Finding Ever After

by Pepper Basham

  “Stepsister.”

  It’d been an innocent slip of the tongue, but her instant correction told him a little more than he already knew. This went deep. “You can do this. I believe in you.”

  She offered a timid half-smile, her hazel eyes shining green with an emotion he couldn’t quite determine. Hope? Disbelief? “The tarts are that good, huh?”

  Yes, they were. But that wasn’t what he meant. Judging by the pink refusing to abandon her cheeks, she knew it too.

  He believed in her—just her. Because she didn’t need to compete against Harper to have her own merit. He wanted to blurt that out, to warn her not to let Harper get under her skin like he’d allowed Harper to do to him. Was still allowing, if he were honest—wasn’t that the real reason he was here?

  But he couldn’t say all that, couldn’t be the creepy, bearded man in flannel giving backhanded compliments when his entire presence was a lie to begin with. She’d never believe him. Guess he needed to be one of her book club geeks to give compliments that would be accepted.

  “Yep, they sure are.” Griff straightened from the counter slowly, tucking away the feelings she’d erupted to evaluate another time. “But hey. You know what else I believe in?”

  She looked back at him, wariness crowding her eyes.

  “Cinnamon.” He pointed to her list.

  She snorted and picked back up her pencil, relief flooding her expression. “Roger that.”

  “What are we even going to make?” Harper’s wail rang louder than before, followed by a quick shush from her mother.

  The smile that quirked the corners of Maggie’s lips made all the drama suddenly seem worth it.

  5

  “I have to say, this is my first time snowshoeing immediately after leaving a grocery store.” Griff’s voice huffed heavy with exertion behind her. The plastic bags on his arm rustled. “It’s definitely a more authentic winter experience than driving.”

  Maggie hid her grin as she trudged carefully atop another mound of snow. He was being a trooper—though if it was born out of consideration or an attempt to save face, she wasn’t sure. He’d also insisted on carrying all the bags. “Isn’t this your first time snowshoeing ever?”

  “That, too.” His shoe clipped the back of hers. Again. “Sorry. These things are like walking on skateboards.” He held off a few steps to let her get further ahead of him.

  It had happened six times already. A natural, he was not. Thankfully they hadn’t had to buy any eggs.

  “Well, now you can brag that you’ve shoed cross-country after buying three dozen apples. Your friends will be so impressed at the mix of masculinity and domesticity.” Maggie tilted her face up to embrace the crisp wind, soaking in the palette of colors overheard—the evergreen trees stretching snow-dusted arms toward the azure blue of the afternoon winter sky. Birds sang to each other from the maze of branches above. A squirrel rustled in a nearby berry-covered bush. She could stay in the forest all day and be perfectly content. It was so calm, so peace—

  Something hit her in the rear end. “Hey!” She turned, awkwardly on her shoes, to see Griff forming another snowball. The bags of groceries sat at his feet.

  He shot her a wicked grin. “Arm up, princess.”

  Her heartbeat quickened in recognition. Princess. Like her dad used to call her. How did he—

  A second snowball slammed into her thigh. Enough wondering, time for war. She dropped her trekking poles, then bent to scoop fresh snow into a wad. She quickly returned fire. But he’d had time to make two more, and she was instantly slammed.

  With a squeal, she ducked behind a pine tree. Snow exploded off the bark next to her face. She risked a glance around the trunk. “Cheater!”

  “You pronounced winner wrong.” Griff plodded toward her, tripping twice over his own feet, and she burst out laughing.

  She crossed her arms and grinned. “You know what they say—pride goes before a fall.” The words had scarcely left her lips before Griff stumbled a final time. He reached out to grab her arm, and she lost her balance at the sudden contact. They fell into a heap at the base of the pine. Puffs of snow found their way down her coat collar and she gasped at the shock of the cold.

  But mostly at his proximity, which somehow managed to send a rush of heat down her spine so hot, she half expected snow to start sizzling underneath her. He’d landed halfway on top of her, and his face was inches away, their snowshoes locked around each other.

