A Season to Celebrate

by Fern Michaels

  Chef, Moira thought. That explained the white lab coat. Then she put it together. How Sexy Aussie knew who she was. He was the caterer. Or, more specifically, the chef at the best man’s gastropub up in Blue Hollow Falls, who’d been overseeing the amazing reception spread. She hadn’t caught his name, or had the chance to meet him, didn’t even know he was Australian. But the glimpses she’d caught of the towering Aussie reminded her that his looks were every bit as sexy as the accent. Yet another reason to get yourself out of this predicament.

  “The lady and I will be leaving now.” Max turned to her and threatening dark eyes made Moira’s blood run cold. “I promise you she’ll be in very, very capable hands.” He squeezed her arm tightly enough to make her wince. “I think she’ll be delighted to learn that paying proper deference comes with great rewards.” The gleam in his eyes told her he was going to take great delight in teaching her that particular lesson.

  Moira wasn’t about to go anywhere, with Max or anyone else. That he thought he’d actually get away with that plan was further testament to his enormous ego. Probably his only enormous attribute, she thought, less than charitably, but given the bruises she’d have to remember him by, she didn’t feel too bad about that. He had to know she’d scream the building down if necessary before she’d let him get her a single step closer to the door. Her main concern at the moment was keeping Mr. Sexy Aussie Chef from getting himself caught up any further in the situation. What is he doing down in Turtle Springs, anyway?

  Moira knew it was in everyone’s best interest to find a way to deescalate things, not ramp them up further, but before she could figure out exactly how to go about doing that, Max settled his Stetson on his head, then made the critical mistake of reaching out and covering Aussie’s hand, which was still wrapped around Moira’s clutch and fist.

  “You’ll get your turn when I’m done,” Max said, with a cold grin. “Now, hurry off before I decide to destroy whatever little life you’ve put together for yourself out in this godforsaken place. Trust me, your girlfriend here won’t be interested in what’s left of you when I get done.”

  Aussie only chuckled at that. “Well, you’ve just threatened the wrong fella there, mate.” Moira’s eyes widened when he broke Max’s hold simply by flexing his fingers, which had the fortunate additional bonus of freeing her hand and clutch. Unfortunately, before she could take aim and swing again, Max swung at Aussie.

  “Duck,” Aussie calmly told her, pushing her head down right before blocking Max’s swing with his forearm and delivering a perfectly aimed gut punch in return.

  Max staggered back, his Stetson toppling off as he banged into several unsuspecting bar patrons behind him. Unfortunately, his hold on her arm had her stumbling with him. She tried to use the momentum to tug it free, even if it meant she fell to the floor, but the men he’d staggered into pushed Max right back toward Aussie, sending her reeling in the other direction, her long dress making it impossible to keep her balance.

  “For goodness’ sake,” she said, jerking at her arm, which Max was now using as leverage to keep his balance. “Just stop it. Let go of me before we both go down.”

  Grunting, Max righted himself, looking a sickly shade of green now from the gut punch. That didn’t stop him from turning on her. “The only one going that direction tonight will be you.” He jerked her right up against him so that her toes all but left the ground, his grip an iron fist now, making her cry out in pain. “And you’re gonna have to be real nice to me, darlin’, to make up for startin’ this ruckus. I’ll be more than happy to teach you some manners.”

  “Okay,” Aussie said from right behind her. “Playtime is over.”

  Max actually pulled her in front of him to use as a shield in case Aussie was going to punch him again. An instant later her now throbbing arm was mercifully freed when Aussie clamped his hand on Max’s arm and squeezed until the weasel of a man let go. Moira stumbled to the side, banging into several patrons who, along with about a dozen others, had turned to see what the commotion was about. She distantly realized that the argument at the bar apparently hadn’t abated either. The charged tension in the air wasn’t only due to Max and Aussie taking swings. The same moment Max went flying backward, booted feet pointing upward as he landed on a table on his back, a fistfight erupted at the bar. In an instant, the entire atmosphere in the crowded lounge took an instantaneous shift for the worse.

