by Melissa Tagg
He turned to her, throat clogged and heart already beginning to tear. Her hair fell in wind-tousled tangles over her shoulders and her scarf hung loose around her neck. He was grateful, at least, that they were the only ones in the waiting room.
He reached for the ends of her scarf, his hands needing movement. “I have to stay, Rylan.”
“Of course you do. I’ll wait out here. However long you need.”
“No, I mean, I have to stay here. In Maple Valley. I’m going to quit culinary school.”
Her eyebrows—always the first feature to give her away—dipped in confusion. She took a step back, the ends of her scarf dropping from his hands. “I don’t understand.”
“I thought embarking on a career path was going to make me the person I wanted to be. Now . . . I’m realizing all I really want is to be a good brother. A good uncle.” A good son for however long I can. That last one was too painful to say out loud. “I feel like I can only do that here.”
“So after doing all you could to convince me to let you stay in my class, you’re going to drop it? Just like that?”
He longed to pull her toward him, let her hear his heartbeat as if that could somehow convey the conviction he didn’t know how to put into words. “It’s not just like that. I’ve been thinking about this for awhile.”
“Not a long while. Not considering I’ve spent the past two weeks thinking the whole reason I’m here was to secure your spot at the institute.”
“You know that’s not the whole reason.” Frantic desire pushed into his tone. “This doesn’t have to change what’s happening with us. In fact, it’s better. We both know we can’t have a relationship if I’m your student. We ignored it pretty successfully earlier tonight, but we would’ve had to figure something out eventually. This is a big obstacle out of our way.”
He could see it happening—the shutters closing in her eyes. “Maybe, but it’s only replaced with a new one.”
“People make long-distance relationships work all the time.”
“For awhile, sure. But, Colin, I can’t drop my dream as easily as you’re apparently dropping out of school.” She fumbled with the buttons on her jacket—unbuttoning, then rebuttoning.
“You can work in a bakery anywhere. Better yet, open your own. If you work for Potts, he’ll control your schedule. You won’t be managing your own kitchen, you’ll be managing his. Wouldn’t you rather have your own place again?”
“That’s a lot easier said than done. Besides, last time I had my own place, I let myself get distracted and—”
She broke off, but he tasted the bitter realization in her incomplete thought all the same. “This is not the same, Rylan. I’m not Brent. I’m not stringing you along and I sure as heck hope you see me as more than a distraction.”
“Of course I do,” she whispered as she dropped into a chair. Her whole body slumped, her fingers twisting in her lap, her shoulders hunched, withdrawn.
“Don’t shut me out, Rylan.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He sat in the chair across from her. “You’re shutting me out just like you’ve shut out your family.”
Irritation sparked in her eyes. “You don’t know—”
“Trust me, I do. I shut mine out from guilt. You shut yours out from embarrassment. And now you’re on the brink of shutting me out because I’m making a decision you don’t understand.”
“Except I do understand.” She tugged her scarf away from her neck and it landed in a heap on her lap. “I do. I just don’t see how the two of us can move forward when we’re going to be missing a main ingredient—namely, being in the same place.” She met his eyes. “And I have to wonder, if you can drop school so easily, what’s to stop you from dropping me down the road?”
What he wouldn’t give to heal the wound so present in her voice. To convince her she could trust him. But how could two weeks of growing friendship and one date overcome all she knew about him? The months of annoying her in class. The erratic past he’d let her in on. Of course she’d see his dropping out of the institute as just another example of his unreliability.
With each passing second, he could feel her retreating further.
“You should go see your sister, Col.”
He reached for her hands. “Can’t we at least try? Experiment?” He raised one brow, hoping she’d hear the possibility and yearning swirled together in his voice.
But she only pulled away. “I think if anything, these last couple weeks have proven I’m not an experimenter. We haven’t come up with a recipe.”
Frustration threatened to swallow him whole. “It’s possible to take metaphors too far, Ry.”
