by Melissa Tagg
“I didn’t break in. I used your spare key. You should probably find a better hiding place, by the way.”
“Get. Out.” The last remaining chunk of her ponytail fell loose and swooped over her ear.
“That is no way to treat your would-be savior.” He reached behind to close the door.
“What are you—?”
“I’m going to help you put your house back together.” Like she’d begrudgingly helped him clean up his workstation so many times after class. Probably best not to remind her of that.
Both of her arms raised, flopping sleeves and all, in exasperation. “What about me saying ‘get out’ makes you think I want your help?”
The crack of splintered glass sounded under his shoe. “We’ll probably need a broom and dustpan.”
Rylan opened her mouth. Closed it. Then simply whirled and disappeared from the room.
He shrugged and moved farther into her living space, reached down and set her coffee table to rights. Kind of a cool one, really. Looked like it might be made of reclaimed barn wood or something. Actually all the furniture in this room had a unique flair. A rocking chair that was clearly an antique, but with cushions that appeared re-covered with a sprightly green print. Intricately carved fireplace mantle.
Drew would love it all. His older brother had taken the plunge and opened a carpentry business earlier this year. Probably wildly successful already.
Well, if Rylan would give him half a chance, if she’d just hear him out, maybe someday he might be successful, too. No more part-time modeling and acting gigs. No more faking his way through drama school adjunct teaching or a slew of random temp jobs.
He was good in the kitchen. He knew he was. Every girl he’d ever charmed with a candlelit, homemade dinner had told him so.
More importantly, Mom had. Over and over as a kid she’d told him how creative he was with flavors and textures. He’d waffled between embarrassed and proud at her praise. Between thinking baking was a sissy hobby and wondering if maybe there was a reason he so often found himself helping Mom and Grandma in the kitchen rather than hanging out with Dad or Grandpa in the woodshop or cornfields.
Or maybe it was just easier being around Mom than facing Dad’s constant gruff disappointment.
Maybe. But surely it wasn’t a pipedream to think there might be some kind of purpose for his natural talent and instincts. Where Drew could see a few slabs of wood and envision a desk, Colin could eye an assortment of ingredients and dream up a tantalizing dessert.
If he could just convince Rylan—
“You’ve got a serious case of wishful thinking if you assume cleaning up my living room is going to impact my decision on whether or not to kick you out of my class.”
He turned. She held a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other. And there went those eyebrows again. Honestly, they’d be an oddly attractive feature if they weren’t dipped into such a deep V all the time.
“I’m helping you clean up because I’m nice. That’s all.” Lie.
But he could hardly tell her the truth. That, yes, he was here because he planned to talk his way into her good graces. But also because, well, he couldn’t sleep last night. He couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t stop replaying that moment in Rylan’s classroom when Potts had asked her about her holiday plans.
Such a simple no, she’d uttered. He didn’t think she even realized how it’d come out. A forlorn little whisper.
Call him crazy, but he’d actually felt sorry for her. The churlish instructor with the wild hair had tugged on his sympathy until the idea had hatched itself. He just had to find a way to issue the invitation that wouldn’t make it seem entirely daft. Which he was pretty sure it was.
“How did a cat do so much damage anyway? I don’t understand how . . . wait. Your cat. I let her outside.” What if she . . . he . . . it . . . wasn’t an outdoor cat? Good job, Renwycke. Give her another reason to despise you.
But Rylan only handed over the broom and dustpan and then flopped onto the couch, as if finally giving up on getting him out of her house. Over the couch hung a large painting of a bridge, its brass frame burnished and bulky. He tossed his coat onto the couch beside her and started sweeping up the glass.
After a minute of silence, Rylan finally spoke. “She’s not my cat.”
“She’s not?”
“I heard her meowing outside last night. Saw her standing on my doorstep, skinny and half-frozen.” She shrugged. “I felt bad and let her in.”
He stopped sweeping. “You let a stray cat into your house?”
“Hey, she was fine until you rang the doorbell this morning. You freaked her out.”
“She could have a disease.”
“She was desperate and lonely.”
“I don’t think cats get lonely.” But surprise, surprise, Rylan Jefferson had a heart. Maybe that’s what he should do to earn her favor—pretend to be desperate and lonely. He used to be an actor, after all.
Although, would there be that much acting involved?
He gave that taunting thought the solid mental shunt it deserved. He wasn’t desperate, nor was he lonely. He was simply . . . determined.
This had to work out. For once in his life, he had to finish something he’d started. Give his parents, his sister and niece, his brother a reason to admire him, maybe even eventually come to depend upon him the way they all depended on Drew.
Especially now that Dad . . .
No. He wouldn’t go there. Couldn’t.
He took a ragged breath and swept up the last piece of broken glass. Finally, he turned to Rylan. Time to level with her. “Listen, I did come over to try to talk you into letting me stay at the institute.”
She shook her head. “Not a chance—”
“And to invite you home for Christmas.” He blurted it out in a fit of hopelessness. Crazy, ridiculous idea.
But there was no taking it back now.
He couldn’t possibly be serious.
And yet, there he stood—Colin Renwycke—in the middle of her living room, dustpan full of broken glass in his hand, apparently serious as could be.
