Christmas With A Mountain Man (Rich & Rugged: A Hawkins Brothers Romance Book 5)

by Ellie Hall

  “Are you a baker?” Ms. Mayweather asked. “Brynn Powell could use some help.”

  “I do enjoy baking. Actually, I’m a chef. Well—”

  “Wait. You look familiar. Were you on TV once?” Mrs. Niddler asked.

  If it were anyone else, they would’ve been bashful, but Frankie Costa was the queen of the mountain and she knew it.

  “Yes, you were demonstrating Italian cooking on the morning show.”

  “That was me.” Frankie beamed, but behind her megawatt smile, he sensed something else.

  “We’ll have to swap recipes.”

  The three of them started talking about cooking. Rocky had been there long enough. He started toward the door.

  “John,” Ms. Mayweather called. “Hang on. We’ve got Frankie here signed up to help bake for the school. The district cut funding for athletics. We were wondering if you could coach or in the very least play in the charity tournament coming up at the end of the Winter Festival. Proceeds go to the school.”

  “Brynn has been so supportive. Your brother too,” Mrs. Niddler added. “They’re all about the kids.”

  That was where he’d heard the name. Brynn was the woman Owen had proposed to at the Turkey Trot after Thanksgiving.

  Whether it was the memories that had been rushing at him since he’d set foot in the church, the reminder that he wasn’t married, or the mention of hockey, he felt himself boiling over. He had to get outside, back to the hill, to the woods.

  Mustering up as much politeness as he could, he nodded at them and hurried to the truck.

  Chapter 5

  Frankie

  When Rocky had pulled up to the church, he’d looked handsome and a bit shy, reverent. As he hastened out of the lot after the service, his face was shadowed and his eyes dark with anger.

  She knew better than to ask him if he wanted to talk about it. The guys she knew, namely her brothers, weren’t always forthcoming with their emotions. But she knew that talking always helped no matter if you were a macho Italian-American or a rugged mountain man.

  She’d sensed a shift in Rocky when the two women mentioned his brother and then hockey.

  “It was strange, having those two sweet ladies recognize me. I’m sure you get it all the time, but there are so many people in Manhattan who orbit in the celebrity circle that a little ‘ole chef like me is no big deal.”

  The sun shone overhead, inspiring her to go on because maybe like the glowing orb in the sky, she could get him to melt his frosty exterior.

  “I really appreciate you sharing the risotto with your dogs. It was the first thing I’d cooked since I lost my restaurant. That’s what brought me up here. I needed to get away. Figure out what to do after everything I’d worked so hard for, my dream since I was a little girl, fell apart.”

  Again, Rocky was quiet as the truck started climbing the mountain road back to the cabins. Still, it felt good to get all that out. If not to help him open up by sharing her story, she did it for herself.

  After a time, he said, “There’s a poem about a man whose dog runs away. He’s distraught. Tries to find it. Then, one day, he’s walking down the street, and he sees a little boy, standing proudly with the dog on a leash, waiting on the corner. It’s obvious they’ve become best friends and the man is no longer upset.”

  “Does that mean that you think something good will come out of what I just told you about losing everything that I’d worked for?” The words caught in her throat.

  Rocky nodded.

  She also wondered if he was saying that they could be friends. She wasn’t sure why she was so intent on making it so, but the Costas were a well-liked family. It didn’t sit well with her that there was a longstanding feud between them and the Hawkins. Not that it really mattered. Her father had never spoken of it aside from what he’d written on the postcard.

  “When you were a little kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?” she asked.

  He was quiet a moment. A long moment. Then he cleared his throat. “I wanted to be like my father.” His eyes didn’t waver from the road. “I hadn’t been to church since my father’s funeral.”

  Rocky pulled to a stop in the driveway and got out, but his comment hung in the air; thick, filled with regret, remorse, and something else.

  She had her hand on the door when he pulled it open to help her down. As she dropped to her feet, they were standing so close that she was looking at the buttons on his coat. His gray eyes drew hers up like a pair of magnets.

  “Thanks for bringing me down there. And I was just thinking, maybe the message in the poem is true for both of us.” Her voice was soft, as gentle as falling snow.

  At that, she followed the trail through the woods, being sure to sing the worship songs from church, sending them high to the heavens and hoping that Rocky’s dad was listening because the guy needed something, she just wasn’t sure what.

  Frankie spent the next few days going through all of the boxes in the cabin, organizing the donations for the church.

  She saw Rocky once when he helped her bring them into town the day before. Other than that, she’d been busy cleaning the cabin, scrubbing it from top to bottom. A few more boxes remained in the living room, but they were filled with old papers, drawings from when the Costa kids were little, and other family mementos. She was going to make a memory box of sorts for each of her brothers and parents. But she’d get to that. First, she needed a Christmas tree and knew just the guy for the job.

  On her way out the door, she almost tripped over a thick envelope on the steps. It was addressed to John Hawkins. She picked it up and started singing as she made her way toward the scent of woodsmoke—not wanting to risk another encounter with a bear.

