by Melissa Tagg
He patted her head with his free hand and returned the cake to the safety of the counter. “That’s what I thought. Now go find your coat.”
Maple Valley was adorable. Charming, really, even minus any snow. Quaint storefronts, old-fashioned iron lampposts, a Christmas wreath on every door. Poinsettias filled the flower baskets that hung from brass poles on each street corner.
Colin hadn’t embellished his hometown’s allure.
Nor its eccentricity.
“Colin, it’s not that I’m opposed to participating in a town-wide snowman-building contest.” She had to take two steps to match every one of Colin’s long strides as he led her down the sidewalk toward the town square. “I just don’t understand how we’re supposed to do it when there’s not a speck of snow on the ground.”
Apparently this contest was the “town shenanigan” Winnie had told Colin about. The kid really hadn’t been joking when she called Maple Valley weird.
There had to be fifty, sixty people gathered on the square up ahead, huddled in groups, buzzing with anticipation. “Are they all just waiting for someone to get up in that band shell and state the obvious—that the event’s cancelled?”
Colin’s deep laughter glided over his shoulder as he started across the street. “You have so much to learn about this town you’ve landed in, my friend. Maple Valley never backs down. They’ve held parades during thunderstorms, pageants during hundred-degree weather. Once at Christmas-time, one of the wise men accidentally set fire to the makeshift stable during the live nativity. Mary and Joseph barely blinked.”
Cold air slithered through her coat as she hurried to catch up with him, gaze roving the square. Ribbons and strings of lights threaded through every tree, and Christmas music piped through the speakers hanging over the shell. So this is what she’d missed these last few days of being huddled up in the farmhouse kitchen, oblivious to the weather, the outside world.
Which is where she should be now. “Colin, we need—”
Two steps ahead of her he stopped and spun. “So help me, Rylan Jefferson, if you tell me one more time we need to get back to work, I’m going to . . . ” He scanned the colorful line of businesses enfolding the square then tried to snap his fingers—though his gloves stifled the attempt. “I’m going to go into that Mailboxes Etc., buy a huge cardboard box, stuff you inside, and mail you back to Denver.”
“Just as long as you poke holes in it so I can breathe.”
Bickering with Colin these past few days had become as second nature as flouring her hands before handling dough. Just as sticky, too. Because it was getting harder and harder to distinguish where her annoyance ended and her amusement began.
Except for right now. Right now she wasn’t at all amused by the fact that he was the exasperated one for once. She wasn’t amused by the way he’d asked her if she was warm enough every two seconds since they’d left the heated interior of his car. She wasn’t amused at how he pretended to have some kind of sophisticated aversion to his hometown’s collection of quirks while obviously harboring an affection for the place.
And she absolutely wasn’t amused at the way the sunlight turned his already impossibly blue eyes the color of an endless summer sky. Not even a tiny bit.
A howl of wind blustered past them, flapping through the striped awnings that stretched from business fronts and spinning an overflowing flower basket. She shivered, burying her chin in her coat’s collar and her hands in her pockets.
Colin pressed his lips together. “You said you weren’t that cold.”
“You said this trip into town would be nice and quick.”
“I think the words I used were ‘a much-needed diversion.’” He pulled his gloves off one finger at a time and held them out to her.
“I’ve got gloves.”
“Yes, the flimsy kind you can buy for a dollar-fifty. It’s twenty-five degrees out. You need better ones. Especially if you’re going to build a snowman.”
“But there’s no snow!” They stood at the corner of the square, her outburst attracting more than a few curious stares. What? Was she seriously the only one confused about how this was going to work? “Besides, what about you?”
“I’ll be fine. My manly endurance will get me through.” He tapped his foot. “Take the gloves.”
She took the gloves. “Manly endurance. It’s like you think you’re Tarzan or something.”
“You don’t think I’m manly?” His voice oozed with inflated offense.
