by P. Jameson
All Francesca Brightwood wants for Christmas is a cure for loneliness. Past tragedies have left her with nothing but her home, her family’s inherited flower shop, and a desperate hope that something brighter is on the horizon. In walks Malcom, right off the streets, and her heart takes notice. The honest way he looks at her, like she’s the calm to his storm, tells her there’s a chance her wishes could come true. But the closer they become, the more Malcom’s mysterious history seems impossible to hurdle.
Malcom “Skinner” Frazier is hiding from his past, and trying to heal from a crippling injury. When he finds himself in front of Brightwoods Floral & Gifts, he has no idea the woman inside is just as lost as he is. Drawn by her kindness and the careful tenderness in her eyes, he begins to wonder if she can help him find his way. But when the past comes calling, and all of Malcom’s secrets are revealed, will Francesca accept what he truly is and the future he wants with her.
All Is Bright
By P. Jameson
All Is Bright
Copyright © 2016 by P. Jameson
First electronic publication: December 2016
United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, redistributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in any database, without prior written permission from the author, with the exception of brief quotations contained in critical reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this work may be scanned, uploaded, or otherwise distributed via the internet or any other means, including electronic or print without the author’s written permission.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
P. Jameson
www.pjamesonbooks.com
Other books by P. Jameson
Ouachita Mountain Shifters
A Mate’s Wish (Holiday Prequel)
Deliciously Mated (Book 1)
Ouachita Mated (Book 2)
Merrily Mated (Book 3)
Secretly Mated (Book 4)
Shadow Mated (Book 5)
Brother Bear Mated (Book 6)
Brave Bear Mated (Book 7)
Sunshine Mated (Book 8)
Dirt Track Dogs
Racing the Alpha (Book 1)
Racing the Beast (Book 2)
Racing Home (Book 3)
Racing Hard (Book 4)
Racing Destiny (Book 5)
Home for the Holidays (Book 6)
Dirt Track Dogs: The Second Lap
Dirty Looks (Book 1)
Ozark Mountain Shifters
A Mate’s Denial (Book 1)
A Mate’s Sacrifice (Book 2)
A Mate’s Revenge (Book 3)
A Mate’s Submission (Book 4)
Sci-fi Fantasy Romance
Starwalker (Amazon)
Breaking the Skin (Amazon)
Chapter One
Malcolm Frazier stood outside the small storefront, shivering on the busy sidewalk as people pushed past him in a hurry. Every shove or jostle was hardly felt as he stared through the prettily lit window. Red and white ribbons curled to form big puffy bows. A small green Christmas tree frosted in fake snow took up one corner. Silver balls hung from every branch until it seemed like less of a tree and more like a tin-foil sculpture. Boxes full of probably nothing were wrapped in shiny paper and crowned in curly streamers.
But none of that holiday garb had captured his attention.
Her, something called from inside him. Something akin to a soul, but not. Something he barely recognized anymore. Something dangerous. That one. Look at her smile. The way she touches the pretty things. Like she cares for them even though they aren't alive. If she can care for them... maybe she can care for you.
His heart pounded double time in his chest as he watched the female. She was tall and thick, with bright red hair that fell to midway down her back in wavy curls. She had round cheeks that made him think of apples, and they were dotted with the sweetest pale freckles. But her eyes... he couldn't see her eyes behind the thick glass window. He could tell they were big and round, but the color remained elusive.
It didn't matter their color. She was perfect.
He looked down at his ratty pants and worn-to-hell construction boots he'd traded his jacket for in one of the shelters several months ago. He didn't need it. The cold didn't bother him, even if his body responded like normal, shivering and sputtering. But the boots he’d left home in were coming apart at the soles and walking in them was becoming a hazard. The trade had been necessary.
He stared back through the window at the first glimpse of hope he'd felt in months. Decades even. Because truth was, he'd lost it way before the bottom fell out of his world.
But now there was this. Her. A possibility.
And she was too perfect.
She was like a freshly ironed white shirt and he was mud-caked hands reaching, reaching to crush it in his fists and dirty it.
He watched as she continued to arrange ornaments on a tree. He’d never cared much for Christmas. They didn’t celebrate it when he was young, and when he was old enough to decorate a tree of his own, there’d been no reason to.
He’d lived in the warehouse with the rest of his crew. They had transformed the upper level into a bachelor pad, as close to a house as any of them had, while the lower level was reserved for their business operations. And the pad was no place for homey things like a Christmas tree. It was dirty and stunk of booze and fucking since that’s what it was used for most. Toward the end, Malcom had spent most of his nights sleeping in his truck. Or the park, if it was warm. Sometimes the lot behind the junkyard.
It wasn’t much different than how he lived now, really.
Except now he was broken.
The female twisted suddenly, reaching for some more ornaments and when she did, her eyes caught him staring in from the outside.