  As Frankie came to the clearing surrounding his cabin, she heard the loud thwack of splitting wood. She followed the sound behind the house to find Rocky’s thickly muscled arms lowering an ax into a log. One piece dropped to the side and he realigned the one remaining on the block.

  She watched him closely, unable to resist admiring his rippling muscles through the green plaid shirt he wore as he lifted the ax and then let it swing downward with gravity. He made it almost look effortless.

  He glanced up as she approached, hardly acknowledging her, and then returned to his task.

  “Hey, neighbor,” she called.

  “I thought I told you to stay away.” He wiped sweat from his forehead.

  She was impervious to his attempt at scaring her off. “I’m being courteous. A piece of mail for John Hawkins was delivered to my house. It looks important.”

  He snapped it up, glanced at it, and tore it in half.

  Her eyes widened.

  He tossed it in the pile with split wood. “The only thing that’s good for is burning.”

  She wasn’t being nosy, but couldn’t help notice that the return address was from a law firm.

  “I have to get back to work,” he said, returning to his splitting wood stance.

  If glistening with sweat in the fading light of day was what he called work, she did not want to interrupt. The man was a beast, but also devastatingly handsome in his own way. While at church, she’d overheard Mrs. Niddler mention that she thought he was the most handsome of the bunch, probably meaning out of his brothers.

  She wondered what had happened...and what he looked like under all that scruff.

  The sound of splitting wood didn’t pierce the quiet. Instead, Rocky’s gray eyes held hers.

  “What are you still doing here? I thought I said scat.”

  He meant for the words to be harsh, to scare her off. They didn’t have the intended effect, but they did shake her from her stupor. She’d been staring at him. “Oh, it’s a lot harder to get rid of me, Hawkins,” she said. “Plus, I need your ax.”

  His throat bobbed and then he held up the tool in his hand as though realizing what she meant. “It’s a maul,” he said. “An ax is sharper and lighter. Better to chop down a small tree. You don’t use it to split
wood unless you want to work harder. A maul is heavy and dull for splitting wood.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever. I need a Christmas tree.”

  He shook his head. “For that, you need a bow saw.”

  “And you, ya Yeti. Come on. I can’t carry the thing myself.”

  “Yeti?” he asked.

  “Yeah, you’re like the snow beast of the wooded north,” she said, starting toward the trail dividing their cabins.

  He wasn’t following her but called, “I thought you said I was the Grinch. Get it straight.”

  She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Was he flirting? Nah.

  He stood, obstinate. Unmoving.

  Finally, she said, “Please?”

  He looked torn, but set his maul down and then walked toward a shed. A moment later, he appeared with a saw shaped kind of like a bow from a bow and arrow set.

  “I’ve always wanted to cut down my own Christmas tree. My mother had an artificial one when we were growing up.”

  The cabin no longer smelled musty after she’d cleaned it so thoroughly and she anticipated the fresh scent filling the space.

  “Do you have decorations?” he asked.

  “I found every single one that my brothers and I ever made when we were kids. They’re hideous in an adorable way. Kind of like you.” She let the words float into the air behind them, wondering how they landed.

  All she heard was the crunching of Rocky’s boots through the snow as he followed at her heels.

  To fill the silence, she started to sing.

  After a moment he said, “You’ll do a good job scaring off the bears.”

  “Is that a comment on my singing ability to get back at me for saying you’re hideous?” she asked.

  “Just a little.” There was an edge of laughter in his voice.

  They trekked to the fields behind the cabin to where rows of Christmas trees stood tall in neatly organized lines. She found the perfect one and Rocky set to work, slicing into the trunk.

  Frankie turned in a small circle, breathing in the fresh pine scent. It was peaceful up there, that was for sure, but what had split the peace between the neighbors—their respective grandfathers?

  Something sent Francesco back to Italy and inspired a hatred between the men. But what?

  Rocky brought the tree into the house and set it in the stand.

  “If only you’d seen the place a week ago, you’d hardly believe the transformation,” Frankie said, taking off her coat. In fact, she was starting to feel a bit transformed herself—or at least not quite so heavy with the burden of losing her restaurant. “Thank you for your help. It already feels more festive in here. Can I get you something to drink? Do you want to stay and help decorate?”

  “No. I’d better head back and finish up. Another storm is coming in overnight.”

  Before he turned to leave, he rubbed his hand over the mantle—a knotty piece of wood polished to a shine. “My grandfather built this place. Never been inside though.” He looked up. “Structurally, it’s a spitting image of my cabin.”

  “And he sold it to my grandfather,” she speculated, still curious about the history of that place and their families. “But I think there’s more to the story. My grandfather just up and left, but never sold the place. Maybe the guys were friends. Perhaps they’d fallen in love with the same woman. Ooh, I think there’s a love story hidden here.”

  “You’re Italian, of course, you think that.”

  “What do you know about Italians?” But what she really wanted to ask was what he knew about love. He seemed like he needed some of it in his life. Either that or he’d let some kind of tragedy defeat him and blocked it out.

  “You like pasta,” he said weakly.

  “That’s a stereotype.”

  He shrugged. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not particularly concerned about what people think of me.”

  “As evidenced by the thing growing on your face,” she muttered.