She’d just as soon not answer that. Truthfully, living in the same house with Colin for three days had made it unfeasible to see him as anything but. Most of the males in her classes were gangly kids barely into their twenties with skinny arms and zero need for a razor.
Colin was decidedly not gangly. Tall, yes, but more broad than lanky. There were muscles in those arms capable of doing more than kneading dough. And she’d become unnervingly aware of exactly how long he could go between shaves to shift from scruffy to full-on beard.
“Pleading the fifth?” He bent down until they were eye-to-eye.
Had to be his insulated gloves sending shoots of warmth through her. “Pleading to get this over with so we can get back—”
“Don’t say it. Remember: Cardboard box. You. Packing tape.”
“Good afternoon, citizens of Maple Valley!” The reverberating voice came from the band shell at the corner of the square. Garland and silver tinsel traced the shell’s arch. The man with the megaphone at center stage was dressed as Santa.
“That would be our esteemed town mayor,” Colin whispered down to her, his breath warm on our cheek.
“He seems jolly.”
“You should see him in his Easter bunny costume.”
“Your town is weird, Colin.”
He grinned. “Yes, but never boring.”
The mayor lifted his megaphone again. “I apologize for the delay. We’ve ordered a supply of synthetic snow, but the truck got a flat tire on the way here. They should be arriving shortly.”
Rylan gasped and turned to Colin. “Your town ordered fake snow? Just so they could build snowmen?”
His lips spread, his eyes twinkled. “Told you.”
“However,” the mayor continued, “one truckload won’t be nearly enough for today’s event. Thankfully, Louise at the craft store was able to place a rush order on packing peanuts and cotton balls to supplement our building supplies.”
Colin’s shoulders were nearly shaking with contained laughter. He surprised her then by raising his hand. “Uh, Mayor Milt? When do you expect the truck to arrive?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes.” The mayor lowered his megaphone. “Wait a second. Colin Renwycke? That you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Even from a distance, Rylan could see the wrinkles furrowing the mayor’s brow. “I heard you were back in town.” Not exactly a welcoming tone. “You planning to be here long? Say, through Christmas weekend?”
Colin nodded.
The mayor pointed his megaphone at Colin. “Just you stay away from the live nativity, you hear me, young man?”
Colin laughed and reached for Rylan’s hand. “Come on, since it’s going to be a few minutes still, I’ve got something to show you.”
Behind them, the mayor was still talking. “What’d he mean about the nativity?”
“That thing I said about a wise man setting the stable on fire? Balthazar was my first acting gig.”
She should’ve guessed. “Great. I’m living under the same roof as an arsonist. Going to have to start calling you Sparky.”
They passed a waist-high cardboard box full of packing peanuts. With his free hand, Colin grabbed a handful, stuffed them in his pocket. “Just in case I have to follow through on my threat to mail you back to Denver. Come on.”
He led her to the far corner of the square, across the street, and down a sidewalk stretching past the main downtown area. They reached the end of a block and she followed his outstretched hand to see where he pointed�
�across another street to where a bridge curved over a frozen river. Wooden planks and metal rails, strings of unlit lights and evergreen twisting around its railing.
“It’s called the Archway Bridge. It’s not amazing or anything, but I know you like bridges, so . . . ” He shrugged and started across the street.
“You know I like bridges?”
“Well . . . yeah. You said something once about the Golden Gate Bridge.”
Yes, the day they’d made tarts in class. She’d talked about her trip to San Francisco, how she’d stopped at Golden Gate Bakery and had eaten the best egg custard tarts of her life. He’d actually been listening?
“I saw that painting in your living room. And when we crossed the Missouri River on the way here, you made me stop so you could take a picture of that huge metal bridge. Plus, your phone’s lock screen is a photo of that bridge in London.”
Tower Bridge. It was on her “visit someday when she had money” list. They were halfway across the Archway Bridge now. Colin stopped, cheeks reddened from the wind and the cold, hands hidden inside his coat pockets.
