The First Love Cookie Club

by Lori Wilde

  Tilt!

  She was on overload. Crowds made her jumpy, beaming strangers who wanted to touch her even more so. This was almost as overwhelming as being on the float with Travis. She cast a glance over her shoulder at him. He was on the ground several feet away, swinging Jazzy up on his shoulders. The little girl’s head was thrown back, his daughter’s delightful childish laughter filling the air.

  A new emotion pushed out the wistfulness and anxiety, and in that moment Sarah experienced a loneliness so dark and stark all the breath left her lungs. She wanted to run straight back to the Merry Cherub and jump into bed with a good book.

  Alas, the seven ladies of the First Love Cookie Club had other plans. Dotty Mae Densmore, whom Sarah did remember as Gramma Mia’s best friend even though they’d been night and day different, linked her arm through Sarah’s. “Come on,” she said, “we’re going to a party.”

  “Um, a party?”

  “Tradition. The First Love Cookie Club hosts the annual Dickens on the Square gala and you’re the guest of honor.”

  She looked around, hoping to think of a way out of this, but she couldn’t come up with a decent excuse. She did, however, see Santa and Jazzy getting into a brown pickup truck.

  Stop looking at him.

  But she didn’t, and when he turned, just before he climbed in behind the wheel, and threw a glance at her over his shoulder, Sarah’s heart somersaulted.

  “You’re riding with us,” Raylene Pringle said, coming over to take Sarah’s other arm.

  The rest of the group fell in behind them.

  “Where are we going?” Sarah asked, feeling hijacked.

  “To the Horny Toad,” Belinda Murphey said, hitting the automatic start button on her key chain. A maroon minivan parked a few feet away from the floats rumbled to life.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have been away too long”—Dotty Mae patted Sarah’s hand; she smelled like peppermint and Oil of Olay—“if you don’t remember that Raylene and Earl own the Horny Toad Tavern. They’ve closed it to the public for the party and fixed it up real festive. You’re gonna love it.”

  Sarah seriously doubted that, but she went along for the ride. Just get through this week, and you’ll be back in New York wrestling with your book by next Sunday.

  A few minutes later they pulled up to the Horny Toad Tavern, which was little more than a roadside honky-tonk, but vehicles—most of them pickup trucks or SUVs—crammed the parking lot.

  They walked through the door and were greeted by an explosion of Christmas. Holiday music blasted from the Wurlitzer in the corner. Currently, Tim McGraw was crooning “Dear Santa.” A fat, seven-foot, artificial Christmas tree, overburdened with silver and red ornaments, took up an entire wall. Almost everyone was in costume. Either Victorian-era attire or some kind of kitschy Christmas getup. She hadn’t worn anything remotely Christmas-related since the reindeer antler headband and jingle bell sweater vest. Delicious holiday aromas teased her nose. The pool tableshad been converted to buffet tables, with one devoted just to desserts.

  Sarah licked her lips at the sight of chocolate fudge cookies. Chocolate was her weakness, which was why she normally steered clear of it. A punch bowl filled with eggnog graced one end of the bar; at the other end stood martini glasses filled with a red and white drink mixture.

  “Cranberry Snowdrifts,” Raylene said at her elbow. “They’re made with cranberry juice cocktail, crème de cacao, and white chocolate liqueur; it tastes like white chocolate-covered cranberries. Help yourself.”

  Sarah wasn’t a big drinker, but in party situations alcohol helped take the edge off her social anxiety. She tried one of the Cranberry Snowdrifts and found it surprisingly tasty. She nursed the drink and tried to look inconspicuous, but Dotty Mae and her crew were having none of it. They told her how great it was to have her back. They talked about her grandmother. They told stories of when she was little. Terrified that someone was going to mention her extreme faux pas at the Presbyterian church, Sarah forced a smile. “I think I should mingle.”

  “By all means, dear, we didn’t mean to hog you,” Dotty Mae said.

