm the pants off me...” My eyes ballooned so large, I thought they would explode. I gasped, “I-I didn't mean it, not like that.”

  A twinkle reminiscent of flashing Christmas tree lights fired in his eyes. His chuckle was low and slow. “I'm sure you didn't.”

  “Never mind.” I waved my arms around erratically, like shooing a fly with too many sweet places to land. “Let's start over.”

  “Deal.”

  “Sooo, Dixon.” In a nonchalant move, I propped an arm on my basket still sitting on the washer. “Laundry date on a Friday night?” Being extremely nosey entitled me to an express ticket marked for hell.

  He returned to his washer and opened the lid, stuffing in random garments. Lifting a finger, I considered sharing the lesson about mixing different colors of clothing but held my tongue. After all, a grown man should have mastered Laundry 101 by now.

  “Yup.” He picked up a runaway sock and popped it in the appliance. “Since I'm new in town, I haven't met many people till you and your friend, the little dark-headed gal-—”

  “Bethany.” I narrowed my brows. “But I'm pretty sure you've met at least one other neighbor. Didn't Cra, er, Wanda pop by with cookies? I heard her say she would bake you some.”

  He squinted at me. “Did you almost say Crazy Wanda?”

  “Oops.” My fingers smothered my lips. I mumbled, “Don't tell. A slip-eth of the mouth-eth.”

  His finger zippered across his kissable—-kissable?-—lips. Kissable could be rushing things, but they were. Thin ones spread into a wide, attractive smile, revealing straight white teeth.

  He said, “An over-tanned blonde with frizzy hair did stop by with cranberry and pistachio white chocolate chip cookies.”

  “That's Wanda. Cranberry and pistachio white chocolate chip is a new variety.”

  “I’m feeling like a guinea pig.”

  “I'd say so.”

  “She brought by a second batch. Rosemary peanut butter gingersnaps. After one bite, I tossed them. Hard as a hockey puck. Dunking in milk didn't help either.” He shot me a pleading face. “Don't tell.”

  I held back a laugh. My finger went to my lips, turned an imaginary key which I tossed over my shoulder. “Mum's the word.”

  “She did act a little weird. She wouldn’t leave. The second time, I nearly closed the door on her foot to give her the hint. Her combat boots saved her toes.”

  I stuck quarters in the washer’s coin slot. “That's our Wanda.”

  “Do any of her clothes match?”

  “No. Wait until you see her Christmas outfits.”

  “That bad?”

  “Let's be nice and say that interesting.” I bobbed my eyebrows. “She likes odd T-shirts for other holidays, too.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I'll run far away when I see her coming.” He tossed in laundry soap, added
his change, set the buttons to wash, and plunked himself in an orange-molded plastic chair, an indestructible relic from the seventies. He checked his phone. “Twenty-five minutes until this load is done. You?”

  I looked at my phone. “About the same.”

  “Want to go for a coffee with me?”

  Now, his eyes glittered like sparkling snowflakes, or what I remembered them to be since we rarely had a decent snowfall in Sommerville. His suggestion sent delight zooming to my heart. I grinned back. “That’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

  He asked, “How about we try the theater across the street? I've stopped in since moving here and watched some interesting things in the screening café.”

  “I love going there. Maybe silent flicks are showing.” A magnetic energy drew me toward him. My palms smoothed down my jean-clad legs. I wriggled my ragged sweatshirt sleeves into place. I should have dressed nicer. Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda.

  I said, “I'll grab some money and a jacket.” And change clothes.

  “Nah, be spontaneous. I've got you covered.” Rising, he pinched my sleeve and dragged me—-willingly-—to the door. Five minutes later, we were at the theater's coffee bar, ordering a short one for him and a small hot chocolate with double whipped cream for me. After he'd paid, I thanked him in the manner my mama had raised me to-—nice and polite.