And she wasn’t amused—not at all—by the way he shifted his weight from side to side, as if bashful all of a sudden, clearly waiting for her say something. To approve, perhaps. As if it well and truly mattered what she thought of this little metal and wood walkway.
“It’s a nice bridge.”
“Yes, well.” He turned to lean over the railing. “It’s no Golden Gate.”
“It’s pretty.” Nice. Pretty. Was that the best she could do? For some reason she couldn’t possibly comprehend, Colin had taken note of her one admittedly odd interest outside baking. And he’d gone to the effort to indulge her.
Had Brent even once asked her about the framed photos that used to decorate the walls of her old bakery? Sydney Harbor. Pont du Gard. The Brooklyn Bridge. Some she’d visited, most she hadn’t.
She moved beside Colin, her shoulder brushing his as she perched her arms on the railing. Colin had told her earlier this river cut the town in half. That it’d flooded last year, taken out most of the businesses along the riverfront. They seemed to have recovered now—in fact, she’d only noticed one empty space. A cute little storefront with big windows and turquoise shutters.
“Thank you for showing me this. It was really thoughtful of you.” A trait she was learning he possessed in surprisingly generous portions.
But why should she be surprised? She hadn’t known Colin back in Denver, not really. She’d only ever seen his mistakes in class, only ever taken notice of his latest disaster.
Here in Iowa, he was almost a different man. Layered, a mystery in some ways. More serious than she would’ve given him credit for just three days ago. More attentive, too—to their baking, but especially to Leigh and Winnie. Each time his sister and niece had stopped by the house, his entire being shifted into caring brother and uncle mode. He listened, he observed, he poured himself into their every conversation.
“I know you’re frustrated that baking hasn’t gone well the past few days,” he said now. “And I know I basically promised you a Norman Rockwell painting here in Maple Valley. Complete with snow banks and Christmas trees and a thousand lights. I’m sure the lights will come on later when it’s dark. But I’m sorry it’s so gray and quiet. There should be people ice skating and little kids having snowball fights and—”
She laid her hand on his arm. “I love the bridge. I believe you about the lights. And it’ll snow eventually.”
Below, glistening swirls of white and silver hid the water’s ripples. The echoes of laughter from the town square, the soft lilt of music, summoned.
“Okay, Sparky, if I promise not to nag you about getting back to work, would you please do me the honor of helping me build a synthetic snowman?”
Honestly, if she wasn’t a little careful, she could get used to seeing that smile. Maybe even being the one to make it appear.
“Only because you asked so nicely.” He held out his elbow and she took his arm.
Colin had only meant to do what little he could to ease the stress coiling Rylan into a high-strung mess. He hadn’t realized their afternoon in the square would do so much to relieve the strain of his own taut nerves. He’d known coming home wouldn’t be easy—a nosedive into the regret he couldn’t seem to outrun.
But who would’ve guessed Rylan Jefferson to be the cushion that softened the landing?
He pulled a chair free from the restaurant table and waited for Rylan to sit. How was it possible she hadn’t argued once when he’d suggested they take immediate advantage of the gift certificate they’d won in the snowman contest?
“I had no idea you were so mannerly, Colin.”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Ms. Jefferson.” He helped her scoot her chair in and rounded to his own seat. “Now, one might say after spending the whole afternoon playing outside, we should be back at home, working on yet another of your recipes.”
“One might say that.”
But true to her word, she hadn’t. Not one single time as they built their overly intricate snowman.
The amber lighting of the restaurant—The Red Door, his first time here—did amazing things to her hazel eyes. Added flecks of gold and dancing emotion. She was usually so guarded, refusing to set free anything other than annoyance or sarcasm.
But today he’d seen her playful side. A childlike glee. He couldn’t help wanting to see it again. Preserve the bubble of abandon they’d stumbled into this afternoon. If Rylan could put that same kind of carefree creativity into her baking as she did their snowman, she might not be so neurotic all the time.