“But if I can’t even experiment in the kitchen . . . ” She released a shaky exhale and stood. “I just can’t handle another broken heart, Colin.”
But as he watched her walk away, he was pretty sure it was already too late.
For both their hearts.
Chapter 10
Rain on Christmas Eve. Somehow it felt appropriate.
Rylan lifted the trunk of her car, her hundredth hasty prayer circling the edges of her strained nerves. Please let the cakes have survived the drive.
Bad enough she was late to Chef Potts grand party. If the cakes were ruined . . .
Raindrops tapped the metal surface of the trunk as she surveyed her collection of boxes—five plastic containers in various sizes. She’d arrange the cakes in layers once they were inside.
A sixth carrying case rested at the back of her trunk. The result of a momentary lapse in discipline. A several-hour practice in chasing her creative whim, of trial-and-error baking.
Colin would’ve been proud.
Colin isn’t here.
She ignored the container in the back and instead loaded her arms with the three smallest boxes, then started for the brick Tudor-style house her GPS had led her to. She’d left her townhome in such a hurry she’d forgotten a coat. Sagging gray clouds muted the sunset and veiled the outline of the mountains in the distance. Clumps of soggy snow dotted the pathway to the back door. Per Chef Potts’ instructions, she let herself in without a knock.
She’d been back in Denver for four days. Four days of agitated preparation for this night. Four days of wondering when baking solo had morphed from her preferred method to something that felt a little too close to lonely.
Four days of missing Colin. Wondering if she’d made a mistake, letting their kindling bond die down before it’d ever had a chance to fully flame. Leaving Iowa a couple days earlier than planned.
A steamy wave of heat hit her face as she entered the kitchen. The bustling catering crew barely noticed her presence. Christmas music glided from elsewhere in the house—voices, laughter, merriment.
After another trip in the rain to her car, she made space on the counter and went to work assembling and frosting her cakes. No, the flavors weren’t surprising; nor the decoration, outstanding. But she was confident she’d pulled off a pleasing creation, all the same. Potts would appreciate the hint of lemon lacing the red velvet tiers, and the silver pearl dragées adorning the outside that looked like tinsel.
Would it be enough to secure a spot in Potts’ new bakery?
Someone opened the back door, ushering in a blast of cool air.
Did she even care anymore?
Silly, irrational thought. Of course, she cared. Two years she’d been waiting for this opportunity. Hoping against hope that starting over wasn’t a pipedream. That when the bank took away her building and Brent walked off with her heart, there was a new beginning waiting for her underneath the wreckage of one too many endings.
She wanted this. She needed it. There wouldn’t be a single question in her mind right now about her desired future if not for Colin.
If not for the poignant reminders waiting around every corner in Denver. When the snow melted and the landscape dulled, she remembered his eager impatience to show her Maple Valley’s wintry postcard charm. When she saw families huddle
d together, moving down the sidewalk, through a grocery store aisle, she remembered what it felt like those stretching couple weeks spending time with Colin’s family. When she walked over the Denver Millennium Bridge, she remembered him taking her to the Archway Bridge—in that one little action, proving he saw her in a way no one else had for so long.
And when she heard a reading of The Night Before Christmas on the radio on the way over to Chef Potts’ house tonight, she could feel all over again the delight of Colin playing storyteller out at Sleepy Hollow.
If it was this hard to put him out of her mind now, what would it be like when she returned to the classroom next week?
“Ah, you finally made it.”
She whirled at the sound of Chef Potts’ voice. He wore a full tuxedo, black tails, red suspenders and all. He carried a top hat under his arm. Give him a monocle, and he could’ve played the Monopoly man. “Hello, Chef. Merry Christmas.”
He eyed the cake behind her. “I’ve been curious about what you’d arrive with. Five tiers. I’m impressed.”
“Red velvet with a wisp of lemon in both the sponge and the icing.” She reached behind her for the tiny, single-serving box she’d brought along. “I made you a sample.”
