by Erika Marks
Adding to her woes, Dino’s had lost power from the storm and wouldn’t be reopening for another week. So much for an easy dinner. Miranda considered stopping by the store for something fresh, but a bigger part of her wanted to get home and check on Twisty. And, yes, maybe she wanted to check on Jackson Wilder too.
But even as they took the last stretch of road before the house, Miranda told herself not to be shocked if the Range Rover—and its driver—were both gone. She had assured Jackson there would be no hard feelings if he decided to leave, hadn’t she?
So why did her heartbeat suddenly start to race when she came around the curve to see the road empty where the Range Rover had sat that morning?
A few seconds later, the hammering slowed, the black truck appearing on the other side of the house when she pulled up the driveway. Relief swam through her, though she wasn’t sure what she was more grateful for: seeing that Jackson had moved his vehicle off the road, or that he was still here.
“Mom, do you smell something?”
Walking up to the path behind Oliver, Miranda stopped a few feet from the front door. Was she dreaming—or did she detect the sweet scent of tomato sauce?
Oliver cocked his head curiously. “Are we having spaghetti and meatballs for dinner?”
Were they?
Reaching for her key, Miranda was startled to see the door swing open. Jackson stood on the other side, wearing a smile and a long-sleeved tee, splattered with constellations of red dots.
He held up his hands. “Before you get nervous, it’s tomato sauce, not blood.”
Miranda blinked, still startled by his entrance, then even more so when she stepped inside to find the dining table set for three.
“I hope you don’t mind but I figured you were putting me up—making dinner was the least I could do to pay you back.” He gestured to the stove where a collection of misshapen meatballs simmered in a pan. “I can’t promise they taste as good as they smell, but I am confident that they taste better than they look.”
“They look amazing.”
“I made you something too, Santa.” Stepping between them, Oliver extracted a piece of construction paper from his backpack and unfolded it to reveal a snow scene of glued cotton balls and glitter snowflake stickers. “It’s supposed to be the North Pole,” he said, holding it out.
“Whoa.” Jackson took the page and scanned it with wide eyes. “This is awesome. You got the mountains just perfect.”
Oliver’s cheeks flushed with pride. Miranda felt her own heart swell with the same emotion. She looked up to find Jackson’s gaze no longer fixed on the picture, but on her instead, his blue eyes flashing warmly. Heat seared her cheeks. Flustered, Miranda tugged at her scarf, needing to cool her suddenly feverish skin. “Ollie, sweetie, why don’t you go get washed up for dinner.”
Oliver scooted down the hall to the guest bathroom, leaving Miranda and Jackson alone in the fragrant kitchen. She crossed to the stove and leaned over the pan to take a sweet, tangy whiff of the meatballs. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
Jackson grinned. “Wait to try it before you thank me.” He glanced down at his shirt and smiled sheepishly. “I should change.”
“It’s not bothering me,” she said, suddenly ravenous.
“Give me two minutes,” Jackson said, already moving for the slider. “You might want to turn off the pasta.”
Miranda did as he asked, then stood at the sink, stealing glances at Jackson as he climbed the path to the barn. His strides were long and strong, and remarkably steady. Whatever injury he’d sustained was definitely healing—and still he stayed on, even when his truck was unquestionably drivable? He’d made it clear that his reasons to continue their charade weren’t entirely selfish—an admission that had certainly warmed her heart—but remorse still tugged at her. Now with this news of losing their stable, and possibly the whole rescue organization, what was the point in keeping up appearances? She knew she should let Jackson know about today’s letter—that it was only fair, considering he’d made his commitment to their plan known—but the idea of breaking this spell they’d created crushed her almost as much as losing her horses.
After all they’d been through, was it so wrong of her to enjoy a night of someone making her dinner, of his company and the strange semblance of family they’d inadvertently created in just a few days?
When she heard the knock on the front door, Miranda’s first thought was Jackson had come around. But when she swung the door open, she blinked to see her vet tech standing on the porch instead, waving a bottle of wine. “I thought you might need a little cheering up after today’s news, but I would have called first if I knew you had company,” Temple said, motioning over her shoulder to the Range Rover.
Despite the chilly air, Miranda felt her face sizzle with the heat of panic. She swallowed, desperate for some explanation when Oliver arrived at her side.
“Hi, Aunt Temple! Did Mommy tell you Santa’s here?”
The flush that had just seared Miranda’s cheeks spread to her whole head.
Temple’s left eyebrow arched quizzically but her smile was all-knowing. “Santa, huh?”
Miranda pulled her vet tech inside and thought up a quick excuse to secure them a moment alone. “Ollie, bud, would you make sure all the silverware is on the table?”
When her son had disappeared down the hall, Miranda spun back to Temple and whispered low, “I can explain.”
But her vet tech’s teasing smile was even higher now. “Santa? Is that what we’re calling our dinner dates now?” She gave Miranda a playful tap before she could answer. “Woman, you’ve been holding out on me,” Temple chided playfully, already scanning the house beyond Miranda’s shoulder. “So do I get to meet the lucky guy, or what? Because if he’s half as good-looking as his vehicle, I’m unfriending you on Facebook.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Miranda said, already turning to steer them back to the door, knowing Jackson would be back any minute. “It’s a long, crazy story—”
Temple smirked. “I’ll bet.”