  We settled into the mocha-colored leather sofa facing a white wall. Currently released films were featured upstairs in the main theaters. In the café, cartoons were projected onto a blank wall which subbed as a screen. As he sipped, I asked, “Wonder what's showing tonight?”

  He twisted about to read the blackboard over the back counter. “Hey, my favorite funny bunny.”

  “As in Bugs Bunny?”

  He nodded.

  “I love those cartoons.”

  “‘Barber of Seville’ is the best.”

  “Don’t forget ‘Duck Season.’”

  He raised his mug and toasted me. “A girl who likes cartoons has good taste.”

  I peeked up at him through my lashes and smiled shyly, then sipped my drink. The liquid did its warming magic on my hands and feet. The cartoon started.

  “Uh, Samantha...” Leaning closer, Dixon rubbed a straight line across his top lip.

  I mimicked his gesture.

  “No. Here.” His finger touched my upper lip. He very gently, wiper-swiped my top lip from corner to corner. When done, he showed me the digit coated with cream and smudged it on a paper napkin. If he had licked his finger, I would have dissolved into a puddle.

  The electricity was wild. I couldn’t move, my mind unsure and uncertain about what he was doing. “Thanks.” I gave a final sweep with the tip of my tongue, followed by a cleanup pat with my napkin. “Pretty now?”

  “Very, like Miss America.”

  “Ha. You mean a Miss America wannabe.”

  “No.” He locked a studious gaze on me. Flutters played havoc in my belly. “You're the real thing.”

  I became quiet, thoughtful, even introspective. Dixon's compliment had meant a lot, but The Creep had made me gun-shy. At the sound of the other customers laughing at the funny bunny antics, I snapped back to reality.

  We concentrated on the cartoons, our laughter rocking the room. When a break came between the flicks, he said, “Can I ask you something?”

  The way he stared at me, all serious and business-like, made me edgy, even resurrecting my insecurities. Dixon was nice; however, right now, he seemed a little intimate.

  I placed my empty mug on the coffee table and prepared myself by stuffing my fists in between my thighs. “Okay.”

  He reached into his pants’ pocket and removed what I recognized as the flyer for The Great Fruitcake Bake-off. Passing the leaflet to me, he said, “Somebody stuffed this in my mailbox.”

  Whew, this I can deal with. “That's for the complex's holiday baking contest, The Great Fruitcake Bake-off.” I traded it back. “I enter every year. Won a few ribbons.”

  “You must be a top-notch baker.”

  I lifted one shoulder. “I like to bake. My grammie taught me. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought about trying. My aunt has a pretty good recipe.”

  “That would be awesome. We need more guy entries.” I tipped closer. “You know what the best part is?”

  “I’m clueless.”

  “After the judging, we get to taste everyone's dessert.”

  He extended his palm toward me. “I'm ready for a slice right now.”

  “Me, too. I can never have too much cake. Word to the wise—-don't eat Cra, er, Wanda's. Too much almond flavoring. You'll walk away with the urge to spit for the rest of the day.”

  “I'll remember.” He checked his watch and jumped to his feet. “Shoot. The laundry. We've been gone for an hour and a half.”

  “Whoops. Run.” I shot to my feet and race-walked to the café's doors. Being the perfect gentleman, he forced one open. A strong wintry blast thrust us back inside, sending my hair flying in a wicked witch contortion.

  Dixon said, “Man, it's freezing out there. I should've let you grab a coat.”

  I hugged my body. “I'll survive. It's not far.”

  His left to right glance surveyed the street. “Yeah, but it's colder now. The front came through.”

  “I can do it. We can run.”

  “Not against this wind. Let me.” He wrapped an arm along my waist and the other across my breast bone, tucking me tight into his side. “Put your arm around me.”

  I did as instructed. My pulse pounded like a huge base drum.

  “Good. I'll be your body block like the football stud I was in high school.”

  Is that where the big broad shoulders came from? I said, “Football stud? Rather egotistical, aren't you?”

  His laugh was long and hard. “I'm my best advertisement. Hint, hint.”