Maybe it was nerves or maybe it was the salty swirl of aromas permeating the kitchen—glazed duck, roasted vegetables—that churned her stomach while she waited for Chef Potts to taste and appraise her cake.
You want this. You need it. You earned it.
She’d followed her recipe to the tiniest detail. She’d focused. Minus the occasional glance at her phone—as if by checking it enough times she might will into existence a call or text from Colin.
But it’d been radio silence since the morning he dropped her off at the Des Moines airport. They’d shared an awkward hug. He’d kissed her cheek and wished her well with her demonstration for Potts. And then he’d leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Follow your instincts. I know you don’t think you have any. But you do. Don’t be afraid to surprise yourself.”
Advice she’d ignored until this afternoon when she’d made a last-minute culinary invention, not a recipe card in sight. Went so far as to box up the results and load them into her trunk.
But she’d known all along the red velvet cake was the safe bet.
Chef Potts chewed slowly, his snow-white eyebrows bobbing but his face otherwise entirely unreadable. He swallowed. Nodded. “That’ll do.”
That’ll do?
“That’ll do,” he said again.
To serve to his guests or to secure her a spot on the list of candidates for his new bakery? “The lemon wasn’t too subtle?”
“Nor too overbearing. Appearance is nice.” He looked from her to the cake and back again. “I can’t say that it’s overwhelmingly unique. I confess I was looking for a bit more style, but there’s certainly nothing lacking in your technique.”
She didn’t know which part to latch on to—his tempered praise of her technical skill or his obvious disappointment at the absence of any flair.
This is why she’d needed Colin. If only she hadn’t been so distracted most of the time in Iowa.
But would she really take back any of it? Working side-by-side at The Red Door? Sledding on restaurant trays? Taking over his brother’s kitchen and in the process, discovering a man who was so much more than he’d seemed?
No. The answer launched through her with such force it almost drew tears. No, she wouldn’t take any of it back.
The slamming of an oven door jolted her. Chef Potts offered a noncommittal nod. “Let me do a little thinking and we’ll reconnect after Christmas. Good enough?”
It’d have to be. Not exactly the triumphant success she’d hoped for. Disappointment slithered through her.
“You’re welcome to stay for the party.”
In her rain-splattered top and frayed jeans? “Thank you, anyway, but I think I’ll head out.”
Chef Potts patted her back as he walked her to the door. “To see family, I should hope.”
“You’re shutting me out just like you’ve shut out your family.”
Would she ever get Colin’s voice out of her head?
She didn’t even try to dodge raindrops as she crossed to her car. She settled behind the wheel, key halfway into the ignition.
“Follow your instincts.”
She was out of the car once more before she could rethink it. She heaved open the trunk, lunged for the container in back. She ran through the rain to the back door, scanned the kitchen for Potts. No sign of him.
“Don’t be afraid to surprise yourself.”
She wove around a rolling tray crammed with serving plates, past the industrial stove and out the kitchen door.
She hurried down a narrow corridor, following the escalating strains of a stringed quartet’s Good King Wenceslas. So many fancy dresses, men in tuxedos, servers carrying trays crowded with champagne glasses. She burst into a rectangular room, all polished woodwork, garland and tinsel.
Potts’ jolly chuckle drew her focus. “Don’t be afraid . . . ”
She was standing in front of him in seconds, no chance of reversing course now. “Ms. Jefferson, what are you . . . I thought you’d left?”
“I’m so sorry to interrupt. To barge in looking like, um, this. And to track snow and mud into your house. And . . . ” She forced an exhale. “I shouldn’t have brought the cake.”
“I said it was a fine cake, Rylan.” Thinly veiled irritation whirred in his voice.