Caught. And he didn’t even care. Not really. She’d caught him before, but he wasn’t causing any harm by watching. So he refused to look away.
He stared, locking on to her eyes and wondering again what color they were. If he was on the same side of the glass, he’d be able to see. But he was always outside.
What would happen if you changed that?
He pursed his lips considering. His broken pieces were talking to him more and more lately. Maybe it was a good thing. Or maybe it just meant he was fracturing further.
Malcom sighed as she spun back toward the tree, breaking their connection. It made him somehow feel colder, and damn, he was tired of feeling cold. Not the cold that came from the elements, but the kind that invaded his soul. There was a time he’d felt hot. Powerful. Unstoppable. And maybe no one should ever feel like a god, but he had. At one time. Now he was an outsider. Always on the outside. Always just beyond.
He was going inside. He was going to open the door of the shop, walk in, and feel her warmth again. If he could feel it by just a look from her and a pane of glass between them, imagine how he could burn if he went inside.
But did he want to burn?
Only one way to find out.
Malcolm pushed open the door and stepped into the shop. It smelled like cinnamon and evergreens with a hint of some sweet flower. So much different than the diesel exhaust and garbage he’d grown up on. He drew in a deep breath, wondering if her skin smelled like this. It must. She spent so much time here.
He heard her speaking but hell if he knew what she said, because at that very moment, her eyes met his, just a few feet away, and he could see… they were blue. The softest
blue. Like a baby blanket. And they crinkled around the edges with wonder. Surprise or curiosity. Maybe both. But they were missing one thing he was accustomed to seeing when people looked at him.
Judgement.
His female’s eyes were free of scorn. It made his throat choke up. Replaced the chill with fire. And not the feel-good kind either. He went from frozen to flaming in a breath.
Goddamn it, what was he thinking coming in here.
And even though he was burning, the thought of leaving felt traitorous. He was finally inside. He’d made a move. It was progress. You didn’t fall back when you were advancing. Not if you ever wanted to win. And Malcom wanted very badly to triumph this time.
So he took a step forward. And another. Burning to cinders inside, but needing every flame like an addict.
This is how we heal. This is the way.
But he couldn’t trust the broken thing inside him. Not yet.
Chapter Two
Francesca Brightwood's gaze landed on the shop window and jerked away again, like her eyes were attached to a safety wire and what was outside was dangerous.
Him.
She froze with the glass ornaments dangling from her fingers where she'd been about to drop them on the last remaining tree branches. A flannel themed one, with trippy little woodland animals. She called it the Man Tree because she imagined a burly bearded one standing awkwardly in front of it, trying to pick out ornaments for himself without the help of a lady.
She figured a tree like this could make it easier for him. A bachelor friendly tree. Did bachelors even decorate for Christmas? Or did they like, color a tree on the back of a pizza box and hang it on the wall? She could see that. Easy clean up after the holidays. Just rip it down and toss it in the trash. Maybe she'd just do that this year instead of decorating the big one her family had done for so many years. It just wasn't the same when she was the only one around to do it up.
Whatever, Brightwoods had a Man Tree just in case.
Hands one hundred percent less steady than they were five seconds ago, she eased the last of the ornaments onto the tree, careful not to glance at the window again. Not while he was there.
Him. He was burly and bearded, but she could never imagine him standing in her shop picking out ornaments. Even though he stared inside everyday, the look of longing not hidden by his facial hair and thick winter hat. That he wore without a coat. Without gloves or a scarf. In the dead of winter when the highs barely tipped above freezing on a warm day.
Francesca swallowed hard. She knew he didn't have a choice.
He frequented the bench across the street from her store. Used it to sleep sometimes. Though never during business hours. She'd only noticed when she arrived early one morning to be there for a pre-dawn shipment of baby firs. By the time the sun was up, he was gone. Off to wherever he went during the day. He usually returned in the evening when she was about to close. She wanted to believe he was harmless, but he had no shame when it came to staring.
At first, she'd wondered if he was scoping out her place to take something. But Al's Circuit Center was just around the corner. A thief would have a much better haul there over her little flower and trinket shop. And nothing had come up missing.
Maybe it was the flowers.
People could have strange reactions to flowers. Sometimes a certain color rose would bring back memories of a beloved's funeral. A carnation reminded them of their first prom. Tulips? Grandma's favorite bud. Francesca had learned flowers were like fingerprints linked to memories good and bad. She'd had people break into tears just smelling a rose.
Or maybe it was the window setting. Christmas. Maybe the holidays reminded him of his family, wherever they were.
Or maybe he was just lonely. Maybe he wanted a friend and the lady who owned a festive flower shop seemed like a good option?
She let out a sound of annoyance.
What it was, was she was lonely. She wanted a friend. So badly that she was envisioning potential comradery with a homeless man she knew nothing about and who felt dangerous just from a look.