  Concern mixed with more than a little mirth filled his eyes as he quickly propped himself up on one arm and peered down at her. Flecks of snow dotted his beard, which she suddenly had the overwhelming urge to touch. “Are you okay?”

  All right. Fair. Adequate.

  Mind racing, she licked her lips, which still tasted like her favorite apple flavored lip balm, and said the only thing she could think of that felt remotely appropriate. “You’re horrible at snowshoeing.”

  He laughed. “Fair enough. But you’re horrible at snowball fights.”

  “Touché.” She made a move to sit up, and Griff shuffled back into a sitting position.

  “I thought after all these years of coming here to vacation, you’d be a pro by now.” He carefully stood and offered his hand to help her up.

  Maggie snorted as she accepted his gesture. “Well, Harper isn’t exactly the snowball fight type.” She could just picture Harper dodging snowballs outside, fussing about her outfit or her hair getting wet. That’d be the day.

  Griff released her hand as she regained her balance, and she immediately missed the warmth. He handed her the trekking poles she’d dropped in the snow. “So is she always like this, now?”

  “What do you mean, now?” Maggie brushed snow off the seat of her pants.

  Griff rubbed his hand over his jaw and averted his eyes. “You know—now that she’s an adult. You’ve talked about how you two didn’t get along as teenagers. I just thought maybe something had shifted.”

  “Not much has changed at all. I think her bad habits just got more ingrained—and a lot of it is Carolyn’s fault.” Her stepmother encouraged her, whether she knew it or not. Or maybe enabled was the better word. Apparently, tough love had only ever applied toward Maggie.

  “I imagine things were different when your dad was around.” Griff’s voice softened, and it made her realize how comforting his brief touch had been. She wanted it back.

  And that was dangerous.

  She wrapped herself up in her own arms instead, briskly rubbing the shoulders of her jacket for warmth. “I don’t know if they were that different, or if I just didn’t notice because I knew he was in my corner.”

  Griff nodded. “I’m sorry you don’t have that anymore.”

  She met his eyes, noting their warmth. “Thank you.” When had anyone last told her that? There had been the condolences at the funeral and in the immediate aftermath of her father’s passing, but it’d been years, at least. Especially from someone who had no reason to tell her outside of genuine compassion and sympathy.

  It touched and soothed a raw spot deep inside, and she drew a full breath of mountain air, feeling significantly lighter. A glimmer of hope broke through the fog in her heart. Maybe this weekend wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

  She scooped up the bags of groceries and handed him one of her trekking poles. “I’ll take a turn this round. Looks like you need this more than me.”

  “I’d argue, but you’re right.” Griff gestured with a pole in the direction they’d come. “Come on. Let’s go bake those world-famous tarts and show your sister who’s boss.”

  She stiffened slightly. “Stepsister.”

  “Right.” Griff used a pole to shove off down the trail, and immediately slipped. His arms wind-milled before he caught himself.

  Maggie didn’t even bother to muffle her laughter. At least he seemed to believe in her.

  She kept an eye on his broad back as they navigated the snow-covered path back to the car, noting the way his red plaid jacket pu
lled tight across his muscles. He was a natural in the woods, despite his not being a natural on snowshoes. He moved like he belonged there—confidant, strong, steady. He was fitting into her environment easier than she’d ever expected.

  Not that she could have ever anticipated this.

  She quickly shifted her gaze to her snowdrifts on each side of their trail. She needed to focus. She could do this. She would make her tarts and win the competition. Stand her ground to her family. Maybe impress Griff a little.

  And keep convincing herself she wasn’t falling for him for real along the way.

  It was like an apple orchard had exploded in the cabin kitchen. Apple peels, brown sugar, and traces of melted caramel littered the countertops among a nest of mason jars, mixing bowls, and measuring cups.

  “How many more of these do you need?” Griff pressed another mason jar lid into the dough she’d prepared a few minutes ago.

  Maggie quickly surveyed their inventory of mini-tart tops. “Three, I think. We’re just making a dozen.”

