Her Holiday Prince Charming

by Christine Flynn

  She’d barely pulled into the garage and gathered her groceries from the backseat when Erik strode up and plucked the heavy sack from her arms.

  “Anything else back there?” he asked.

  Raindrops glistened in his dark hair, beaded on his leather jacket. His impersonal glance swept her face, his brow pinching at whatever it was he saw in her expression.

  Not about to stand there trying to figure out what that something might be, she turned away. “Just one bag. I can get it.”

  Ignoring her, he reached into the car as Tyler raced around the back bumper and came to a screeching stop.

  One strap of his green dinosaur backpack hung over his shoulder. The other dangled behind him as he looked up with a shy “Hi.”

  Erik straightened, looking down at the child looking up at him. “Hi yourself, sport.”

  Anticipation fairly danced in her little boy’s hazel eyes.

  As if unable to help himself, Erik smiled back and held out the bag of apples he’d snagged off the seat. “Do you want to take this?”

  At Tyler’s vigorous nod, he waited for the child to wrap his arms around the bag, then nudged him toward the warmth of the house. With Tyler doing double time to match Erik’s long strides, Rory punched the remote to close the garage door and hurried to catch up, clutching her shoulder bag and keys.

  She couldn’t believe how pleased Tyler looked to see him.

  “Were you on the ferry?” she asked, torn between her son’s growing fascination with the man and trying to imagine why he was there.

  “I took the long way around. I had a meeting in Tacoma,” he told her, speaking of a town at the south end of the sound, “so I drove. Jake was on it, though. He should be right behind you.”

  “Jake?”

  “One of our craftsmen.” Rain glittered through the pool of pale yellow light that arced from the neat back porch. Even in that spare illumination, Erik could see strain in the delicate lines of her face, could hear it in her voice. “I’ll explain when we get inside.”

  He watched her hurry ahead of him. Her head down, she unlocked the door and ushered Tyler inside, reminding him to wipe his feet on the way.

  The mudroom, with its pegs for coats, cabinets for storage and the double sink his grandmother had used for repotting plants, opened into the kitchen. The warmer air held the same welcome it always had, but no longer did it smell of the pine disinfectant his grandmother had used with abandon when mopping the floors. Now lingering hints of lemon soap gave way to scents of cinnamon and orange as Rory distractedly flipped on lights and told him to set the bags anywhere.

  The island of the neatly organized kitchen seemed as good a place as any. As he set the bags on the laminate surface, his glance cut to where she’d left on a lamp at the far end of the long, open space.

  She’d just moved in last week, yet everything appeared to be in order. Furniture had been pushed, pulled or shoved into place. Drapes and pictures were hung. Not a box remained in sight.

  Not a hint of what had once been familiar remained, either.

  The walls had been bare for over a year. Having walked through that empty space a dozen times, it no longer felt strange without the chaos of floral patterns and knickknacks his grandparents had acquired living there. But with that blank canvas redecorated, the sense he’d had the other day of no longer belonging there, of having lost a piece of himself, threatened to surface once more. He didn’t doubt that it would have, too, had the unexpected ease of what she’d created not distracted him from it.

  The well-defined spaces now bore his student’s decidedly understated stamp. The heavy wood pieces he’d carried in were dark and substantial enough to make a man feel comfortable, but balanced by shades of ivory and taupe that felt amazingly...restful.

  The rustic refectory table with its high-backed chairs held a large pewter bowl filled with glittered pinecones and cinnamon potpourri. Beyond it, the deeply cushioned sofa faced the stone fireplace at the end of the room. A long, narrow sofa table behind it held a trio of thick cream-colored candles. The two armchairs he’d brought in had been positioned to one side, a heavy end table stacked with books and a chrome lamp between them.

  He turned to see that she’d left her raincoat in the mudroom. The apples and her shoulder bag had landed on the desk by the now child’s-art-covered refrigerator—mostly red-and-green construction paper bells. Sinking to her heels in front of her little boy, she worked his jacket’s zipper.