The bell on her door chimed, letting her know she had a customer. But as she opened her mouth to greet them, the frozen gust of wind that pierced the warmth of her shop, stopped her. It was more than just the chill. The air in the place had changed on a deeper level. It felt… chokingly emotional. Like a pot full of feelings, good, bad, and in between, rising to boil over. It felt heavy, but it danced along her skin, conjuring chills that felt delicious as they did disconcerting.
With a shake of her head, she turned, plastering an uncomfortable smile on her face.
“Hi, there. Welcome to Brightwoods. What can I do for you—” Her voice stopped when her eyes landed on him.
Him.
He’d never come inside before. This was brand new. She was used to him being on the sidewalk, looking inside, making her feel watched and awkward. With his wishing eyes, and solemn expression. But now he was on the other side of the door.
He stood completely still. Eerily still. Like he was afraid of spooking her. Except… she wasn’t afraid of him. She was a fool, sure. Because she felt the vibes he threw off, knew he was somehow dangerous. But now, with him standing three feet away, inside the safety of her store, he just felt… easy. Like he was supposed to be there. Inside, instead of out.
Their eyes were locked for uncountable moments, her blue ones to his gold, searching one another out, until she managed a weak, “Can I help you?”
“Maybe,” he rasped, and his voice was nothing like she’d imagined. It was deep. A bass when she’d expected tenor. Jagged and rough. Like a chipped diamond. And she was far lonelier than she realized, because it had an effect on her. Made her feel warm on the inside, chasing the chill off.
Ripping his gaze away, he looked around, and Francesca took the chance to pull in a stiff breath. Up close, he looked different than he did through the frosted front window. He was taller than her, and widely built. Imposing, even though he was careful not to seem so. A bull in a china shop, and painfully aware of it.
But… he was beautiful. Dark hair, tattoos that peeked out of his shirt collar, full soft lips framed by his beard. He was like a treasure covered in mud. Like he needed a good spit shine so the world could see it.
He eased forward, stopping in front of a bucket full of candy canes she’d set on the counter.
"How much for these?"
"All of them?" Oh, crap. Dumb question. Of course he didn't want all of them.
"Just one."
"A quarter."
He nodded, a line forming between his thick brows. "You take that in pennies? Gave my last quarter to that red kettle thing with the bell ringer."
Francesca's throat clogged up with emotion. He could be lying, but she'd gotten real good at hearing what lies sounded like. This didn't have that sick ring to it.
"Sure," she forced out. "Twenty-five cents is twenty-five cents any way you make it."
She moved behind the counter as he picked out a candy cane. His hands—which she noticed were rough and scarred, but clean—shook, and he passed over several before carefully pulling one free of the bundle. He pushed it across the counter like a person might offer a morsel of food to an injured animal. Barely touching it with the tips of his fingers like he was testing to see if she’d take it or snap.
Quickly, she rang up the amount on the register, zeroing out the tax.
“Twenty-five cents even.”
She watched as he dug in his pocket, coming out with a handful of change and using his palm to sort through it. His fingers shook like rattling autumn leaves as he counted out the change and set it on the counter beside the candy. Her shop was warm so she knew it wasn’t from the cold. Unless it was that bone deep cold from being in the elements too long.
Or maybe the reason he shook was because of something much darker. She’d watched Julie, her best friend in high school, get these same shakes when she’d been too long without her drug of choice.
&nb
sp; Memories of the past poured over her. Painful ones, and ones that went farther back. Back when she and Julie were innocent. Back when she had a partner to share life with, secrets with.
It was hard to remember sometimes, but she wasn’t always lonely. She’d had friends. She’d had her family.
Julie had beaten the addiction monster, but had to move away to do it. Break all those bonds and links to her past life. Last Francesca heard, she was living in Oregon somewhere and owned a successful bakery.
A smile tugged at her lips. She was happy for Julie, even if it meant there were no more late night conversations. No more borrowing each other’s clothes. No more anything. She could be happy for her friend, because she loved her. And Julie cutting ties meant Julie was better.
It was easy to let go if you loved a person. She’d had plenty of time to learn that one. What she wanted was for someone to love her enough to stay.
She cleared her throat and pushed the nostalgia aside, reaching out to sweep the coins across the counter and into her palm.
“Receipt?”
“No thanks.” He shoved the candy cane into his pocket as far as it would go, but the top stuck out. It looked so out of place with his dark jeans and thick flannel shirt. Grunge meets a tiny piece of the north pole.
He didn’t move for the door, and honestly, she didn’t want him to. Her duties running the shop gave her plenty of interaction with people, but none of them went deeper than surface. No person she smiled at while taking their order knew part of her was hurting inside and even if they did, would they really get it? The loneliness. The solitude.
This man could.
She should do something. Get to know him. Maybe his story was as complicated as hers.
With an awkward nod, he turned to leave.
"I have... you know... uh, coffee in the back. If you want some.”