“Well, I say we deserve dinner out. Our Julia Child snowman was a feat of architecture.”
“It really was, wasn’t it? I can admit it, Colin—your idea to use my coat as her apron was brilliant.”
It’d given him an excuse to play the gentleman once more. He’d insisted she wear his coat, glibly assured her that his masculine body heat would keep him warm. She’d blushed, of all things.
Rylan Jefferson had blushed.
And he’d just stood there for a moment, winter air beating through his sweater, grappling with the realization that she wasn’t nearly as stonehearted as she tried to appear. Wondering why she tried so hard to appear that way. And how in the world, even swallowed up in his bulky coat, he could find her so entirely appealing.
Entirely inappropriate.
Student. Teacher. He should write it in Sharpie on his palm so he wouldn’t forget. Never mind the way she looked at him now, unaware of the packing peanut stuck in her tangled hair, calmly awaiting his next impish, playful comment.
Except, at the moment, he didn’t feel at all playful.
“Colin?”
“This building used to be an old bank,” he blurted.
She blinked, cocked her head to the side as if unsure of what to make of his sudden discomfort. Yeah, well, he didn’t know what to make of it either. He’d come home for the holidays solely to show his family he was doing well now. He’d brought Rylan along as proof, nothing more.
Absolutely nothing. Because he wasn’t the Colin Renwycke any longer who messed around with the heart of whatever woman happened to be sitting across from him.
“I sort of gathered that, considering the words ‘First National Bank’ etched into the stone over the front door.” She looked around the restaurant.
He followed her gaze, got the same feeling here that he had walking through Drew’s house—that he was getting a front row seat to another man’s success, a dream turned reality. He’d thought the outside was impressive, its historic exterior still intact—gray cement accented by the bright red door with the ornate handles. But the inside was just as attractive—hardwood floors, thick redwood beams crisscrossing overhead to support the vaulted ceiling. Sprawling glass windows gave a gaping view of the town square, currently lit up by the lights he’d promised Rylan—wrapped around every tree and lamppost in sight.
&n
bsp; He pointed to the brick counter with a rich wood surface that stretched out at the back of the restaurant. “Leigh told me that brick is straight from Main Avenue. The city decided to pave the street a few years ago. Seth Walker, the guy who owns this place, salvaged the cobblestone.” According to Leigh, Seth didn’t even know at the time he was eventually going to open a restaurant. Just saw the brick and had a gut feeling.
He wished his own gut feelings were as reliable. More often than not, his instincts got him into trouble. And then his family would bail him out. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Well, he was done with that. Done. And if Drew ever showed up, he’d be the one with a front row seat . . . to the new Colin. The Colin with a goal, a plan, a career path.
“I’ve heard about the Walkers.”
He handed Rylan a menu from the middle of the table. “Yeah?”
“Leigh’s mentioned them a couple times when she’s been over. Apparently the restaurant guy isn’t the only one who’s got a rep in town as a success. Do you know the family?”
A person didn’t grow up in Maple Valley without knowing the Walkers. “Everybody knows the Walkers. Everybody loves them.” Even the middle son—Beckett. They’d never been close friends, but they’d been at plenty of the same parties in high school. Closest thing the Walkers had to a prodigal, but Beckett was as much adored as the rest of them.
Man, what would it feel like to so easily outpace your mistakes? To know, even if every mess you’d ever made caught up with you, your community—better yet, your family—would never give up on you?
“Tell me about your family, Colin.”
His gaze jerked up. Three days of close quarters and she could suddenly read his mind?
“I’ve seen photos on the fireplace mantle. I’ve met Leigh and Winnie. But I don’t feel like I really know much about the rest of them. You’ve told me all about Maple Valley.” She met his eyes over the top of her menu. “But you haven’t talked about your family.”
“You haven’t talked about yours.”
“Yes, but we’re not temporarily camped out in my family’s house. My hometown.”