  “Merry Christmas to all,” she murmured as she careened into someone else and the mob surged forward. Someone helped her regain her balance just in time for her to see the two young guys Max had approached the bar with an earlier push through the crowd. From the looks on their faces, she assumed they were coming to Max’s defense. They launched themselves at Aussie, making her gasp, then two men standing right beside her jumped into the fray, and she could only hope they were on Aussie’s side. She heard more glass break behind her as the other fight escalated into a full-on brawl as well.

  And then, as they say, all hell broke loose.

  Sally’s whistle did no good and Moira decided she didn’t want to know what, if anything, was being done with the other bartender’s bat. Bodies moved around her too fast to anticipate their actions, much less their reactions. It was like watching some kind of macabre ballet of violence.

  “The door, Moira,” she heard Aussie shout from somewhere over her crouched position. “Stay low,” he ordered. Then she heard a grunt, and flinched, pretty sure it was his.

  She didn’t run from a fight. No Brogan worth his or her salt did. Her parents ran an Irish pub in Seattle, and she’d witnessed a brawl or three in her time, though admittedly none on this scale, with this many people, this out of control.

  “Now!” Aussie shouted from somewhere in the melee, and in that moment, Moira saw a hole open up in front of her between heaving bodies. One that gave her a straight shot, right to the front door.

  Given her size and mode of dress, she had no way to help extricate Aussie from the brawl, but as an officer of the court, there was one thing she could do. Get herself out of there and get the police involved before anyone got really hurt.

  From the sounds erupting inside the bar as she was all but ejected through the front door by the heaving mob within, it was probably too late for that.

  * * *

  All of which turned into the story of how Moira Brogan, licensed attorney still only in the state of Washington, co-maid of honor to the biggest wedding in Blue Hollow Falls history, and demoralized dumpee of Finn O’Doherty, of Donegal, Ireland, found herself in the Turtle Springs police station at one in the morning, paying bail for the person who’d ended up being the one charged with assault and battery. Mr. Sexy Aussie Chef, Hudson Walker.

  He was tall, with long dark hair pulled into a small knot, samurai style, on the crown of his head. He had a gash on his forehead, a knot on one cheek, a cut on his chin, and the white chef’s coat he wore looked like it had been through, well, exactly what it had been through, a bar brawl. And yet he still managed to be quite possibly the sexiest man she’d ever seen. And that was before his face split into a wide, devastatingly handsome grin.

  “Well, it looks like I’ll be the one needing a lawyer,” Hudson said cheerfully, as the deputy let him out of the cell and into her custody. “Know any?”

  Weddings on Christmas. There really should be a law.

  Chapter Two

  Hudson flipped the perfectly folded omelet over in the pan and slid it onto a waiting plate, then grinned when he heard a sudden commotion coming from the other room.

  “What’s going on? Where am I? What happened?”

  “Breakfast is going on. You’re in my guest room. And nothing happened,” he called out cheerfully. “Well, other than that whole bar brawl, mass arrest, and you springing me from the big house in the wee hours of the morning thing, then driving me home,” he added. “Well, I drove me home in your car, and by the time we got here you were dead to the world, so I carried you in and thought I’d let yo
u sleep. Seemed like the least I could do, seeing as you posted my bail.”

  There was no response to that. Instead, a moment later a sleepy-eyed Moira shuffled into his kitchen in her stocking feet, pulling up the front of her strapless, now hopelessly crumpled bridesmaid gown. Her short red curls stuck out in all directions like there had been an electric socket mishap in her not so distant past, the bulk of her mascara was no longer in its original location, and she had wrinkle marks on her cheek from sleeping for nine hours straight in the exact same position. How she could be all of that and still look utterly adorable was a mystery, but there it was, all the same.

  She squinted in reaction to the sunshine streaming in through the long row of windows that ran along the opposite wall, then looked down at herself and frowned. “I’m still wearing my bridesmaid gown,” she remarked, as if puzzled by the discovery.

