by Liz Johnson
“Wow.” Albert clicked off the TV. “He’s something else.”
Liam let out a slow breath. “The reporter? Or my dad?”
“Both.” Albert turned up his mug to catch the last sludge of coffee. “Sometimes I like to remind everyone he’s only my half-brother.”
“You made a smart choice, separating yourself from the family years ago.” Too bad Liam hadn’t done the same for himself. But the money had been too enticing, the life too lavish, for a twenty-something guy to say no to. Thankfully, he’d seen the light last year. What to do with the lingering shadows, now, that was still up for debate. The first step was starting LN Security, LLC. The second step? He had no idea. But if it separated him from his family’s money and reputation, he was all in.
Albert set his mug on the desk with a clatter. “Not without getting a few scars, first.”
“Look, I know my dad has multiple issues, trust me.” Liam picked up the gas can. “But he didn’t run off with the money.”
“Then who did?” Albert raised an eyebrow as he came around the other side of his particle-board desk. He might be a half-brother, but he resembled Vincent more than he probably liked to admit with his dark hair, strong jaw, and thick brows. As did Liam.
Liam shrugged. “Dad says it dissipated. According to him, he believed this would be a good publicity opportunity—you know he’s been talking about running for office. He thought if he could promote the idea of the ‘rich man sharing with the poor man’, he’d get more votes.”
The concept was still morally disgusting, but at least legal. “But he couldn’t keep up with the pay-outs once everyone started signing up, and someone up the chain backed out on him and it fell apart.”
“Always someone else’s fault.” Albert settled into his desk chair, the faux leather creaking. “But this time, whether it was or wasn’t is irrelevant. The media has him in a corner, and he’d be a fool to run for office now.”
“True—but you know better than anyone that risk has never stopped Dad from going for what he wants.” Apparently, Liam had gotten a little of that go-getter attitude from his father—the one positive trait in a heap of negatives. After all, wasn’t he about to risk a lot of carefully saved money on a new business, all for the hopes of escape?
The difference was, if Liam failed, he wouldn’t be taking anyone down with him.
“There’s something you’re not telling me. He’s got a plan, doesn’t he?” Albert steepled his fingers together, his steady gaze holding Liam in place. “What’d he ask you to do this time?”
He shifted his weight. “What do you mean?”
Albert narrowed his eyes.
Liam sighed. “Oh, you mean, other than romance a princess and save the family name? Nothing.”
Albert closed his eyes. “Liam…she’s a client.”
“I’m not doing it, of course.” Eleanor deserved better than that. And besides, his days of toying with women’s hearts—and catering to his father—were over. He enjoyed Eleanor’s company and wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that. This wasn’t her mess to clean up.
Albert opened his eyes. “You do realize she’s going to fall for you anyway?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The fact that you’re Liam Neal.”
Liam hesitated by the garage door. Maybe that had been true in the past. But he was different now. And Eleanor was different. She hardly seemed the type to fall for money or a decent set of biceps. She was deeper than that—deeper than all the women he’d dated in previous years.
Plus, there was one crucial factor remaining.
“Don’t forget, Uncle Albert.” He opened the door, gas can in tow. “Here in Tinsel, I’m Miles Channing.”
Chapter 6
Eleanor clicked off the tiny TV in her room. What a waste. She’d been trying to listen for the weather report while she dressed for the day, to see if there were any winter storms looming, but all the news stations seemed capable of discussing was Hollywood gossip. If it wasn’t about some movie star’s recent divorce, it was about the Neal family and their latest scandals.
She touched up the light dusting of blush on her cheeks, then secured her brush back in her makeup bag. She had a dash of sympathy for the subjects, knowing firsthand how cruel the spotlight could be, but it had become so dreary to hear the negative drama. She happened to personally know celebrities that were using their money and power for good, but those stories never seemed to make the news. Wholesome didn’t sell. All the more reason to lay low in Tinsel and avoid any potential issues while she figured out what she was going to do with the rest of her life.