  They’d made good progress since their arrival back to the cabin after their hike. Last Maggie had seen, Harper had been in the living room curled up by the fireplace, while Carolyn had been pacing the upstairs hall on her phone, making calls to get their contest ingredients delivered. Heaven forbid they go into town for their own like she and Griff had done.

  Maggie still wasn’t sure what they were making yet, and the nerves at the thought of losing the bake-off could still grab her by the throat if she wasn’t careful. Griff had made such a big deal about her tarts—if they didn’t win, it’d be just one more way Harper proved superior. It wouldn’t take long for Griff to recognize the same.

  She really didn’t want to disappoint him.

  He started pressing the next circle, whistling absently as he cut into the dough. She paused, listening. “Wait a minute. Is that ‘Whistle While You Work’?”

  “You can’t tell for sure? I’m wounded.” He pressed a dough-flecked hand against his chest. “I thought whistling was one of my many gifts.”

  She snorted. “Keep your day job.”

  “I plan on it, don’t worry.”

  Maggie sprayed baking grease on a cookie sheet. “I was going to ask you about that, actually. You told Carolyn you have a construction company?”

  “I’m expanding in that direction.” Griff began placing the dough circles onto the cookie sheet. “And looking to hire, if you know of anyone in the industry.”

  She squinted as she ran through her mental list of prospects. Probably not. That wasn’t exactly Dan, Dave, David, Kyle, Lester, Moe or Beeker’s thing.

  “I sort of wish I’d been an architect.” Griff set the final circle on the sheet. “My dad did, too, apparently.” His jaw flexed. Sore subject? She started to question, but he kept going. “But my family didn’t have money for that kind of college, and my grades weren’t good enough for scholarships. So, I just started doing what I could after a few semesters of community college. Learned by experience, and now I love it.”

  “You’re really good at it.” Maggie shot him a smile. “My bookcases have never been sturdier.”

  “I’ll be sure to put that on my resume.” Griff snatched a slice of cinnamon-sugar dusted apple from the still warm pan before she could respond.

  “Hey! Stop it.” She swatted his hand with her red polka-dotted spatula.

  He stepped back and dusted loose sugar off his hands, his grin mischievous. “What? This round is just a test run.”

  “I know.” Maggie blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes to avoid using her flour-coated fingers. Something thudded behind her. “But whatever happens in the kitchen today—”

  “Stays in the kitchen?” His voice dipped husky and he stepped closer to her. She instinctively moved backward, smacking into the countertop. The spatula landed on the counter with a thump. He leaned over and planted both hands on either side of her, trapping her—though for the life of her, she wouldn’t have chosen to move if she could have.

  She swallowed as his head ducked down, close. Too close. And somehow not close enough. Her breath hitched and her heart raced. “Griff.”

  He leaned in and nuzzled close, his short beard endearingly rough against her cheek. She held her breath and closed her eyes, the warm scent of evergreen and aftershave and cinnamon wrapping around her like a cozy blanket.

  “I—” She swallowed back the rest of her sentence, unsure how to proceed and suddenly unable to command any part of her body to move. Her stomach, however, had no problem performing an impromptu cancan dance. He was going to kiss her. And she desperately wanted him to. She tilted her face toward his.

  He pulled back slightly, meeting her eyes, and then his gaze locked over her shoulder. His expression cleared and he reeled back. “Oh, hey Carolyn.”

  Maggie blinked, trying to catch up, her heart still waiting for the kiss that hadn’t come. She held onto the edges of the counter, attempting to steady her ragged heartbeat before turning to face her stepmother. Talk about timing.

  “Don’t mind me, you two.” Her voice held an undertone of amusement. “I was just coming for a bottle of water.”

  She moved to the fridge and opened it, humming a Christmas tune softly as she snagged a bottle. She left the kitchen as quickly as she’d entered it.

  And then it hit her. Carolyn. The noise she’d heard a minute before fully registered, and Maggie’s stomach flip-flopped. Griff must have seen Carolyn pass by a few moments ago, and instigated the move to look intimate—like any normal couple flirting in the kitchen.