“I . . . I think I heard you wrong.”
“I don’t think you did.” He set aside the dustpan. “I’m heading home to Iowa tomorrow. You could come. For a week, two weeks, however long you want.”
He wanted her to go to Iowa. With him. It had to be some kind of practical joke.
She jumped to her feet. “I need coffee.” But one step in, her oversized pajamas got the better of her. She tripped on one too-long leg of pants and flailed her way to the floor. She landed on both palms.
Her oomph collided with a groan the second she saw Colin’s outstretched hand ready to help her up. Didn’t even have the decency to squelch his smirk. “Now aren’t you glad I cleaned up all that broken glass?”
She ignored his hand, lurched to her feet, and willed whatever dignity she had left to show on her face as she budged past him toward the kitchen.
“Cute pajamas, by the way,” he said as he followed. “Might’ve tried buying them in your own size, though.”
“They were on sale.” And it’s not as if she’d ever imagined someone else seeing her in them. Certainly not one of her students. Certainly not this student.
Morning sun gushed through the window over her kitchen sink. Her favorite room in the house, this one. All brightness and light—robin’s egg blue cabinets and cream quartz countertops. Pale yellow walls and shelves lined with baskets of cookbooks and ingredients.
But now, as she pulled a coffee cup from the mug tree on her counter, Colin’s presence behind her seemed to shrink the room. How had he even found out where she lived?
“Pop-Tarts?”
She whirled. He held up the box she’d abandoned earlier when that stray cat freaked out at the sound of her doorbell.
Glee danced a jig over his face. “Miss ‘I once owned an award-winning bakery’ eats Pop-Tarts?”
She snatched the box from his han
d. “I happen to love them, and if you think I’m ashamed of that, you’re wrong. Go ahead and mock me.”
He lifted one palm to his heart. “Me? Mock you? Perish the thought.”
“And how do you know about my bakery?”
“Same way I found your address. I Googled you, of course. Wanted to know what kind of woman I was inviting into my home. Er, my brother’s home and—” He stopped.
“What?”
“Your hand. What’d that cat do? Maul you?”
Her gaze swooped down to the row of pink gashes across the hand that now held her Pop-Tarts. She’d barely noticed the stinging, what with the jarring appearance of Colin Renwycke in her house. He in that nice black sweater and those nice dark jeans. She in her decidedly un-nice flannels and makeup-less face. What she wouldn’t give for a redo on this morning. This whole semester.
How about the past several years while she was at it?
If she could, she’d rewind to a time before a face so incredibly, eerily similar to the one staring at her now—right down to the ridiculous dimples—had turned her heart inside out. Sent her common sense right out the door. Along with, eventually, everything she’d worked so hard for.
Colin looked from her hand to her face. “Where do you keep your rubbing alcohol?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You have no idea where that cat came from or where it’s been. Trust me, you need to disinfect those scratches.”
“I know I do, but I can do it myself.”
He brushed past her. “It’ll be hard to take care of with your left hand. It’s your right hand that’s injured and you’re right-handed.”
She marched after him. “Did you Google that too?”
He stopped outside her bathroom, turned so suddenly that she nearly ran into him. Whoa, the man smelled of cinnamon and pine. What’d he do? Take a Christmas-scented bubble bath before coming over?
Yikes, not a picture she wanted in her head. She didn’t want Colin in her head at all, dressed or otherwise. Didn’t even want him in her house, but it seemed he was bent on taking the full tour.
“No, I didn’t Google it. I know you’re right-handed because I’ve watched you stir a hundred batters and knead a thousand doughs. Whatever you think of my skills—or lack thereof—I do pay attention in class.”
He actually looked irritated. Maybe even angry. Which made zero sense because he was the one who’d barged into her home. Teased her about her pajamas, her Pop-Tarts. Tramped through her space as if being here wasn’t all kinds of bizarre.
Great, and now he was digging through her medicine cabinet while she just stood there in the bathroom doorway, tongue-tied and so far past exasperated she might as well give up. Let him explore her closets and bedroom and office next, up and move in if he wanted.
“Well, are you going to come in?”
He motioned for her to sit on the edge of the bathtub. She didn’t know what to do but acquiesce. He knelt in front of her and reached for her hand.
She jerked back. What was wrong with her? She was acting like that silly cat—jumpy and out of sorts.
Colin only gave a small smile—surprisingly patient. He pulled her hand forward—surprisingly gentle. He pushed the sleeve of her pajama shirt up and then met her eyes. “Gonna sting just a bit.”
She sucked in a sharp breath when he brushed the soaked cotton ball over her scratches.
“You should be more careful of the strays you let into your house, Ms. Jefferson.”
Ha, she could almost laugh at the subtext. “I don’t even like cats. She just looked so neglected out there on my doorstep.”
He finished with her hand, then looked up at her once more. “Look, I know you don’t like me. And I know I make class . . . difficult.”
“To put it lightly.” Was that actually a tease in her tone? Suddenly . . . suddenly she really wanted it to be. Something inside her needed to know she wasn’t always the brusque and criticizing woman she’d become. Wanted to believe that she could still joke and smile and laugh.