No pressure.
She really needed more tea.
Eleanor adjusted the clip holding back her damp hair, tugged her new green sweatshirt down over her leggings, and started down the stairs toward the kitchen. She bet Mrs. Hough still had a pot of English tea handy from that morning. She’d enjoyed chatting with her new friend earlier at the breakfast table over orange cranberry scones, along with a few other guests—one of whom Eleanor was certain she’d seen in an American movie in the last few months. Apparently, she wasn’t the only known face looking to enjoy their holiday under the radar.
The kitchen was empty, save for a scattering of leftover crumbs on the counter. She’d just secured a candy-cane striped mug from the mini-tree by the refrigerator when a rustle sounded behind her.
She turned in time to see Miles setting a grocery bag on the counter. “Mornin’.” He pushed up the sleeves of his navy Henley, his eyes tired around the edges but his smile genuine.
She blinked at him, attempting to ignore the fluttering in her stomach at his sudden proximity. Her conversation with Mrs. Hough from the night before came rushing back, along with the myriad emotions of the snowball fight with Miles and her realizing how much she didn’t miss home.
She checked her watch, feigning distraction. “I thought you weren’t coming to pick me up until noon for the Christmas tree farm?”
“Let’s just say I altered your schedule.” He stepped forward and began rustling through the plastic bag. “You’re booked for the next two hours.”
Indignation tensed her shoulders, replacing the rush of attraction. She hated someone changing her plans—which happened frequently in Brightloch, always against her wishes. “What made you think you had the liberty to do that?”
“Well, I’m your driver, right?” He shuffled the items inside, and her offense grew. It was probably a bunch of those over-praised baked crackers he so thoroughly enjoyed.
“Right.” She poured tea into her mug, her hand shaking slightly with adrenaline and restrained emotion. “Which means I give you orders.” She shoved the mug into the microwave and pressed the one-minute button before turning to face him, arms crossed over her sweatshirt.
“Who said anything about orders?” Miles tilted his head, studying her from beneath the hem of the beanie he had yet to take off, despite the warmth of the heated kitchen. A lazy smile split his beard. “Don’t go getting bossy now, Princess.”
His lack of taking her seriously only frayed the edges of her irritation.
She pointed at him as he began unpacking the contents of the plastic bag. “I highly recommend that you, first of all, start shopping with a reusable bag, because that’s a disgrace to the environment. And secondly, that you not take liberties that do not belong to you when it comes to my schedule. I had my entire day planned.”
He ignored her, back turned as he continued to remove the boxed items.
“What if you were interrupting something important?”
The microwave beeped. He continued to pile boxes on top of boxes.
Her heart thumped a double-time protest at his alleged disinterest. She despised being ignored. Her ideas and plans for her country. The improvements to the children’s hospital. Even her own recommendations for the fare served at dinner. Dismissed. Discounted. She’d come to Tinsel to escape the exact sensation Miles was heaping upon her.
>
Something inside snapped.
She lifted her chin, shoved her shoulders back and in her loudest, most authoritative voice, made a declaration about ten years in the making. “I command you to stop and listen to me this instant!”
Miles froze, the muscles of his back corded beneath the slim fit of his shirt. “Too bad.” He slowly turned, stepping back to reveal the pile of ingredients on the counter. Flour. Sugar. Eggs. “I guess these Christmas cookies will just have to bake themselves.”
Liam had never seen a human face wash so white and then flush so red, all in a matter of seconds. “You’re looking a little like your candy cane mug there.” He lightly touched her elbow. “Are you going to faint?”
“I shall do nothing of the sort.” Eleanor kept her chin up, despite the embarrassment that flooded off her in waves. He gave her props for that much.
“No big deal. Just say you’re sorry, and hand me the spatula.” He opened the bag of flour, then guessed which cabinets the measuring cups were stashed in. Voila. Second time was the charm.