  But once she was freed from the group, she realized she didn’t recognize anyone else in the room. She promised herself that she would finish her drink, make one lap around the room, and then she was out of there. She’d done enough socializing for one evening.

  If you’d just give social events a chance, youmight just discover you enjoy them, Benny’s voice chided.

  Her agent was forever telling her that she should open herself up to life and have a bit of fun. But fun came easily to him. To Sarah, small talk with strangers was right up there with root canals on her list of least favorite things.

  Okay, small talk isn’t your strong suit but surely there’s something here that you’d enjoy if you gave it half a chance, imaginary Benny whispered.

  She thought of a certain sexy Santa with his lively gray eyes and engaging grin, and her heart did an odd little skip-hop. Who wouldn’t enjoy him?

  It was a stupid thought, so she shook her head to get rid of it quickly before it had time to root and grow. She was supposed to be avoiding Travis, not hanging out with him. Besides—she scanned the bar—he wasn’t even here. He’d probably taken his daughter home and put her to bed.

  Face it. The last thing you need is to get involved with Travis Walker.

  After half an hour of kids pulling on his beard and babies bawling their heads off because they were scared of him, Travis was eager to get out of the Santa suit and take Jazzy over to the library for story hour. He vacated his seat at the Father Christmas pavilion set up on the courthouse lawn, bid the photographer good night, and rounded up Jazzy from the North Pole bounce house. Normally, he would never have let her go into a bounce house—too many germs lurking, too much jumping for a kid with severe asthma—but ever sinceshe’d been getting the new medication, she’d been doing so well he hadn’t been able to deny her. Poor kid deserved to finally have some fun.

  He checked to make sure she was still doing well—no wheezing, no blue-tinged lips, no fever— and exhaled heavily. It was only then he realized he’d been holding his breath while he waited for her to crawl from the bounce house, cheeks pink with excitement, eyes sparkling.

  Once he’d assured himself that she was doing well and he had her safely ensconced at the library, he headed on down to the Horny Toad for the party. Travis liked parties, even though over the course of the last four years he’d pretty well given up all that to take care of Jazzy. It was nice, knowing she was doing well and it was okay for him to kick up his heels just a little.

  Feeling younger than he’d felt in a long time, Travis climbed into his pickup truck and drove toward Highway 377 to where the Horny Toad hunkered on the outskirts of town. He wondered if Sarah was still at the party, and then wondered why he wondered. She was only in town for a week. There was no point in wishing for something he didn’t even know for sure he really wanted.

  Of course, there was the strange coincidence that Jazzy’s favorite author had turned out to be Mia Martin’s granddaughter. Travis had a sneaking suspicion his Aunt Raylene and her cohorts were playing matchmaker. He found it amusing and wondered if Sarah had figured out what was going on.

  This town had a way of latching on to romantic legends and milking them for all they were worth,and Sarah interrupting his wedding to Crystal was one of those stories they loved to pass around. What if Sarah really was his soul mate? He could just hear the ladies of the First Love Cookie Club posing that question.

  He turned off Ruby Street and motored past the Twilight Cemetery where all his Walker ancestors were buried, including his mother and father. Gone way too young, both of them. His mother had died fourteen years ago at age thirty-eight. His father had followed six years later at forty-four. His folks too had gotten swept up in the sweetheart lore that permeated the town. In all honesty, the fanciful legends had been cooked up by the town’s ancestors as nothing more than
a publicity ploy to attract tourists to Twilight, but somehow people forgot about that and bought into it.

  Here was the secret Travis had told know no one. The romantic myths scared him. His parents had been madly in love. They’d both believed they were soul mates, each other’s one true love. He slowed to a stop at the traffic light, remembering his parents together, before his mother’s asthma stole the best of her. They’d been so wrapped up in each other it often felt like he was the odd one out.