That Brent hadn’t taken all of her.
“But I’m serious about my invitation.”
“Why? You don’t even know me.”
“I’ve been in your class for three and a half months. I know enough.”
“Like?” Why prod him on? Why just sit here while Colin reached for her other hand, observed her palm, turned it over? Looking for more scratches, she assumed. Why not pull away and show him to the door and then eat her Pop-Tarts and drink her coffee in peace?
Why the peculiar desire to see what unexpected thing he’d say or do next?
“I know you’re not into fashion. You always wear jeans and hoodies to class under your apron. Unless you know Potts is going to be stopping by, in which case you trade out the hoodie for a sweater.”
“Why dress up when I know you’re most likely going to spill something on me?” Wow, look at her. She’d teased twice.
“I know even when you’re critiquing, you still find a way to compliment students’ efforts. The other students, anyway.” Still kneeling in front of her, he tossed the cotton ball in her trashcan. “I definitely know you’re a stickler for following a recipe.”
She laughed—an honest-to-goodness, sincere laugh. She laughed at herself. She laughed at the fact that she was sitting on the edge of a bathtub facing Colin Renwycke. Colin who’d Googled her and shown up at her house out of the blue and tended her scratched-up hand. She laughed at the absurdity of it all.
Colin smiled then. And for the first time since that first class when he’d butchered his first recipe, the dimples weren’t annoying.
She sucked in a breath, looked away. Toward the window behind him, the crystalline sky and glittering snow. There’d been a time when this was her favorite season of the year. When all her hopes and far-flung dreams had seemed vibrant and sparkly as Christmas lights.
“I know you don’t have any holiday plans. You said that yesterday. And now I know you don’t have a single Christmas decoration up.”
She met cobalt eyes that saw too much. “It’s only December fifth.” Had he noticed the lack of framed photos, too? Did he feel bad for her? Did he think her pathetic?
Did she?
No. I’m just busy with other things. Family and friends and holiday plans—sometimes they have to take a backseat while you’re busy rebuilding your life.
Which in her case now meant coming up with a recipe to impress Chef Potts. Well, and teaching that three-day extra credit course at the institute between Christmas and New Year’s. Usually the teaching staff drew straws to see which unlucky instructor would get stuck giving up the holiday time. This year, she’d figured she may as well offer. Might give her a leg up with Potts.
Colin’s knees brushed hers as he shifted. “I also know you need me.”
It was the nudge she needed, a jolt free of whatever fuzzy fog had settled over her since Colin crouched in front of her. “Excuse me?”
“I heard Potts last night. He wants you to create an original recipe. I think you and I both know that’s not in your wheelhouse.”
The remark landed so hard she jerked, would’ve fallen backward into the tub if not for Colin’s quick grasp. He caught her by the arms, but she pulled away the second she steadied.
“I’m not trying to be mean, Ry—”
“You don’t think I can come up with a signature bake?”
“I think you prefer the comfort of what you know. I think that’s why I drive you crazy in class.”
She pushed his knees out of the way and rose, suddenly desperate for space, for air that didn’t smell like a man who spent equal amounts of time in a kitchen and a Christmas tree farm. “I’m tired of hearing what you think you know.”
“I can help you. You heard Potts. I’m creative, intuitive, experimental.”
She escaped into the hallway. “And clearly humble.”
“I know you have absolutely no reason to believe this invitation is anything but a desper
ate student baker trying to earn his way back into your classroom. I’m sure it sounds nuts. But there you have it.” He faced her from the bathroom doorway. “For the record, it’s a fun little town—my hometown. Some might even say charming. There’s a crazy event or festival every weekend in December. My brother lives in the farmhouse we grew up in. It’s huge and recently remodeled and has this great guestroom in the attic.”
A charming small town, huh? Maybe if it was a different season in her life, a different person making the offer, the idea might’ve attached itself to her. Tugged on the whimsy she used to wear like a favorite dress.
“I can help you,” he said again. “Come to Iowa with me. The change of scenery will inspire your creativity. I’ll give you all kinds of brilliant ideas.”
“Again with the humility.” But what if he really could help? Hadn’t she tossed and turned all last night, doubting her own abilities? She hadn’t tried devising a new recipe of her own since losing her bakery. And even before, she’d had trouble trusting her instincts.
If nothing else, maybe accepting Colin’s invitation would be better than spending these next couple weeks alone, pretending to be too busy to join her family.
She wasn’t actually considering this, was she? She wasn’t seriously standing in her hallway, wearing her pajamas, actually thinking about packing a suitcase and ditching Denver?
It was as if Colin could hear her mental gears turning. His face lit up. “Come with me. You’ll come up with the perfect recipe, and you might even have a little fun in the process. And you’ll be so grateful you won’t kick me out of your class.” He grinned again. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Chapter 3
The lights of the cop car flashed in the rearview mirror of Colin’s little Ford. Rylan opened her mouth. Closed it.
“Go ahead and say it.” Colin’s voice traveled the cramped space between them.
Seven hours in the car with this man and she still hadn’t begun to relax. “Who? Who gets pulled over in the middle of nowhere for driving too slowly?”