“I am sorry. I had no idea you were doing such a…nice…” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed hard as she handed him the plastic spatula. “And then I had to go and…”
Liam set it on the counter by the bag of sugar, then did a double take. “Are you going to cry?” That was even scarier than fainting. He tensed, unsure what exactly he was braced for, but suspecting it had a lot to do with an instinct to rush out of the room.
“Again, I shall do nothing of the sort.” She dabbed at her eyes, turning to lean against the counter.
Dang it, she was crying.
He hovered, unsure how to comfort royalty that sort of seemed to like him, and sort of seemed to hate his guts all at the same time. If this had been a woman he’d been trying to win over back in the day, he’d have played up the hero card. This time, though, he just wanted her to be happy.
He tentatively touched her arm. “It’s only cookies, Princess.”
Apparently, that was exactly the wrong thing to say, because tears began to stream down her cheeks in matching parallel tracks. “But you remembered.” Her voice hitched.
“The story of baking with your dad?” He shrugged. “Yeah?”
“That’s…so…sweet.”
Women were confusing. “Is that bad?” He opened the carton of eggs.
She shook her head, the tears streaming faster.
The urge to comfort replaced the urge to flee. Slowly, he closed the distance between them, then before he could back out of the idea, wrapped his arms around her. The feel of her pulled close against him triggered his heart into overdrive. He swallowed. “I just wanted to give you another good Christmas memory.”
Her face pressed into his shirt, muffling her voice. “You did. This is perfect.”
“Clearly.” He snorted.
“I’m sorry.” She chuckled, then the sound morphed into a mini-hiccup.
His grip tightened around her, even as a ball of nameless emotion tightened in his throat. “You miss him?”
She nodded against his chest, and all he could think about was how genuine that gesture felt. How naïve. How simple. There were no games with Eleanor. No hidden motives. No lurking paparazzi. Just him, a woman he impulsively wanted to make happy, and a few tear-stains on his shirt.
What was happening to him?
“I’m realizing lately I never got to grieve properly.” Eleanor pulled back, pressing against her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. His arms dropped to his sides and he immediately missed her warmth. “Or rather, perhaps I grieved too properly, and was not allowed to grieve genuinely.”
“That’s a little out of my paygrade, Princess, but hey, it makes sense to me. The holidays can be hard enough, even without something like that weighing on you.” He knew. Boy did he know. His plans for Christmas involved a Charlie Brown tree, and maybe making some meat and veggie kabobs on his uncle’s portable grill.
He handed Eleanor a paper towel, and she wiped her eyes, smearing makeup across her cheekbone. “May I?” He held out his hand.
She hesitated, then relinquished the napkin.
He tilted her chin towards him, angling her face down as he lightly scrubbed the towel across the dark streak lining the contour of her jaw. She had a few freckles under that makeup, and the realization hitched in his chest. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was adorable.
Feisty. Sugar and spice…
Her eyes flitted up to meet his, wide and trusting and deep brown like hot chocolate.
And a double load of trouble.
He stepped back, dropping the paper towel on the counter and clearing his throat. Uncle Albert’s warning from that morning flickered through his mind like an emergency broadcast test. She’s going to fall for you anyway.
No. She wouldn’t. He couldn’t let her. Couldn’t let his dad have his way with rumors to save his own skin. Not at her expense.
Even if Liam had to sacrifice his desires along the way.
He blew out a short breath, then forced a smile. “So, what do you think the odds are of Mrs. Hough having some holiday shaped cookie cutters around here?”
“This is Tinsel. I’d say pretty good.” She smiled, the light returning to her eyes. The moment of grief had passed, along with the temptation for ill-timed romance. The old Liam would have risked it anyway, for his own personal gain. This was different. He wanted to be around her, and as her driver for the next several weeks, he had no choice. But it had to stay platonic. He refused to use Eleanor.
