Frozen: A Winter Romance Anthology

by Melange Books, LLC

  Jake stabbed his brush into the jar filled with a rainbow of muddled colors in cleaning solution. Theresa could be a real witch, but if anyone was going to get him back on top, it was she. He wiped his left hand off on his stained jeans, and then used it to rip open the envelope and pull out the only contents, a single sheet of legal paper. Even folded, the writing was big, loopy, and visibly angry. Clearly written with a sharpie, by a really mad person. He flipped the envelope over to look at the address. From: Sam McLeod To: Jerk Pane. Nice touch. He started to read the letter, which started, Dear Underhanded Business Stealer, and ended with Go back where you came from. Theresa was right. This was definitely personal. Whoever this Sam McLeod guy was, he was in for a rude awakening.

  * * * *

  Sam slid her hand over the ice blocks that surrounded her carving site. She'd gotten the spot she'd hoped for all the way at the edge of the competition site by the forest, so at least that was going for her. After her horrible conversation with Jessica from Minnetonka and a call with Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, the owners of the Lakeside B&B, she spent the whole day planning her competition entry. It was going to be something positively game changing. No one had ever done anything like it before, but if she pulled it off, not only would she win, but she'd never have to write nasty notes to her competitors telling them to leave so she could avoid bankruptcy ever, ever again. She'd be turning work away. She even knew the title of the piece. She stepped up on the ladder to string her company banner, Ice Impressions, across the entryway to her display area. In boots, she was only 5'4” and even on the second to the highest step, she couldn't quite reach the hooks that had been installed by the setup crew. She placed her hand on the top of the ladder to get her balance and then moved her right boot to the top step. She swayed slightly and then steadied herself. This is probably not a good idea, she thought. She crouched slightly and then lifted her left boot to step up. The frosty night air had caused the slush in her treads to freeze making the boot slick, and she lost her balance. Her foot slipped and she fell backwards; the business banner whipped out into the evening wind like a kite tail. She slammed into something and hit the ground with a thud.

  “Are you alright?” someone asked. The voice was deep, smooth, and oaky somehow. It was also very close. Sam raised her head from the snow. Two eyes the color of aquamarine gazed back at her only inches away and she pushed back away from them with a start.

  “Oowww.” In her surprise, she'd forgotten that she'd just fallen several feet from a ladder. Now after the sudden movement, her whole body throbbed. She looked herself over; she was definitely achy, but the pain wasn't severe. She could handle it. “I think I'm okay.” With space between them, she was now able to see her questioner. A guy, dark hair, medium build, maybe 30, 35? Then there were those eyes, those amazing sparkling blue eyes, which were staring at her again. “Nothing's broken.” She caught a tiny slip of flesh from her bottom lip for a moment before her mouth formed into an I-fell-on-you-sorry-not-sorry smile.

  “Well, that's a relief. I mean, that makes one of us.”

  Sam leapt to her feet and rushed over to him. “Something's broken?” she said with alarm, as she knelt and looked him over. He met her with a large impish grin full of almost perfect white teeth. He held up the remains of a tiny ice snowman, which looked to have been beheaded.

  “My Olaf is not going to make it, I fear.” He rose to his feet, and Sam was struck by his height, nearly a full foot over her small frame.

  “Oh.” She extended a hand. “Well, thanks for breaking my fall. I'm very sorry for your loss.”

  The man's fingers wrapped around hers and she felt the tingle of warmth from them move from her fingertips through to her wrist and up her arm. It was the first time in weeks that she felt even the tiniest bit of heat in her skin. She looked up at him, startled, the light of the hanging bulbs that had just come on with the setting sun gleaming in her hazel eyes.

  “I'm S—”

  “Don't you think we're beyond silly social customs,” he interjected. “We've just experienced a death together.”

  Sam's eyebrows arched playfully. “Okay. It was an intense emotional experience. I'll give you that. So no social niceties. What would you suggest?”