  “You’ve been busy.”

  Oblivious to what had his attention, conscious only of his presence, Rory understated considerably.

  “A little,” she replied, thinking of the day she’d had and how desperately glad she was for it to be nearing its end. “I had a meeting with the probate attorney.” Now that the house had sold, she’d had more paperwork to sign. “And I had to go to the bank to close the safe-deposit box, then go straighten out my medical insurance.”

  The good news was that she could pay the attorney’s fees and increased insurance costs from the proceeds of the sale of the house. The not so good part was that both cost more than she’d expected—which meant she’d have to forgo the new sign and new shelving she’d hoped to have for her store’s grand opening. And buy a considerably smaller Christmas tree than a version of the megadollar, floor-to-ceiling noble fir that had so mesmerized Tyler at his school. She’d already ruled out buying more outdoor lights to pay for the ferry rides.

  Budget concerns, however, had taken a backseat to the varying degrees of anger and hurt she’d been busy stifling all afternoon. Thanks to Curt’s mother.

  “After I picked Tyler up from school,” she continued, “we dropped off library books and went grocery shopping before we caught the ferry.”

  “And saw Santa ringing a bell at the store,” supplied Tyler, still in Christmas mode. “Not the real Santa,” he explained. “Mommy said he was a helper.” He gave a sage little nod. “The real Santa has lots of helpers.”

  “Be tough to do all he does alone,” she explained. Her little boy’s zipper now freed, she rose and headed for the bags. “I hope the milk stayed cold.”

  Erik had never seen her in a suit and heels before. A crisp white blouse peeked from beneath the black jacket that curved at her waist and hugged the hips of her slim pencil skirt. Black tights covered the long, shapely line of her legs. As he glanced up from her spike-thin heels, he had to admit he hadn’t seen her truly upset before, either. Though she definitely was, and trying hard to hide it.

  “I meant you’ve been busy around here.”

  Apparently realizing the extent of her preoccupation, she met his eyes and promptly closed hers with a sigh.

  “Can I have an apple?” Tyler asked.

  She forced herself to brighten. “You’ll ruin your appetite, sweetie.” Taking his head between her hands, she kissed the top of it, hard, and tipped his face to hers. “Hang up your jacket and empty your backpack. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

  With Tyler dragging his jacket into the mudroom, she reached into the nearest bag to unload groceries. She’d just put the milk in the fridge and grabbed two boxes of cereal when she turned on her stylish heel.

  The boxes landed on the counter three feet from where Erik watched her with his hands in the pockets of his cargos. The stance pulled the sides of his jacket back from the navy pullover covering his chest and made his shoulders look broad enough to bear the weight of the world.

  It seemed terribly unfair just then to be taunted by the memory of how very solid his chest had felt. Especially when she so badly wanted to be held against it. But fair hadn’t been a big part of her day.

  “I’m sorry.” She shook her head, the neat wedge of her hair swinging. “You didn’t drive all the way here to watch me put away groceries.” She tried for a smile. “May I get you something? Jui
ce? Milk?” Neither sounded very adult. “Coffee?”

  He took a step toward her. “I didn’t come to interrupt. I just want to drop off your shelving.”

  “My shelving?”

  “The three units for the back of the store. I had a couple of the guys work on them with me over the weekend. With Christmas coming, they were up for the overtime. One of the units is in the back of my truck. Jake is bringing the rest.”

  Disbelief cut through the anxiety that sat like a knot beneath her breastbone. They’d barely discussed her layout to update the market. Though he’d said it would probably work, he hadn’t even bothered to tell her whether or not he liked the idea. All she’d done was show him her sketch, explain why she wanted it and all of a sudden the shelving she’d felt certain would now have to wait had materialized. He made it happen just like that, as if he was some sort of...fairy godfather.

