by Lori Wilde
“Um . . . I . . . um . . .” When was the last time he’d stammered? High school. Just before he’d kissed Christine.
“Did you want to order something sweet?” She raised a hand to brush away a fine sprig of hair that had sprung free from her braid. She wore a blue-and-white-checkered apron that matched the window curtains and put him in mind of an ivory-skinned milkmaid.
Eli fingered his Stetson. “Uh-huh. I want to order a cake for my daughter’s fourteenth birthday this coming Saturday. My neighbor, Ila Brackeen, recommended the bakery, but I didn’t know that you were the owner.”
“It’s all mine.” She spread her arms. “And the bank’s.”
He couldn’t help noticing how the gesture caused her breasts to lift underneath her white blouse. “How ‘bout that. I didn’t even know you knew how to bake.”
“Turns out it was a natural skill I never knew I had.”
“You’ve done well,” he said.
“Thanks.” She limped around the back of the counter and took an order sheet from the drawer.
The limp looked pretty bad. A permanent injury? Eli kept rotating his Stetson in his hands, fingers skating over the brim.
Christine cleared her throat. “What kind of cake did you have in mind for your daughter?”
“Um . . . she likes strawberry.”
Christine smiled. “Strawberry is my favorite as well.”
“Really? I never knew that.”
“Why would you?” Her gaze was steady. Unflinching. Good point. He’d flirted with her in high school. Kissed her once. Had a few horny dreams about her, but that had been it.
She limped back to a bulletin board listing the day’s specials, picked up a pen and returned to the register.
Why did it hurt his gut to watch her walk?
“Car accident,” she said.
“What?” He blinked.
“You’re staring at my leg. It was a car accident. Crushed my left femur. Took eleven surgeries to get me to the point where I could walk this well.” She spoke matter-of-factly.
“But you . . .” Eli swallowed, thinking about her pain. “You never made it to the Olympics?”
She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together.
“Christine.” Her name rolled off his tongue, but in the silence of the quiet bakery it sounded too tender. Too intimate.
Dammit, he cared. He hadn’t laid eyes on the woman in sixteen years, but he cared that she’d suffered. That she’d lost the most important thing in the world to her. Maybe it was because Sierra was almost the age Christine had been the last time he’d seen her. Maybe it was because his daughter loved to run just as much as Christine had. Except where Christine had been a sprinter, Sierra was a long-distance runner.
“So, strawberry cake. What kind of icing?” She clicked her pen, her expression unreadable.
Clearly, she didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want his sympathy. Okay. He got that. Been there. Hated it.
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“What kind of decorations?”
“I dunno.” He shrugged, clueless. “Nothing Christmasy. Her birthday gets lost in the Christmas shuffle.”
“Does your wife have any instructions?”
“What?” He startled.
“About the cake. Does your wife want anything specific?”
Eli met her eyes. “I’m a widower.”
“Oh.” Her chin trembled a little but her gaze stayed unflappable. She wasn’t going to offer him sympathy because she hadn’t wanted his.
“Rachel died three years ago,” he said, feeling the need to explain. “Eclampsia. After the birth of our twins.”
“That must have been very difficult for you.”
“It was.”
A long silence stretched between them.
“Your daughter, what’s her name?” Christine asked.
“Sierra.”
“Tell me about Sierra. What is she like?”
“She’s a tomboy. Helps me with the horses and the kids. She loves horses. She’s my right hand. I don’t know what I would have done without her after Rachel . . .” He trailed off.
Christine reached across the counter, laid a hand on his arm. Her skin was so soft, her touch so gentle. “No worries, Eli. I’ll make this the best birthday cake ever. When do you need it?”
“Her birthday party is at five on Saturday, but I’m going to have a bit of trouble getting over here to pick it up. My oldest son, Deacon, is riding in his first official cutting event that morning in Fort Worth. Do you deliver?”