  The stranger lifted the Ice Impressions banner from the snow and easily hung one end on the hook.

  “Dinner,” he said over his shoulder as he reached to fix the other side, the playfulness almost gone from his voice. He stood in front of his handiwork and stretched his hands out as if to say, it's the least you could do after I saved you from death by ladder fall and hung your sign for you. This guy was a flirt. A really hot one at that. And it was working. Sam's heartbeat accelerated beneath her canvas jacket.

  “Alright. Let's go then.”

  She stepped up beside him, sort of hoping that their hands might accidentally touch again and completely hoping he didn't want to go Dutch.

  Chapter Two

  “Ice Impressions. That's you?” Jake asked, gesturing back toward the banner as he and the cute redhead walked away from the competition site and down the quiet street past dimly-lit shops.

  She nodded. “Yup, that's me. Well, it's my business.”

  “How long have you been doing that?”

  Her eyes reminded him of a piece of amber he'd once admired in a gallery he'd worked out of in New York, rich and warm, flecked with green, as she looked up to make her calculation.

  “Gosh...” she laughed. “Forever. Are you an ice carver, too?”

  Jake considered this. “Not really. I'm a painter.”

  The woman’s face appeared to relax and her lips curled into a careful smile. In the warm street lamplight, Jake saw her better than he had earlier. She looked young, late twenties maybe, it was hard to tell. Her skin was smooth, dappled with freckles—not the sun kind, the born-with variety. Maybe that made her look younger than her age because her forehead was lightly creased with lines that gave him the impression that she had been troubled by something. His mother called them worry lines. Her face was almost pixyish, but softer. She was certainly pretty, but not gorgeous. Girl-next-door-pretty. Her mouth, though, was an altogether different story. Her lips were full and lush, almost pouty. There was no mistaking those sexy lips; they were... well, very inviting. Though her dark red hair was pulled back into a ponytail, it was thick and wavy and fell below her shoulders. Jake imagined that probably completed a very nice package.

  “Do you paint women?”

  “Sometimes—why do you ask?”

  “You were kind of staring. I thought maybe you were sizing up the symmetry and proportions of my face or something.”

  Jake stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and kicked a small mound of snow with the toe of his leather boot. He glanced up at her. “That obvious, huh?” The rush of heat rising up into his face surprised him. Not much embarrassed Jake, and he was always pretty confident when it came to women.

  She smiled as she bumped into him gently. “Yeah, just a little bit.”

  “Occupational hazard.” He laughed, and bumped her back, careful not to send her into a snow bank with his size advantage, which was significant.

  “This is a good place,” the woman gestured with her head toward a small dimly lit restaurant with a chalkboard outside. She bounced on her feet, the way children do, and Jake realized she was probably cold. Her canvas jacket had seen better days, and her jeans had a hole in the knee. “I know the chef,” she added.

  “If it's warm, I'm good with it,” Jake said.

  * * * *

  They took a seat at a small table by the window. Jake hung his wool coat on the back of his chair. He reached out to take hers, but she shook her head with a tight-lipped smile. The place was nice; it had a refined rustic vibe that made Jake think the food probably wouldn’t disappoint. A side table that held a flower arrangement caught his eye—it was organic and sculptural at the same time.

  “Wow, that’s a beautiful piece...” he muttered.

  The
woman smiled, but returned her eyes to the menu in silence. Jake picked up his and perused it quickly. The meat and fish were local, and the dishes looked like old favorites re-imagined. “I don't know about you, but I could really go for some hot tea before we eat,” he said. “I'm not used to the cold yet.” In truth, he wasn't all that cold, but she was still fidgeting in her seat, her arms wrapped tightly around her body.

  “It can definitely get to you.” She snapped the menu shut. “You should really try the soup though.”

  A waitress came to take their orders. The women seemed to know each other. “Hey, honey,” the waitress said. “How've you been?”