  Then after his mother died, his father had crumpled. He’d stopped talking care of himself, stopped taking care of Travis, stopped caring about anything. He’d withdrawn into himself, withdrawn from life and finally … Travis had tried to get through to his dad but it had been like talking to a stone wall. Ultimately his strong love for his wife and his inability to cope without her had cost Chuck Walker his life.

  Travis saw the pain his father had gone through after his mother’s death, witnessed firsthand how grief could completely wipe a man out, and when he’d buried his father, he’d made up his mind he was never going to fall that recklessly in love.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sarah had walked around the bar twice and was just getting ready to make good her escape when Travis walked in.

  Gone was the Santa suit, and in its place he wore a starched button-down shirt and pressed chinos that in their neatness only served to call attention to his rugged, big-framed body and sharp, angular facial features. He hadn’t seen her yet, hidden as she was in the shadows.

  He was even more handsome now than he’d been nine years ago. His thick dark hair needed a good trim, but the unruly locks softened his steely jaw. His eyes were his standout feature, fathomless gray that seemed to stare straight into you. He shook hands with people, clapped men on the shoulders, lowered his head to whisper something to the women who laughed at whatever he had to say. Every single one of them.

  The guy was a charmer. Always had been, always would be.

  It startled her to realize she was breathing toofast and she’d tightened her left hand into a fist. Irritation that she couldn’t explain, didn’t even want to admit, had her draining the last of her drink and setting the empty glass down on the bar.

  “Want another?” asked the bartender.

  Her head was already a little cloudy. “No thanks.”

  She turned away from the bar, looking for another avenue of escape. If she left through the front door, she’d have to go right by Travis. And if she slipped out the back exit, she’d be giving him all kinds of power over her behavior. Sarah lifted her head, shot a quick glance toward the front door again, and bam!

  His gaze smashed into hers, eyes glittering with the promise of an indecent proposal. The corner of his mouth lifted impudently and his eyebrows rose. His gaze trailed over her with indolent slowness, causing her body to heat up.

  Ah, damn, he was coming over.

  She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the sensual onslaught that was Travis Walker. She was aware of every loose-limbed step he took, attuned to the magnetic aura oozing from his pores. Her pulse strummed, restless, edgy.

  How she hated this out-of-control sensation.

  She pretended to have a sudden hankering for food and darted over to the pool-tables-turned-buffet, picked up a red plastic plate, and circled the spread. Maybe if she didn’t look at him, he’d go away.

  The chocolate fudge cookies beckoned. She’d stopped eating for emotional comfort a long time ago, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still have the urge to stuff down her feelings with a tempting dessert.

  She busied herself with studying the food selection, but from the corner of her eye she could see him following her over to the table. Crap! She stared at the cookies, willed herself into them— chocolaty, fudgy, rich and moist and crunchy with toasted pecans.

  She heard his footsteps behind her and closed her eyes. Go away.

  “You know,” Travis said, coming to stand so near her she could smell his intoxicating scent, “I think we’ve been set up.”

  That was not what she was expecting him to say. She turned, jerking her gaze from the chocolate fudge cookies that were whispering, Sarah, come eat me, you know you want to eat me. What was it about being back in Twilight that made her want to throw Weight Watchers out the window and graze like a cow in a cornfield?

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  His eyes twinkled in the glow from the colorful Christmas lights circling the dance floor. “No one bothered telling me that Sadie Cool, my daughter’s favorite author, was actually little Sarah Collier all grown up.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “No,” he said. “But neither was anyone considerate enough to tell you that Jazzy was my daughter.”

  “Why would they tell me something like that? It’s not like it matters one way or the other,” Sarah said, still determined to pretend she remembered nothing about interrupting Travis’s wedding. When in doubt, deny, deny, deny.

  “Would you have come to Twilight if you’d known about Jazzy and me?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted. In fact, if they’d told her he was Jazzy’s father, she’d have been more likely to take a shuttle to the space station than come back here. “Certainly not just for a cookie club swap and a book signing. I’m not really into all the holiday hoopla. It was Jazzy’s letter that made the difference.”