  A real couple.

  Unexpected disappointment flicked hard, and she flinched. It hadn’t been genuine. He wasn’t falling for her—he was just keeping up his end of the bargain. She tried to inhale. For a minute there she’d really thought—

  “I saw an opportunity. Not bad, huh?” Griff winked at her as he pressed the last apple tart top. Then shot her a double-take. “You okay? You look pale.”

  “As okay as I can be for an amateur invading my most tried-and-true recipe.” She tried to channel her racing heart and discouragement into looking haughty instead. The only thing worse than feeling rejected by Griff was him realizing she did.

  “Hey, now. I’m doing all the real work.” He held up the mason jar lid. “You’re just over there making a mess.” He pointed to the streaks of flour on the countertop.

  “You’re right.” Maggie nodded with a straight face. “You’re much too clean.” Then, with her heart screaming that this would be a mistake, she lunged forward and wiped her floury fingers down the front of his green flannel shirt. His chest was as firm as she’d imagined it’d be, and she immediately regretted the decision. This wasn’t going to help settle the emotional cocktail churning in her stomach right now.

  Too late.

  He quickly threw an apple peel, which hung in her hair. She dodged the second peel he tossed and dipped her fingers into the leftover remains of cinnamon and sugar. She blew across her palm, and he closed his eyes as the sweet mixture dusted his face and neck.

  “Okay, that’s it.” He brushed his hand down his throat, cinnamon raining onto his shirt and the floor. “I think it’s time for the head chef to clean up.” He grabbed the spray nozzle from the sink and aimed it at her with a grin.

  Maggie shrieked and held up both hands. “I surrender!”

  He tilted his head as if considering her declaration. “You what?”

  “I surrender.”

  He frowned. “Tell me I’m a good sous-chef.”

  She lifted her hands higher. “You’re the best sous-chef there ever was.”

  “Tell me you’re going to win this contest.”

  She swallowed. “I’m going to win this contest.” Funny. When he made her say it, she actually believed him.

  Griff shifted his weight, adjusting his stance as he kept the nozzle aimed toward her. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me where your stepmom keeps the extr
a towels.” Then he blasted her with the cold water.

  6

  It’d gotten hot in the kitchen earlier—and not because the oven had been set to 375 for over an hour.

  Griff swung his legs over the side of the bed, knocking a striped pillow onto the floor. He needed water. Or maybe he’d make another cup of hot chocolate. It wouldn’t be the same as Carolyn’s—as much as he wanted to dislike the woman for Maggie’s sake, he had to admit, she could win an award with her hot chocolate—but it would at least distract him from the unnerving memories of fake-flirting with Maggie in the kitchen.

  He should have turned that cold water on himself.

  He threw a gray sweatshirt on with his pajama pants and silently opened the guest room door. He didn’t want to wake Maggie—the last thing he needed was her hazel-green eyes peering at him in the middle of the night, stirring up everything he’d just worked for an hour to settle down.

  He looked both ways down the hall before creeping toward the stairs, half-embarrassed at his reluctance to run into her. What was wrong with him? Guess it had been a while since he’d bothered with a date. There just hadn’t been anyone worth the distraction this last year or so. Yet, with Maggie, he was suddenly so distracted he couldn’t sleep.

  That near kiss was the problem. He’d seen Carolyn pass by the open kitchen door earlier while they were preparing the tart test-run, and impulsively thought he’d take the opportunity to enforce their dating ruse in front of her.

  Except, after spending the entire day with Maggie—road tripping, grocery shopping, snowshoeing, and baking—it didn’t feel so much like a ruse anymore.

  It felt real. Very real. Especially with that almost-kiss. Being that close to Maggie, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and vanilla and something else uniquely hers, he’d forgotten his original motivation. Seeing Carolyn actually pop into the kitchen had startled him back into neutral, and it’d taken him a good ten seconds to recover a normal heartbeat while the woman had rummaged through the fridge. Hopefully Maggie hadn’t noticed the heat in his neck. They had a deal, and him fawning all over her hadn’t been part of it.