  Sam smiled, “I'm hanging in there, Julie. Thanks a lot. How about you?”

  “Oh you know me, same old, same old.”

  “Yeah, I do. I guess we're going to have the soup.”

  “Smart girl.” Julie winked at them before she headed to the kitchen.

  “Where were you before?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “New York City.”

  “Didn't like it?”

  “Needed a change.” That was putting it lightly. He'd been an up-and-comer on the New York art scene five years ago. Probably one in ten penthouse apartments had one of his works in them. But the crazy life, the partying, the culture of money had taken its toll. One day he had woken up and realized that no one around him really cared about him at all. They were just there for the show. And then he’d bombed several shows in a row. When he looked in the mirror, he felt like a failed sellout. He'd never wanted to do commission work—he preferred the folk art style for himself, but it just didn't fit New York. So here he was, all the way away—Alaska, trying to find out who he really was and somehow redeem himself as an artist.

  The soup arrived steaming in large earthenware bowls. They were beautifully made, the perfect shade of coppery-yellow to compliment the bright red of the seafood bisque whose aroma was wafting toward him making his mouth water.

  She seemed to read his mind. “My good friend Corrie makes those.”

  “Is there anyone around here you don't know?”

  “Not really.” She smiled and drained her spoon, making a quiet sound of utter satisfaction that he had to pretend not to notice. “Actually, I don't know you,” she said, never breaking her eye contact with him. The smile on her lips seemed like a promise that she planned on fixing that fact. Jake definitely wouldn't oppose. She was nothing like the girls he'd dated in New York. For one thing, they'd never climb a ladder or make anything. They probably wouldn't eat at dinner either. And, this girl seemed genuinely interested in knowing more about him. She asked about his family, where he grew up, his favorite artists; she even wanted to know how he liked to work. They were surprised that they actually enjoyed working to the same kind of music when they were creating art.

  After the soup that was better than anything Jake tried before even in New York, she finally removed her coat. She'd been hiding a nice figure beneath the oversized barn jacket. A bit curvier than some of the girls he was used to maybe, but in the thin hunter green wool sweater that clung to her, she looked really good. She was different, and he was starting to think that different was definitely a good thing.

  Jake used the last bite of crusty French bread to collect the few final drops of soup from the bowl. “That was amazing,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and pushing the bowl away. “It might be the best I've ever had.”

  She smiled, but quickly averted her eyes. Beneath her freckles, her skin took on a pink cast. Her fingers toyed with a small piece of tablecloth she'd pinched between them.

  “This place was a great suggestion.” He waited for her to meet his eyes, and then reached his hand across the table to rest it lightly on hers. “I'm really glad we ran into each other at the competition set up.”

  “What a way to meet.” She didn't move her hand, but she looked thoughtful. “Why were you there, anyway?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said you were a painter,” she teased.

  “Actually, I'm a contestant.” Jake suddenly wished he had been more forthcoming earlier. He wasn't sure why he hadn't told her that he was an ice sculptor, too. But from the expression on her face, a mix of crestfallen and confused, he was regretting the call whatever his motives had been at the time.

  “Oh.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No.” She smiled meekly as she moved her napkin from the table to her bowl. “It just seems like everyone is a competitor these days.”

  “Tell me about it. I just got to town, and it already seems like I've got someone gunning for me.”

  “Really?” Her eyebrows arched in surprise. “Who wouldn't like you?”

  “You wouldn't believe what happened to me earlier today. I actually got a—”

  Jake was interrupted by a dark-haired woman in a black chef's jacket. “How was the food?”

  “Oh, Polly!” Sam hopped to her feet. “It was amazing as usual.” The women hugged tightly.

  “Well, I made a special batch just for you, Sam.” Polly eyed Jake with a strange expression. “I've gotta go make the rounds, but I’m so glad you enjoyed your meal.”

  Sam? SAM. Oh, that's just perfect.