  “Those meddlesome matchmakers have got something up their sleeves. Otherwise, why not just come clean?” Travis nodded toward the culprits.

  Why not indeed?

  She peered across the room at the ladies of the First Love Cookie Club. The seven of them were gathered around the eggnog bowl, sliding surreptitious glances toward Travis and Sarah. Raylene winked. Dotty Mae grinned. Belinda gave a double thumbs-up.

  “Oh God, you’re right.” She groaned. “They are playing matchmaker. You go out the back way, I’ll head for the front door.”

  He leaned in closer, his mouth almost touching the top of her ear. His warm breath made her shiver. “Running away is not the way to play this.”

  “No?” Too bad. Escape was her favorite method of self-preservation.

  “I think we should turn the tables on them,” he murmured. “Are you game?”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “If they think we’ve already connected, they’ll stop throwing us in each other’s paths.”

  That got her attention. He made good sense. “What do you have in mind?” Sarah asked.

  A small group of people were sliding across thedance floor in time to “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.” Travis cocked his head. “Shall we dance?”

  “Um.” A sudden heat swept through her at the thought of linking her arms through his. “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “No worries,” he said. “Just follow my lead.”

  “I’ll trample your toes,” she warned.

  “I’ll take my chances. Come on, let’s make them think their matchmaking worked.”

  Before she could think of another protest, Travis was leading her out onto the dance floor, his fingers entangled with hers. It felt to her as if every eye in the place was zeroed in on them. His arm went around her waist and he pulled her to him, but he did not hold her uncomfortably close.

  She stiffened, cardboard in his arms.

  “Relax.” He moved his hand to the nape of her neck, massaging with gentle pressure her tense muscles. Her pulse pounded viciously. “Stop thinking so much. Just let go, feel the rhythm.”

  “Who says I’m thinking too much?” She made a misstep, crunched his toe. Lucky for him he was wearing cowboy boots.

  His laugh was a low rumble inside his chest. “It shows on your face, scrunched up, pulled inward, and your body is tight as a top.”

  She intentionally widened her eyes, tried to loosen her shoulders, and ended up crunching his foot again. “It is not.”

  He chuckled softly and pulled her closer. His proximity was so comforting sh
e couldn’t summon the energy to push away.

  “Just go with the flow.”

  “Oh now, that’s simply a hippie cliché. Sort of like love the one you’re with.”

  He shrugged. “Clichés are clichés for a reason.”

  “You get a lot of mileage from that go-with-the-flow thing?”

  “You ought to try it sometime,” he crooned, his voice soothing enough to calm a rioting crowd. His fingers were back caressing the nape of her neck.

  Sarah didn’t know what else to say. His touch did feel good and she hadn’t realized exactly how wound up she’d been. But it was impossible to relax when she could feel the contour of his hard, powerful body through his clothes. How was she going to get out of this?

  “Don’t think,” he whispered. “Just dance.”

  “Well, duh, of course I’m thinking. How does one not think?”

  “Play attention to your body. Feel the music vibrate the floor, coming up through your feet.”

  She tried, but it was impossible. She was too aware of him.

  “You live too much in your head.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You’re a writer. You live in your head.”

  “Okay, let’s say you’re correct in your assumptions. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It gets pretty lonely in there.” He said it so simply, as if he could look into her eyes and see straight into her brain.

  It pissed her off a little, that he thought he knew her. It pissed her off even more because he was right. Was she that obvious, that easy to read?

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I’ve read your book to Jazzy a thousand times.

  And I do remember you, Sarah Collier—you can be playful and whimsical and even a little mischievous when you let yourself.”

  She’d forgotten about that. “That was a long time ago. I’m not that same dumb kid.”

  “You were never dumb. I recall you as being pretty observant and perceptive.”

  She felt inordinately pleased by that comment.