Or give her any more reason to shed tears.
Chapter 7
Something had shifted.
Maybe it was seeing Miles in Mrs. Hough’s kitchen with a dusting of flour coating his shirt. Maybe it was the look on his face when he’d realized he’d burned the first batch of cookies, or the even funnier look on his face when she’d impulsively squirted him with the tube of green frosting.
Maybe it’d been the way his rugged expression had morphed into something resembling a little boy’s delight when they sampled the second batch—golden, crispy, and delicious, with just the right amount of sprinkles. Or maybe it’d happened when he’d held her while she shed tears over her father and the life she’d never live.
She wasn’t sure exactly when it shifted—but it had.
And now, standing next to him in ankle deep snow while they carefully evaluated multiple Christmas tree options, she thought it might have shifted so far that she could possibly be in imminent danger of falling.
“What about this one?” She touched a nearby evergreen branch and a smattering of white dusted to the ground like powdered sugar. The tree would look divine in the common room of the Snowflake Cottage.
Miles squinted up at it, then shook his head. “Too tall.”
She followed his gaze, then frowned. “How can you tell without a measuring tape?”
“Instinct.” He moved toward the next tree.
She trailed just a few steps behind, her chilly hands shoved into her pockets. Yet every time she remembered the way he’d pulled her into his embrace earlier that morning in the kitchen, she broke into a mild sweat. “Is that what men call stubbornness now—instinct?”
“That’s nothing new, Princess.” He winked. “Don’t worry, we’ll find Mrs. Hough the right tree.”
“She’s trusting you.” The warning in her tone resonated in her heart. Because wasn’t she doing the same? She enjoyed Miles’ company—more than she’d ever anticipated enjoying a man’s company. Even arguing with Miles registered as more comfortable and homier than the stoic, stiff pretenses of the arranged dates her mother planned. Miles was so genuine—and had a soft interior under the jokes and sarcasm. He’d shown that multiple times already, but never more so than in the gesture of bringing over cookie ingredients. Not only had he remembered the comment she’d made about her and her dad’s favorite holiday pastime, but he’d taken action to recreate it for her.
That went beyond thoughtful. Beyond th
e duties of a driver.
Beyond the duties of a friend?
She pulled in her lower lip. Her talk with Mrs. Hough and her revelation of Miles’ character flooded her memory from the other night, further tangling her thoughts.
Miles led the way down the tree-lined path, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil that the stretch of his coat across his broad back had on the inner workings of her stomach. He looked so handsome in the snow, surrounded by hunter green trees and pristine white powder and azure skies dotted with pale gray clouds. Like he could have posed for the cover of an outdoors magazine.
Miles stopped short—so suddenly she plowed into the back of him, the back she’d just been ardently admiring. She ricocheted off like a wiffle ball as he gestured dramatically with both arms. “This is it.”
She regained her balance and followed his gaze up the deep green tree he pointed to. “It’s nice.”
“Nice?” His arms fell to his side. “This tree is more than nice, and you know it.”
“You’re right.” She touched a piney branch, her stomach knotting in conflict. “It’s beautiful. Stately.” Just like every tree had been in every room of the castle last Christmas. The winter blue decorations in the parlor, the red and green traditional ornaments in the sitting room, the shiny silver and gold in the grand dining room. Everything themed and elegant and show-ready for touring citizens.
Her desire to have the perfect tree in the B&B dissipated. She needed something more.
“I miss the days as a younger girl when I was allowed to have my own mini-tree in my bedroom.” The memory came bittersweet. “I had the freedom to decorate it any way I chose. My dad would come in at bedtime every Christmas Eve night and we’d laugh and attempt to prop toys and my frivolous little hair accessories on those poor drooping branches.”
She shook her head, her smile fading. After her father died, her bedroom tree had never again appeared. Her mom said she was turning into a young woman, and such shenanigans were for children.