  * * * *

  Sam let him help her with her coat. She was trying to hide her worry, but she'd feared she wasn't doing a good job. Somehow, she'd managed to turn a delicious free dinner with a gorgeous stranger into another thing to stress her out. Why had she even brought it up? What had it gotten her? Just another unknown competitor to worry about. She had to win the championship. She had so much riding on that prize money and the publicity she'd get from first place. This guy, however handsome and nice, was a wild card, and she didn't have room for that kind of complication. Not now. Maybe after she beat him. She turned her face toward where his hand was lingering on her jacket shoulder. The chemistry was undeniable, but this, whatever it was, would just have to wait.

  They stepped out into the frigid night. Weeknights were generally quiet in this part of town and this night was no different. A few cars coated with a thick layer of frost dotted the white street, but otherwise nothing was out in the biting air.

  “Where are you parked?”

  Sam thought back to earlier in the day when she'd stashed her battered old pickup about a couple of blocks away from the competition. She hadn't wanted people to know how bad things had gotten. The bank had repossessed her new truck, and she'd been forced to pull old Bessie out of the barn, willing it to carry her through until some money came along. If anyone saw her driving that old thing, they'd know she was on the brink of financial collapse. She'd already been jilted—that was mortifying enough.

  “You don't have to walk me.” The words sounded short as they came out of her mouth. She quickly added, “It's really safe here.”

  “I believe you, but just the same,” he insisted.

  “Really, I'm fine.”

  “Okay, for me then. I don't want to find my car alone. There could be bears.” His unconvincing sheepish smile glittered in the lamplight.

  “Well, that is true...”

  “There you have it. I'm a wuss.”

  “In that case, I'm right over there.” She raised an ungloved hand to gesture back in the direction they had come from earlier. She retracted her arm quickly and stuffed it into a pocket.

  He reached an arm around her, nestling her into his warm wool-shrouded body. His movements were so natural, so nonchalant that it was as if he'd been putting his arm around her for years. He gave her no opportunity to object. Instead, he simply said, “I'll never get over how many stars you can see here,” as he turned his eyes skyward.

  “Kind of different than what you're used to, huh?”

  He stopped and turned, pulling her toward him by her coat. “Yeah, it is,” he said, his voice low.

  They stood facing each other, silent in the middle of the deserted street. His icy blue eyes searched hers as if he were taking a deep accounting o
f everything about her that was different from his usual kind of girl. Sam felt all at once self-conscious and lascivious. The tension building was almost unbearable.

  “And?” she asked her voice quiet.

  He tucked his thumb underneath her chin and slowly drew her face toward his as he leaned down toward her. Sam's eyes fluttered closed in anticipation. Then his lips met hers. They were warm and moist, and lingered softly for a moment, just enough time to send the tingle from Sam's bottom lip over her skin to her very core, before he pulled back. Sam blinked surprise as she looked at him questioningly. A small smile played on the corner of his mouth.

  “Different can be good,” he said. Then he wrapped his arm around her again before moving on toward her truck.

  They reached the parking spot in what seemed like just a blink. Sam was so caught up in her own thoughts and the feel of the strong male arm around her that she had totally forgotten about her beater truck predicament. Suddenly, the rusted out, green heap of junk was only a few feet away from them. Sam drew a deep breath.

  “This is me,” she said.

  He took a brief moment to make out what she was pointing to in the darkness, but then he didn't miss a beat. “My mom used to take me on my paper route in one of these things.” He took a few strides toward it and peered in a window. “She had to keep her door closed with a rope. Anytime one of my friends rode along, they were always afraid they'd fall out.” He laughed, shaking his head at the memory. “That's awesome.” He walked around to the back. “How long have you had this one? We must've had ours at least fifteen years.”

  “This was fun.”

  Jake stopped his investigation of the car in mid-stride. He straightened himself up and looked at Sam. “I haven't really met anyone since I moved here. I'd like to see you again.”

  “But you don't have my name or number,” she teased.