  “What do you care?” he snapped.

  “I didn’t say I care.” Her arms flew in front of her chest defiantly, feeling riled up. Why was he so difficult?

  He smirked like he was looking at an adorable kitten. Either that or he sensed the truth.

  Whether it was because she was an impassioned Italian or not, she rarely held back her emotions. “Fine. I do care. I came up here to figure out my life and maybe this is part of it, of my story, or at least will help me write a new chapter.”

  “Or you’re just trying to avoid facing something.”

  Frankie took several steps toward him so they were standing toe to toe. It didn’t matter that she had to lift her chin to meet his eyes. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not particularly afraid of anything, Rocky,” she said, echoing his words. Especially not him. Although, the way she felt when she was around him, was another matter altogether.

  He grunted and moved toward the door.

  It was then that she knew. He was afraid of her. Not in the sense of fear like a bear attack, but there was something he was afraid to face and it had something to do with her—maybe not directly, but in some way.

  “I’ll get to the bottom of it,” she said out loud.

  “You could go to the town hall and find out about the deed,” he said as though interpreting her statement to mean she was pledging to find out about the family feud. He looked around again as though admiring the woodwork, the smooth beams supporting the ceiling, and overall craftsmanship. “Ask your father. Or who knows, maybe the answers are in here somewhere.” His eyes sparked with knowing, at least she thought so.

  She stalked back over to him. “You know more than you’re letting on and won’t tell me because it’s easier for you to pretend to hate me.”

  “I’m not pretending to hate you.”

  She wouldn’t let him land that blow. Stepping close, she lifted onto her toes and whispered, “Love and hate are not opposites, John Hawkins.”

  “Who said anything about love?” he asked and then whisked out the door.

  The comment hit her as the door slammed shut. She was a good person. She worked hard. Losing the restaurant was painful. She wasn’t able to talk to anyone about it. Having the opportunity to get away, to go somewhere and not have to explain what had happened, how she felt about it, and what she was going to do next—because that was what everyone wanted to know—was a relief. But that didn’t mean she wanted to live in complete isolation like Rocky. No, she just wanted to be friends. Apparently, that was too much to ask.

  Oh, Rocky had rattled her good. She put off decorating the tree until later when she was in a better frame of mind. Plus, she needed more chocolate. Her mother always made hot cocoa when they decorated the tree. Her infuriating neighbor also mentioned another storm was on the way so it would be smart to stock up on supplies so she headed down the hill and into town.

  Unable to get the exchange she and Rocky had in the cabin out of her mind, she plowed up and down the aisles of the market, tossing things mindlessly into the cart. Bread, olives, greens, figs. She didn’t know what she was going to make but trusted that it would come together.

  She pushed the cart forward but it rammed into something. She looked up into a pair of gray eyes. “If you drive a cart like this, I’d hate to see you behind the wheel of a car.”

  At the word hate, anger flared inside. She may have been emotional in general, but the bevy of emotions that cycled through her on a regular basis also included anger. Right then, she was furious at Rocky.

  “In that case, since we share a road, I suggest you look after that truck of yours. I’d hate to accidentally go up the wrong driveway and ram into it.” She shoved her cart into his for good measure.

  “Hey, is this about what happened?” he asked.

  “Oh, and what was that?” She cocked her hip.

  He shifted from foot to foot. “In your living room.”

  “Whatever. I don’t care.” She started walking away.

&
nbsp; “You do. You said so.” He gripped her wrist.

  She swallowed hard, unable to deny that she was affected by his touch. “Obviously, you don’t so what does it matter?”

  “Don’t be like this,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Be like what?” she huffed. But she hated how she was acting. Not at all like the strong woman who’d led over forty employees, rolled out nightly dinners to five times that number, and was a top chef in the culinary epicenter of the world...and the girl who’d survived childhood and adolescence with six brothers.

  A woman with long blond hair strutted by, looking Rocky up and down like he was as delicious as the cream tarts on display. The woman paused by them as though listening.

  “Can we not do this here?” he asked, eyeing the women with irritation.

  “Do what?” Frankie sniped.

  Another woman appeared, studying the label on a bottle of orange juice.

  Then another.

  Rocky stared at her cart. “Are you cooking for an army?”

  “No, just myself.” She leveled him with a glare. “But it looks like you have an army of admirers.” She stormed off, leaving him to deal with his growing fan club.

  While she was in town, she should’ve contacted her parents, but it was getting late oversees and she needed to prepare herself before talking to them about Mangia Bella. She was also too rattled after her encounter with Rocky.

  When Frankie returned to the cabin, she went directly to the kitchen. The wind howled outside and the snow fell in thick, heavy flakes while she made a pasta dish with a creamy basil sauce, freshly grated parmesan, a sprinkling of peas, a bit of lemon zest, and freshly ground black pepper. It warmed the kitchen—and her.

  The first bite was divine. The tension in her shoulders melted. She savored the melding of the flavors just as her grandmother had taught her to. She’d said, “When you scarf down your food you miss the details. Instead, enjoy each bite and you will see that life itself becomes more delicious.”