“Not usually.” She winked. That wink hit him like a kick in the pants. “But I make exceptions for old friends. My part-time help comes in at twelve on Saturdays, I can bring the cake over after that. Will that be okay?”
“Perfect.” Eli settled his hat on his head and gave her driving directions to his place. “Thank you, Christine. It was really good seeing you again.”
“You too, Eli,” she said brightly, but something in her voice told him it wasn’t just pleasantry. She really meant it.
And so did he.
Eli Borden.
Christine smiled to herself as she closed up the bakery and walked the four blocks home. Every house she passed was decorated for Christmas—lights dangled from eaves, candy cane arches stretched over walkways, nativity dioramas sprawled across lawns, blow-up Santas waved from rooftops. A few gray clouds crawled overhead, and a lazy wind blew off Lake Twilight. Christine flipped up the collar of her light jacket and stuffed her hands into her pockets.
She hadn’t thought of Eli in years, but since his appearance in her shop a few hours earlier, she’d been unable to think of anything else. He was single again.
He was taller than she’d remembered. His shoulders broader. Little laugh lines carved at the corners of his mouth when he smiled. But otherwise the same pulse-pounding reaction she’d always had when she was around him transported her back to tenth-grade algebra class, where she could stare out the window and watch him running sprints with the football team. She’d fallen in love with his loose, effortless stride. Now she became that fifteen-year-old all over again, crushing on a senior way out of her league.
So what? Don’t start thinking stupid silly things. When he’d kissed her behind the gym on that fateful sunny afternoon in May, she’d been electrified. And, just as quickly, she’d been crushed when he told her he was moving away. He said he’d been aching to kiss her the entire school year—why had he waited and wasted so much time? But he’d offered her nothing beyond the kiss. Made no promises. She’d only been fifteen, after all, and serious about her running. He’d been seventeen and hankering for a rodeo career. Looks like neither of them had gotten what they’d wanted.
She’d tucked away the memory of that perfect kiss in her heart. If she was honest, she’d admit she’d gauged every other kiss she’d ever gotten against it, and no one had ever measured up. Then today he’d walked into her bakery, swaggering back into her life, and she was feeling all those complicated feelings again. Desire at cross-purposes with what she knew was best. Yet, she had to admit part of her had clung to a childish hope driven by what-if scenarios and Twilight’s hometown myths of reunited high school sweethearts.
Christine arrived at her cottage, pushed open the wooden gate attached to the white picket fence surrounding her small lawn, and ambled up the cobblestone path.
The heaviness of her lame leg made a soft dragging sound against the brick. She adored the house. It had a decidedly English appearance and deep-down coziness. In the summer, the gardens bloomed with the plethora of plants she cultivated. For now the garden lay fallow, covered up by a display simulating Santa’s workshop. Every year, she trotted out the decorations and set them up herself, just like everyone else in her neighborhood.
She unlocked her front door. There wasn’t any real reason to lock up in Twilight, crime there being negligible, but it was the sensible thing to do, and Christine was a sensible woman.
Once inside, she caught herself listening for the thump, thump of Cocoa’s footsteps scurrying to greet her, and then she remembered with a sinking heart that Cocoa was gone.
The house loomed empty without her beloved feline companion. Christine dropped her purse on the floor and with a sad shake of her head, shrugged out of her coat.
There was a message on her answering machine. To distract herself from thoughts of Cocoa, she went over and pressed the play button.
“Hi, honey, it’s Mom. Just wanted to touch base with you. Today we’re visiting the Black Forest, and your father bought me the most adorable cuckoo clock. We miss you and wish you could have come with us. James and Gretchen and the little ones said to tell you “hi” and that they miss you too. We’re all so sorry you couldn’t be here. I hate to think of you spending Christmas Day alone. Don’t sit home and mourn your Cocoa. Go be with your friends. Bye, bye. We love you. And—”
The machine cut her mother off before she could go on. Christine loved hearing from her mom, but now she felt lonelier than ever. Christmas was still ten days away. So far, she’d managed not to think about how she would spend Christmas, other than attending Patsy and Hondo’s wedding on Christmas Eve. Every one of her friends had invited her to spend the holiday with them, but she’d been reluctant to accept. She didn’t want to feel like a fifth wheel at their intimate family celebrations.