“No, I’m serious,” said Miranda. “This guy crashed his truck during the storm and he dragged himself to the barn and passed out. He happened to be wearing a Santa suit for his job, and Ollie found him the next morning and just assumed he was Santa, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. He’s just been so upset about Twisty, and he’s sure Santa can heal him.”
“You’re serious?” Her vet tech’s teasing grin thinned with alarm. “Some stranger just showed up in your stable? Did you call the police?”
Miranda shook her head. “It’s not like that, Temp. He’s actually—”
“Hi there.”
At the sound of Jackson’s voice, Miranda whirled around to find the singer standing there, wearing a new shirt but the same old knees-melting smile.
Temple’s eyes darted to Miranda’s. “Santa?” she whispered.
Miranda managed a tight smile. “Yup.”
Oliver came skidding down the hall. “Everybody has a fork and a knife and a spoon, Mom!”
“That’s great. Thanks, bud.” Pulling in a deep breath, Miranda made the introductions, just hoping she could keep a straight face. “Santa, this is Temple Connor. She works with me at the vet clinic.”
Temple’s hand extended slowly, her eyes as wary as her shake. “Pleased to meet you…Santa.”
“Pleasure’s mine,” said Jackson. He nodded to the bottle still clenched in Temple’s hand. “That’s a nice wine.”
“Oh, right.” Temple handed it to Miranda then turned her gaze back to Jackson. She searched his face, her head tilting curiously. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Jackson Wilder?”
Miranda’s eyes snapped to Jackson’s but he remained unruffled. “A few times, yeah. Except for the beard and the white hair.”
“Except for that,” Temple agreed, her eyes still fixed on him.
Oliver tugged on her hem. “Who’s Jackson Wilder, Mom?”
> “He’s a famous singer,” Miranda answered, avoiding Jackson’s gaze for fear of breaking out in ironic laughter, considering she didn’t know him from Adam a few days ago.
“There’s plenty of food if you’d like to stay,” Jackson offered.
Temple demurred. “I was actually on my way to my mom’s house. Smells delicious, though.”
Miranda took Temple by the elbow. “I’ll walk you out.”
But outside on the porch, Temple hesitated. “Are you sure you’re okay here with this guy?”
Miranda smiled. “I know this sounds crazy, Temp, but I trust him.”
“So how long does Santa plan to stick around?”
“I’m not sure. His ankle’s still not fully healed enough to drive.”
Her vet tech frowned dubiously. “He looked like he was getting around fine to me.”
“Ollie’s kind of stuck on him.”
“Just Ollie, huh?”
Miranda met Temple’s prodding gaze and looked away, startled by the question—or maybe more her flushed response to it. “I should get back inside,” she said, pointing over her shoulder.
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me today.”
“Because—” Because he actually is Jackson Wilder and he doesn’t want word getting out, was the real answer, but Miranda came up with another. “Because I knew you’d worry.”
“So how long do you plan to keep this Santa thing up with Ollie? You’re going to have to come clean with him eventually, you know?”
Miranda sighed. “I know.” She gave Temple another hug.
Her vet tech descended the stairs, smiling over her shoulder. “Enjoy the wine.”
Chapter Seventeen
“That was a close call,” Jackson said to Miranda when she returned.
“I know.” She moved to the counter where she’d set the bottle of red that her friend had brought and held it up questioningly. “We could have this with dinner?”
“Sounds good.”
“I used to have an opener around here somewhere…” She rummaged through several drawers before she found one and held it out to him. “Would you mind? I always ruin the cork.”
“My pleasure.” Jackson smiled, watching her reach up into an overhead cabinet for a pair of glasses as he twisted the screw into the top, her sweater rising up just enough to reveal a hint of her abdomen, a flash of supple skin. In his business, women were constantly showing off their beautiful bodies in barely there tops and skirts—and here he was, turned on by just a hint of flesh.
While he poured the wine, his thoughts began to stir with the rest of him. One of the things he found so attractive about Miranda O’Keefe was her honesty about who she was. Unlike so many people he knew in the music business, she didn’t pretend to be anyone, and she didn’t apologize for it, either. And yet, tonight she’d lied to a good friend to protect their charade. Miranda O’Keefe didn’t seem like the kind of person who made a habit of lying—especially not to the people she cared about the most—and Jackson felt a pang of regret. Sure, they’d agreed to keep his secret for Oliver’s sake, but he’d also asked her to do it to allow him privacy.
Suddenly that request seemed more than selfish. It seemed entirely unnecessary. So what if word did get out? So what if the people of Granite Falls knew he was here? Maybe Jackson wasn’t so worried about blending in, or hiding out, anymore.
A few days in Miranda O’Keefe’s cozy world and he wasn’t worried about a lot of things.
As they took their seats at the table, Jackson said, “You could have told your friend the truth just now.”
“It’s okay.” Miranda smiled, keeping her voice low even though Oliver was still out of earshot in the kitchen, filling his plastic tumbler with water from the fridge dispenser. “Temple is a gossip junkie. I’m not sure that’s a secret she can hold in.”