  His humor tickled me, and I liked it. “I'd say so.”

  Looking back, The Creep had not been this considerate. His “each man for himself” philosophy had applied to women—-especially me. Too often, I'd found myself playing catchup to his long strides. Terribly annoying. However, with Dixon's essence slipping into my pores, a humming of sensations and feelings rotated tornado-style throughout my body. Seriously, how could anything ever feel any better?

  The powerful gusts had us staggering home, but I didn't complain. Having Dixon hold me was definitely not a horrendous thing. I didn't want him to stop—-ever.

  Once we reached the complex's door, he did release me to open it. I went straight to the elevator, vigorously rubbing my hands along my arms to stimulate circulation. While stabbing the call button, he reached my side and I snuck a peek at him. Our gazes intersected. In his, I saw a flash of...pos-si-bil-i-ties. I smiled, flushing any thoughts of The Creep down the proverbial toilet.

  The elevator doors parted, and we stepped inside. The lift deposited us in the basement where we exited into the laundry room.

  But all was not as we'd left it.

  His finger scratched his temple. “What the heck?”

  Our soggy clothing had been dumped on top of our washers, the penalty for a laundry etiquette faux pas. I sighed. “As Bethany would say—-rats. Come on.”

  I sorted my wet clothing in one dryer and the delicates in another. He dropped all of his back in his basket and roved around the area for a free dryer. None were available. I'd been a genuine pig when I'd taken two.

  Throwing open my appliances, I said, “We can add your stuff to mine. There's plenty of space.”

  His mouth twisted into a half-grin. “If you're sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I shouldn't impose.”

  “No imposition. The least I could do since you bought me a hot chocolate.” With a smile, I took his basket with the mixed-up clothing. I pitched them in with mine. “I'm thinking you’re cootie proof.”

  On the following crisp and cool Saturday, Bethany and I strolled to the community center to register for the Bake-off
. After I'd completed my application and paid the fee, a reasonable donation to raise money for the neighborhood library, we mingled for a bit with the other residents. While taking a sip of cranberry punch, I noticed Crazy Wanda across the room, stationed by the cookie tray. Undoubtedly, she'd brought another new novelty she'd baked and sought fresh victims to pounce on. I steered clear of the treats.

  Today, Wanda wore a favorite from her collection of hand painted Christmas T-shirts. Stabbing her companion's chest to punctuate the point she'd made, she conversed with none other than the human in reptilian form, Jake-the-Snake.

  Last summer at an apartment-sponsored pool party and barbecue, I'd met Jake-the-Snake at the same time as Dixon. His oily “hey, baaaaby” 'tude drove me to the deep end where I stayed until my fingers morphed into prunes, and ultimately, missed the opportunity to get to know Dixon better.

  A surplus of hair goo coated Jake's thin slicked-back strands. Tight black leather pants covered his legs. To top off his ensemble, he'd stuffed himself in a sheer, torso-clinging turtleneck which enhanced his slight paunch and flabby pectorals. He spotted me staring at him and aimed both hands in the “shoot 'em up” manner, the one uncool dudes did, then winked.

  Gross. I shuddered inwardly, repressing the urge to upchuck. Like the good guys escaping from the villians in most Western movies, I wanted to hightail it for the next county and hide-out in a limestone cave.

  Bethany glided next to me, holding a paper cup filled with punch. When someone squeezed past us and jostled her arm, droplets spilled on her sweater front. “Rats. This is brand new, too. It had better not stain.” With a disgusted pout, she brushed the drips away with her napkin before the garment could be damaged.

  I glanced at the spot. “I think you're good to go.” I barely directed a finger across the room. “Guess who's talking to Crazy Wanda?”

  After a quick glance, Bethany's body seized in quivers. “She has terrible taste in men. There’s no word worse than ick to describe Jake. Someone should get up the nerve to tell him real men don't wear bikini styled swim trunks and never is it acceptable to accentuate man-parts. It's just wrong.”