“Actually, you didn’t, but . . .” She shook her head and peeled the lid off her container. “I made something else. I had this idea to make homemade Pop-Tarts and then build something like a gingerbread house from them. Well, not really a house so much as a winter wonderland display. Which I know sounds crazy, but you asked for personality. I didn’t make the display, because I wimped out and I didn’t follow through on my instincts and I didn’t listen to Colin. I should’ve listened to Colin.”
“Reginald, you know this girl?”
The question came from a woman to her right—silver hair, silver sequins on her dress.
“She’s a teacher at the institute. For the moment.”
No missing that implication. “Won’t you just try one?”
Reluctance weighted his movement, but he lifted one of her Pop-Tarts. Her nerves were different this time. Expectant and unhindered, entirely intoxicating.
A slow-spreading expression of pleasure proceeded his swallow. He took a second bite, a third.
“Now this is unique, Ms. Jefferson.”
She let out her breath. “I realized this afternoon they don’t make lemon Pop-Tarts. Or, well, I think they did for a limited time once, but not anymore. And it’s a shame because so many people like you love lemon. I don’t really, not that much, but somebody could make a grass-flavored Pop-Tart and I’d still try it and—” She made herself stop.
“But this isn’t just lemon.”
“I added a little rose water, too. I’m always scared to use that because too much is overpowering, but just the right amount—”
“Makes perfection an attainable goal.” He fingered his mustache over a knowing grin. “All right, Rylan. You’ve proven your point. Let’s schedule an official interview. Day after Christmas?”
She should nod. She should beam. She should shake his hand and spill out her thanks and agree to an interview whenever, wherever.
“Follow your instincts.”
“Actually . . . ” She swallowed past the lump in her throat, the sudden rise of emotion. “I think I’m going to be somewhere else that day.”
He’d never seen his father so quiet.
Colin lifted the nearly scraped clean glass bowl from the middle of the table, one lone scoop of Gingerbread trifle still clinging to the edge. “Last call on dessert.”
They were crowded around the table in Drew’s kitchen, what with the dining room table already set for tomorrow’s Christmas breakfast. Leigh and Winnie. Drew and Maren.
<
br /> Mom and Dad. Looking so much older than last time he’d seen them. New strands of gray tinted Mom’s formerly dark hair and the creases in her face were more pronounced. The circles under her eyes, too.
And Dad. Thin and peaked and so very quiet.
You have to talk to him sometime.
He lowered his gaze to the pan in his hand. “Come on, people, speak up. You know I slaved over this for hours.” His contribution to the quick family dinner before they all headed out to the Christmas Eve service.
“Yes, brother, and for the record, it’s amazing.” Leigh laughed as she reached for the bowl. “Do you think the trifle counts as protein? Or the layers of Cognac custard? Or the candied pears? Doctor’s orders and all.”
His sister hadn’t looked better in weeks. After an overnight stay in the hospital, she’d asked Seth Walker for some time off work. Turned out the man was a pretty good boss. Colin had experienced it firsthand just these past few days after hiring on for the length of the head chef’s maternity leave.
“I don’t think one of Uncle Colin’s desserts could ever be considered healthy.” Winnie rolled her eyes and drew a laugh.
“Split it with me anyway?” Leigh dished out the dessert.
Winnie had become Leigh’s shadow ever since the ER. Leigh had told Colin earlier today that if collapsing at the restaurant was what it took to prompt an attitude change from her daughter, she’d take it.
The Christmas lights shaped like icicles he’d helped Drew hang yesterday glowed outside the kitchen window. Snow fell in wind-blown waves, gusts of winter air hurling against the house. Hopefully they could make it to church and back before this turned into an all-out blizzard.
Was it snowing in Colorado?
He tucked away the question, just like he’d mentally sidestepped a hundred thoughts of Rylan since she returned home. The urge to pick up his phone or, better yet, hop a plane and land in Denver in a couple hours had tugged at him non-stop.
But wouldn’t he end up hurting her all over again?
Isn’t that, perhaps, why he’d let her go in the first place? The fear of wounding her just as he had every person sitting around this table at one point or another?