Tea. That’s what she needed. A nice cup of chamomile tea and lemon cookies.
She’d come to associate chamomile tea and lemon cookies with comfort after her accident. The high school principal, Marva Bullock, had brought her tea and lemon cookies when she was at the depths of despair.
“Just know that we’re pulling for you, Christine,” Marva had told her. “And that you’re never alone. You have friends, and we love you.”
Those lemon cookies had been so delicious, such a symbol of her friends’ caring concern, that it had spurred her to start her own bakery. To her, baked goodies represented love—the giving and sharing of food, the breaking of bread, the crumbling of cookies. Ever since then, Christine kept lemon cookie dough in her freezer, and when she felt blue, she’d slice off a few chunks and bake them up. Soon the fresh, hopeful taste of lemon would lift her spirits.
But when she went into the kitchen and saw Cocoa’s bed next to the hutch, her favorite toy mouse tucked in the corner, Christine almost burst into tears. She’d had Cocoa since her accident. The kitten had been a welcome-home present from her parents when she’d gotten out of the rehab hospital. Cocoa had been with her as long as her limp.
Christine’s hand strayed to her belly as grief hit her hard. She allowed herself to cry for a few minutes, then she fell back on the bootstrap attitude that made her walk again after the doctors told her she might not.
She swiped at the tears, squared her shoulders. She had two choices. Allow sadness and loneliness to overwhelm her, or put one foot in front of the other and move on.
She’d loved Cocoa, but the cat was gone. Nothing she could do would bring her back. There was, however, a way to bring fresh joy into her life. She remembered what Emma Cheek had told her about the homeless strays at Sam’s shelter.
Determined, Christine went back to the foyer, donned her coat and picked up her purse.
She had to see a vet about a cat.
As Christine was adopting a new cat, Eli was struggling to cook spaghetti with his three-year-old twins running about the kitchen playing cowboys and Indians. His son, Abel, wore an oversized cowboy hat that belonged to Eli’s older son, Deacon, and a toy cap gun strapped to his waist. His daughter, Abbey, had a Native American headdress and a Pocahontas outfit that she’d worn as a Halloween costume.
Abbey was repeatedly patting her fingers against her mouth and making whooping noises as Abel hollered, “Pow! Pow! You’re dead.”
Eli grabbed two potholders and picked up the pot of boiling hot water loaded with al dente pasta, intent on carrying it to the colander waiting in the sink. Abbey, acting out her death scene, fell against the back of Eli’s leg.
Reflex had his knee collapsing at the impact, and it took everything he had to hold onto both his balance and the pot. A few splashes of scalding water hit his hand. He dropped the pot into the sink and quickly stuck his burned hand under cold running water.
“Sierra,” he hollered, “could you come in here and corral your brother and sister before they get hurt?”
A moment later, Sierra appeared in the doorway, arms folded, hands tucked under her armpits, looking thoroughly fourteen and disgruntled. “What? I’m not their mother. Why do I have to constantly be responsible for them?”
He met his daughter’s eyes and said what he wished he didn’t have to say. “I really need you right now. Could you please just take them in the living room and park them in front of the Wii?”
Sierra sighed, rolled her eyes, and held out her hands to her brother and sister. “C’mon Wyatt Earp and Pocahontas. Let’s go.”
“Thank you,” Eli said. “I owe you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She waved a dismissive hand over her head.
Guilt was a tiger, crouching on his shoulders, growling in his ear, You’re a bad father.
He drained the spaghetti and mixed it with the meat sauce simmering on the stove. He turned off the heat and put garlic toast in the preheated oven and wiped his hand on a cup towel. His fingers still stung from the water burn.