  The man fairly leaked masculinity. As utterly male as he was and so not fatherly in the way he’d checked out her legs, the thought would have made her laugh had she not felt like crying.

  “You made my shelves?”

  “You wanted them, didn’t you?”

  She wanted world peace, too, but that didn’t mean she expected it to happen.

  She raked her fingers through her hair, wondering if they were a gift, which she couldn’t accept without reimbursing him. Wondering, too, how much he’d paid his men, since it was undoubtedly more than she could afford.

  “Yes. Absolutely. I’m just...” Speechless, she thought. “Thank you,” she concluded, because she had no idea what else to say before the ring of his cell phone had him pulling the instrument from his pocket.

  After two short beeps and a glance at the text, he muttered, “Jake’s out front,” and dropped the phone back into his pocket. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Then you can tell me what’s wrong.”

  Certain he was referring to her less than gracious reaction, she said, “Nothing is wrong. You just caught me off guard. I never expected you to make the shelves—”

  “I meant what was wrong with you when I got here.”

  Oh. That.

  Thinking him far too astute, uncomfortable with that, too, she turned for the cereal. “It’s nothing.”

  Moving with her, Erik stopped scant inches from her back. With Tyler just around the corner, he lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. “Lying is a bad example to set for a child.”

  Conscious of his warm breath moving her hair, her head still down, she lowered her voice, too. “Then how about it’s nothing I can talk about in front of him?”

  “That’s better.” Taking a step back, he indicated the door near the stairway. “I need to get into the store. Mind if I go in through the living room?”

  Since he tended to do what he wanted to do anyway, she was a little surprised that he’d asked. Mostly, she was just conscious of how close his muscular body still was to hers. All she’d have to do was turn around...

  She shook her head, swallowed hard. “Not at all.”

  “Give me half an hour. I’ll be back.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes was actually all the time it took him and his employee to unload the sections of the three shelving units from a company vehicle and the back of Erik’s truck. It wasn’t long enough, however, for Erik to question why he couldn’t leave well enough alone with the woman he’d spent the past few days trying not to think about at all. Not beyond her needs for the store, anyway. He’d told her to call him if she needed anything. Since she hadn’t, he’d assumed she was doing fine.

  Except she clearly was not. Even when he let himself back inside, greeted by the scent of something delicious, there was no mistaking the disquiet she was still trying to hide.

  Tyler smiled from where he sat on the dining room side of the island. Beyond him, light glowed through the glass-paned white cabinets, revealing neat stacks and rows of plates and glasses.

  “Mom’s making mac and cheese. It’s my favorite. You want some?”

  “Mom” had shed her jacket and heels. She stood across from them in her stocking feet, stirring a pot on the stove. The cuffs of her white blouse had been folded back. A green dish towel had been tied into an apron at the waist of her skirt. Erik knew she’d heard him come in, but it was her son’s innocent invitation that had her looking over her shoulder with apology in her expression.

  “I told him you probably already had plans,” she said, sounding as if she fully expected his refusal and had already prepared her son for it. “But he wanted to ask anyway.”

  Had this been any other woman, any other child, Erik knew without a doubt that he’d have done what she obviously expected and come up with some excuse for not being able to stick around for dinner. With just the three of them, the beat of the rain against the windows and the cozy warmth of the kitchen countering the cold outside, the scenario felt entirely too domestic for him.

  He wanted to know what had upset her, though. If for no reason other than to be sure it wouldn’t impede her progress with the store. Or so he told himself. He also knew she wasn’t going to say a word about whatever it was as long as her son was present.

  Then there was the little boy himself. With Tyler looking all hopeful, he simply didn’t have the heart to say no.

  “Mac and cheese, huh?”

  Again, the quick nod. “It’s really good.”

  “Then I guess I’d better stay.” He looked to the woman at the stove, caught the strain countering the softness of her smile. “That okay, ‘Mom’?”