Jackson glanced over at Oliver. “Maybe we should start thinking about wrapping this up,” he whispered. “You said yourself Twisty was improving—”
“No,” Miranda whispered, her answer sharp with panic. “It’s—it’s still too soon.”
He tried to hold her gaze, to search the beautiful pools of green for an explanation for her anxious reply, but Miranda looked away before he could, her eyes and newly formed smile trained on her returning son.
“Santa drinks wine?” Oliver asked, setting down his water with both hands and scooting into his chair.
This time when Jackson sought Miranda’s eyes across the table, she let him, and he smiled. “Only when he doesn’t have to drive the sleigh.”
*
A half hour later, the pan of meatballs and the bowl of spaghetti both emptied, they rose to clear their plates. Much like the night before, Jackson built a fire while Miranda took Oliver upstairs to get ready for bedtime. When the flames were high and crackling, he made them a pot of coffee, craving another cup of that gingerbread-scented blend she’d served him the night before. They’d already finished the wine with dinner—the two glasses leaving her with a sexy flush Jackson had found himself unable to stop staring at as the meal wore on.
Waiting for the brew cycle to finish, he scanned the living room, admiring the scene, the tree he’d helped decorate, the lengths of pine boughs he’d helped Oliver bind together and drape over the mantel. How was it possible? Four days ago, he was sneaking out of a film studio, headed for two weeks of vacation—and now, he was smack in the middle of someone’s family, and feeling as if he’d been here for months.
Oliver’s cotton-ball landscape lay on the counter. Jackson picked it up and smiled, remembering how the boy had beamed when he’d presented it, and again, tremors of guilt fired behind his ribs. What would Oliver think of him when he found out Jackson was just an imposter? Surely Miranda feared the same, the longer this charade went on—and yet, she was still so reticent to tell her son the truth.
“I’m beginning to think you do have some Christmas magic in you.” Miranda descended the stairs, her hair swept up in a messy topknot. Jackson couldn’t help imagining how easy it would be to tug it loose.
He handed her a mug of coffee. “Thanks,” she said. “A girl could get used to this.”
“A guy too,” Jackson said, tapping his mug against hers in a playful toast.
Miranda raised her coffee and dipped her face quickly into a sip.
She crossed back to the couch, taking one end. “I can’t remember the last time this house looked so festive.”
“I bet I could kick it up a notch.” Jackson walked to the kitchen and returned with the guitar. “I brought it back when I changed my shirt,” he explained, seeing Miranda’s eyes grow with wonder. “Unless you think it would wake Oliver?”
She laughed. “A stampede couldn’t wake my son when he goes down.”
Jackson strummed, humming the melody he’d crafted just a few hours earlier to remind himself of the tune and the order of the lyrics. He was pleased to find both returning effortlessly—and pleased too to find Miranda’s eyes sparkling with enjoyment when he glanced over at her during the bridge, delight continuing to flash even as he rounded the end of the song.
“That’s really beautiful,” she said as he set the guitar down on the end of the couch. “What’s it called?”
“I’m thinking of ‘Rescued By Christmas,’ but it’s just a working title.”
“Is it one of yours?”
“As of this afternoon.”
She blinked at him. “You just wrote that?”
He smiled. “I was inspired.”
“Of course,” she said. “All the snow.”
“The snow…” He caught her eyes and held them. “And other things.”
Miranda flushed, but this time she didn’t look away. “I can’t imagine doing what you do. You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not—any more than what you do is easy—but I’m sure people say the same thing when they watch you heal their animals.”
She shrugged modestly. “I went to school to
learn medicine. You have to be born with what you have.”
“Not necessarily,” he said, taking up his coffee and leaning back into the cushions. “There’s training involved, like with any craft.”
The fire snapped.
“Training only takes you so far,” she said. “Not everything can be taught. Unfortunately.”
A curious statement—made even more curious by the way her eyes flashed somberly at the fire.
“Bad day at work?” he asked.
“I’ve had better.” She shrugged, tracing the rim of her mug, her words nonchalant but the faint groove between her brows anything but.
Jackson leaned in. “Did something happen?”
Both her back and her smile stiffened. “Nothing I can’t figure out.” She rose abruptly. “Cookie?”
Before he could answer, Miranda was already on her way to the kitchen. A few moments later she returned with a plate of gingerbread men. Jackson helped himself to one, wanting to take them back to the subject she’d not-so-subtly detoured them away from. But he didn’t want to press.
Instead he said, “Temple seems like a good friend.”
Miranda’s tight smile loosened. “She is. I’m grateful for her. It’s not easy making connections with people with my schedule, being a single mom. I have to imagine you have the same problem.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “Not the single mom part, obviously. But being on the road so much. Being famous. Everyone wanting to be your friend, or more. Never knowing who to trust.”
“It can be hard, sure. But getting close to someone—letting them in—is never easy. No matter what you do for a living.”
Her eyes glittered with agreement. She knew he wasn’t talking about friendships anymore.
“We all do the best we can,” she said with a shrug. “Not everyone is destined to be matched for life.”