Being a single parent was tough—hands down, the toughest thing he’d ever done in his life. There were so many landmines. So many things a guy could do wrong. So many mistakes. Family members helped out as much as they could, but they had their own lives, their own problems. His parents were retirement age and battling health issues. His dad had heart problems. His mom had beaten breast cancer. His older sister, Tilly, helped him the most, especially with Sierra, but she had her hands full with three active kids of her own.
His family had been telling him that it was time to move on, and he knew Sierra had shouldered far more than her share of the burden. But even as his friends and family played matchmaker, he’d never been able to muster much interest in the women they’d fixed him up with. Eli required a lot from a potential partner. Not only did he have to like her, so did his kids. So far, none of the candidates had gotten that far.
But today, all that changed.
For one thing, he’d seen Christine again after sixteen years, and the old feelings came galloping back. Unresolved feelings they’d never been able to fully explore. For another, his normally cheerful, accommodating teenage daughter had turned surly seemingly overnight. He was putting too much pressure on her, and it was unfair.
He thought again of Christine. Of that long ago kiss behind the high school gymnasium. His mind started spinning what ifs.
The next thing he knew, he was picking up the cell phone, dialing information for her number, and asking her out on a date.
CHAPTER THREE
A date.
It was Tuesday night, and Christine had a date. Her first in a very long time. But more importantly, she had a date with Eli Borden.
The skip-hop energy of her schoolgirl crush kangarooed around inside her. Just when she’d been at her lowest point, things had started looking up. She had an adorable new cat to ease the pain of losing Cocoa, and she was already halfway in love with her. A scrawny orange tabby she named Butterscotch.
Butterscotch had assumed Cocoa’s bed and toys with an air of haughty feline entitlement. Christine’s spirits had already started to lift, when her phone had rung. She’d been watching It’s a Wonderful Life for the four jillionth time, Butterscotch purring and pawing her thigh with bread-kneading motions.
She’d
swiveled her head to peer at the caller ID and just about peed her pants when she saw Eli Borden scroll across the readout screen. A shivery hotness poured over her. Don’t get excited. He’s probably just calling about his daughter’s birthday cake.
But when she answered and he asked her out on a date, she was so surprised that he mistook her silence for a no.
“Don’t feel obligated to say yes,” he said. “No pressure.”
“Oh, no, no. I want to go. I’d love to go,” she said, sounding too eager. Ack! Stop talking.
Now, she stood in front of the bedroom mirror, addressing herself with a critical eye.
“Blue jeans or slacks?” she asked Butterscotch, who watched from her perch atop Christine’s bed, tail swishing. She held first the dress slacks to her waist, and then the blue jeans. “It’s a country-and-western concert, but the venue is nice, and we’re going out to dinner first.”
Butterscotch meowed.
“You’re right. I agree. Blue jeans for a Christmas concert is too casual. Slacks it is. Good taste. Your listening skills are on par with Cocoa’s.”
Christine donned the black slacks and a soft pink cashmere sweater that she took from the cedar chest at the end of her bed. She brushed her hair until it shone and dabbed on a little more makeup than usual. She chose a bright shade of red lipstick that she rarely wore, because she feared it looked too flashy. But tonight she felt emboldened. Eli had asked her out.
Knuckles rapped against her front door.
She rushed to slide her feet into flats. Because of her injury, she could not comfortably walk in high-heeled shoes. She answered the door on his second knock, feeling breathless and eager, her heart pounding crazily against her chest.
Calm down. It’s just one date.
But it wasn’t just a date. It was her first date with Eli and she wanted it to go well.
His bracing male scent greeted her at the door along with his devastating smile. He smelled nice, like leather and forest pine and amber sandalwood. His rich fragrance wooed her senses, spun her head. In his hand, he held a clutch of orange and pink gerber daisies.