  “Aye, well, I considered getting you out of it so you’d sleep more comfortably. A task I’ve performed countless times for my sisters in years past.” He arranged sliced melon and several strawberries on the plate next to the omelet, then glanced up and smiled. “Only you’re not my sister, and I figured you’d had enough manhandling for one night.”

  She just stared at him and blinked. “I’ve had a really bad time with insomnia,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “Not anymore,” he told her, his smile widening to a grin. “Coffee?”

  “If there is a God.”

  “I don’t know that He had anything to do with it, but there’s a fresh pot on the counter there.”

  “Bless you.” She shuffled over to the counter where the fancy coffeemaker was stationed. He’d laid out a fresh mug, small pitcher of cream, and a pot of sugar.

  “If you’d rather some tea or hot chocolate, the pot on the left is hot water. Tea and cocoa mix are in the two containers there. Tea bag is on the tray. I can heat up some milk if you prefer your hot chocolate—”

  “Coffee,” she said, and poured herself a mug, took a deep, appreciative whiff of the rich, freshly brewed aroma, then took a sip. Her shoulders relaxed instantly and her eyes closed. She made a soft moaning sound as she swallowed. “I’m pretty sure you’re wrong. Some higher power was definitely involved in making that.” She took another sip, then another, her eyes remaining closed, palms wrapped around the warm mug.

  Hudson chuckled, shook his head, and carried their plates to the small table that was bolted to the wall across from the galley style kitchen. He’d liked her from the moment they’d met, but he liked her even more now. She was a sensualist. Someone who appreciated and used all her senses to enjoy what life had to offer. Taste, touch, sight, scent, sound.

  Truthfully, he’d liked her even before their less-than-conventional meeting. He’d come into the lounge specifically to find her and had observed her handling the man Hudson now knew was media mogul Maxwell Taggert like he was nothing more than your standard, run-of-the-mill barfly nuisance.

  The request to track her down, make sure she was doing okay, had come from her big brother, the groom, before he’d taken off with his lovely new wife on their honeymoon. Without going into specifics, Seth had explained to Hudson that his sister had had something of a challenging year and he wanted to make sure she didn’t close herself off from the rest of the family while they were all in the Hollow. Hudson knew that of the six Brogan kids, all grown adults now, Moira and Seth were the closest. Age didn’t matter when it came to a big brother looking out for his kid sister. Hudson knew more than a little something about that and had respected Seth all the more for it.

  Seth’s good friend, Sawyer Hartwell, was Hudson’s boss. Seth owned and operated a winery higher up in the hills. Sawyer owned part of a century-old, long defunct silk mill in Blue Hollow Falls that he, Seth, a few other close friends, and a good part of the town had rehabilitated and renovated. They’d turned the old place into an artists’ enclave, complete with workshops, and a beehive of shops and stalls run by a wide variety of crafters, artists, musicians, and other makers. The mill had been open for business for a little over a year now, and Sawyer operated a gastropub microbrewery built into the rear of the old place.

  Actually, it had been a microbrewery with a limited food truck menu when Hudson had come on board just after the place opened. He’d been the creative mind behind the menu expansion that had turned microbrewery to gastropub. Live music happened spontaneously on the small stage built into the back of the pub, more so now that Pippa was in residence, and it had become something of a central meeting spot for the locals and the tourists who came to visit the mill, to shop, and to take classes.

  Hudson loved everything about the pub, the mill, and the small mountain town it now supported. He had complete control over the kitchen, the menu, and the staff. All without the hassle of ownership, which suited him just fine, as it meant he got to do what he loved to do most. Cook. It was the dream job he’d never known he wanted, and now he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

  “That smells heavenly,” Moira said.

  He turned to find her still clutching the coffee mug, filled once again to the brim. “Have a seat then, and tuck in.” Hudson adjusted the blinds on the window positioned directly above the small dining table to filter out the direct sunlight.