  Her hesitation held uncertainty, and collided with something that looked suspiciously like gratitude for indulging her child. “Of course it is. Tyler?” she asked. “Let’s move your place mat to the table and get another one from the sideboard for Erik.”

  Erik tossed his jacket across the stool next to where Tyler sat. As he did, the boy scrambled down and grabbed his pine-green place mat from the island. Intent on his mission, he laid it on the heavy oak table, then pulled a matching one from a long drawer in the printer’s cabinet his mom had pushed to the wall by the stairs.

  He’d just set the mat across from the other when he looked back to the man tracking his progress. “Do you want to see my boat?”

  Erik hadn’t a clue what had prompted the question. Seconds ago they’d been talking about food. With a shrug, he said, “Sure,” and the little boy was off.

  Wondering if the kid’s energy ever ran low, he walked over to where Rory spooned dinner into two shallow pasta bowls.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  “You’ve already done it,” she said quietly. “He’s wanted to show you that boat ever since you said you build them. After you told him about the boats outside Cornelia’s office, it was nearly all he talked about.” She turned, a bowl in each hand. “But if you want, set these on the table for the two of you while I slice another tomato. That would be great.”

  Handing them over, she slipped past him to take two salad plates from the cupboard.

  “Where’s yours?”

  “I’m not hungry. What do you want to drink?” she asked, pointedly avoiding his scrutiny as he set the bowls on the table.

  Walking toward them with his toy, Tyler announced that he wanted milk.

  Rory told him she knew he did. As she set salads of tomatoes, herbs and olive oil above their place mats, she also said she knew he really wanted to show Erik his boat, but right now he needed to sit down and eat his dinner before it got cold.

  She appeared as calm and unruffled to Erik as he’d always seen her with her son. Still, he recognized restlessness when faced with it. There was no mistaking the nerves that had her too keyed up to sit down herself. She seemed to be using motion as a means to keep that tension under control as she started pulling measuring cups, flour and a big wooden spoon from cabinets,
cupboards and drawers.

  Intimately familiar himself with the cathartic effects of movement, specifically his usual morning run or sanding teak until his arms ached, he said nothing about her joining them. While she moved about the kitchen side of the island, he turned his attention to the boy who’d docked his little blue plastic boat on the table between them.

  His fork in his fist, Tyler stabbed a noodle. “It’s my Christmas boat.”

  It certainly was.

  The miniature ski boat held a hunk of clay middeck. A peppermint-striped straw stuck up from the little blob like a mast. More clay anchored a bit of pencil-thin neon-green tinsel from bow to mast and mast to stern.

  He’d rigged the tinsel on it just like the lighted boats they’d talked about in Cornelia’s office.

  Erik couldn’t believe how deeply touched he was by the boy’s innocent desire to share something of his with him. Or how humbled he felt by the innocent expectation in the child’s eyes.

  The silence coming from the table had Rory nearly holding her breath as she waited for Erik to acknowledge what her son had shared.

  He finally picked up the toy, turned it in his big hands.

  She could have hugged him when he said, “Now that is one awesome sailboat.”

  Tyler beamed.

  Rory felt her heart squeeze.

  Setting the child’s handiwork back on the table, Erik pointed his fork at the bow. “Do you know what that’s called?” he asked.

  “The front?”

  “That, too,” came his easy reply. “But in nautical terms, the front of a boat is called its bow.”

  “What’s ‘not-cul’?”

  “Nautical,” Erik emphasized with a smile. “It means things relating to boats and sailors,” he added, which led Tyler to ask what the back was called. That led to a discussion of stern, port, starboard and keel, the latter of which his ski boat didn’t have, but which Erik fashioned out of a paper napkin just so Tyler would get the idea of what one looked like.

  When Rory casually mentioned that she was going to have to reheat their dinner if they didn’t start eating, conversation turned to the merits of shell-shaped pasta over elbow while they cleaned their bowls. Over pudding for dessert, talk then turned back to the boat—specifically the differences between sail and motor.