  She hiked up the hem of the long dress and slid into the bench seat that was bolted to both floor and wall. “Interesting place,” she said, as he moved onto the bench opposite hers. “Looks like something you’d see on board a train in an old movie, with the booth table, the slider windows.”

  Hudson swallowed a bite of omelet, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and grinned again. “It looks exactly like something you’d see on board a train, because it is.”

  Moira paused with a strawberry halfway to her mouth, then put it back down and looked around. The other booths from that side of the train had been removed. The floor had been redone in hardwood, and the opposite side of the train car had been gutted and rebuilt into his galley kitchen. There were no visible windows on that side of the train car, but all the original windows on the table side were still in use. Behind her, the rest of the car had been turned into a tiny bedroom. That had been his bedroom once upon a time, but was used for guests now. Not that he’d ever had any.

  A push through the swinging door behind him led to a short, enclosed passageway that had been constructed around the connector between the car they sat in and the one immediately behind it. That car was his personal living space now. Half lounge area, half bedroom.

  Marveling, she turned to look at the entire car. “It seems a lot more spacious, with more headroom than I remember from the few trains I’ve been on.”

  “It was a sleeper car originally, one of the taller models.” He nodded at her plate, silently encouraging her to eat while the food was warm. “Being as I’m also one of the taller models, it seemed like a sign when I found it.”

  She was still holding the strawberry. “So, you live in a converted train car.” She’d made it a statement, not a question, but he nodded anyway.

  “Cars. There are two of them, actually.” He lifted a shoulder. “I work in a gastropub inside a converted silk mill. Seeing what they’ve done with that place inspired me.”

  Moira put her strawberry down altogether then and peered out through the slats in the window blinds. She immediately framed her eyes due to the glare of the sun off the landscape of sparkling white snow that dominated the scenic view. “All I see is a big open field, mountains, and a whole lot of pine trees. No other trains, and no train tracks for that matter.”

  “I live in two train cars, yes, but not at a train station.”

  She let the blinds clatter back together and turned to face him again, the corner of her mouth curving upward in a dry smile. “Of course. Silly me for thinking otherwise.”

  “A rail did run through Blue Hollow Falls many decades ago when there were plans to start a lumber company up here. I think there was a possibility for mining as well. None of that p
anned out in the long run, so the railway was never finished. What stretch of track remains is buried in an overgrown forest now. I happened upon some of the track while hiking with some friends, and they mentioned there was a stretch down in the valley below with old cars still sitting on the rails.”

  “And you thought, hey, my housing problems are all solved now.”

  He forked up a chunk of omelet and grinned again. “Exactly.” He popped the bite of creamy eggs, mushrooms, peppers, and cheese into his mouth. When he finished, he said, “I’ll tell you the whole story if you promise to go ahead and eat.”

  She gave him a rather considering look. “I thought we weren’t manhandling me any longer.”

  “That’s not manhandling. Bossing around maybe,” he added with a wink, as he loaded his fork once more. “I’m a chef, food is important to me, and I want it to be enjoyed to its fullest. All my work making you the perfect gastronomical delight will be ruined if you take a bite of it gone cold.”

  “Quite sure of yourself,” she said, teasing him, but cutting herself a piece of omelet, all the same.

  “You have tried my coffee,” he reminded her.

  “Truth to that,” she said, pointing the tip of her knife in his direction, while sliding the loaded fork into her mouth. She immediately closed her eyes and groaned again. “Oh my God,” she said, the words muffled as she was still chewing and swallowing. “That’s not an omelet,” she pronounced after she’d finished the mouthful. “That’s like a bunch of eggs and vegetables got together and had a wild and crazy orgy, and everybody was left wanting a cigarette afterward.”

  Hudson barked out a laugh. “I’ve never had my food compared to an orgy, but I have to admit, I rather like it.” Yeah, he rather liked her, that he did. Hudson found himself wondering if Seth had had any ulterior motives in sending his wedding caterer and good friend down to Turtle Springs to look after his single sister. I sure hope so. “I’d love to hear one of your closing arguments,” he said, still grinning. “I bet they’re inspired.”