Before Stuart, it had been Willard Blickensderfer, the newly imported Swiss ski instructor at the Pine Mountain resort. Clara smiled briefly as the peppermint candy slowly dissolved on her tongue. Willard had been a good half foot shorter than she, but there were certain perks to that. They’d aligned well in other ways. Especially when they were both horizontal. In fact, he’d been great in bed, very energetic, very . . . attentive. Turns out, unlike Stuart’s mother, Willard had quite a thing for natural redheads. A very good, very enthusiastic thing. He’d also made her feel like the only woman in the room. Which, she’d learned—in a quite mortifying manner on a late-night surprise visit to his little mountain A-frame—was actually a rare thing for him. To his credit, he’d been equally enthusiastic about having her join the two other redheads he’d already been . . . entertaining. So he hadn’t, technically, broken up with her. But even Clara had her standards. And though she’d been raised to play well with others, there were some things she simply did not share.
And before Willard . . . gah. She really didn’t want to think about it. She had thirty all but staring her in the face and the most meaningful relationship she’d ever had was her freshman year in college. And that hadn’t even really been a relationship. What it had been was a solid friendship that seemed headed toward something more serious, or maybe that had only been in her mind, but she had definitely been falling, and falling hard. Only he’d had to leave school suddenly right before the end of their first year for a family emergency, and . . . that had been that. But of all the guys she’d ever spent any appreciable time with, Will Mason had been the only . . . well, the only real one. No artifice, no pretense, no game playing.
Of course, they hadn’t really dated. They’d never even kissed. She’d been even more insecure about her height, about her hair, her awkwardness, her . . . well, everything, back then. So not sexy.
But Will . . . well, maybe he hadn’t made her feel beautiful exactly, or even like the only woman in the room, but what he had done was even better. He’d made her feel good, happy. Normal. And desirable, even if just as a friend. There had been no other goal than that, no other agenda. He wasn’t angling to get her to do his homework, or give him her cuter best friend’s phone number. He’d sincerely seemed to like hanging out with her, just . . . for her.
They’d been initially partnered in a study lab for a science class, but had ended up spending hours talking while pretending to do their lab work, much of that time sprinkled liberally with laughter. He’d gotten her dry humor, even thought her always too-loud laugh-snort was cute, or at least not mortifying, and she’d gotten that underneath his laid-back, easy-going style he was a guy with goals, with determination. He was smart, and driven in his own way. He just wasn’t obvious about it.
She fished out another cookie, then shoved it back in the box as she slowed down to enter Riverside proper. More sugar wasn’t helping her still-thumping pulse, nor was thinking about her first crush. Like her, he’d been away from home for the first time, and they’d bonded over that. He was originally from Bealetown, which was on the other side of Pine Mountain, so they’d had a lot of the local landmarks in common, if not the same hometown, exactly. As far as she was concerned, if men were more like Will, she’d probably still have her old job at the Gazette.
“Actually if there were more men out there like Will Mason, they probably wouldn’t need an advice columnist in the first place.” So, either way, you lose. Clara snorted as she slowly eased into the bookstore parking lot, careful to keep her tires from slipping or sliding in the snow that was starting to mount up on the pavement. It looked like she’d be using four-wheel drive to get home. Maybe even put on the tire chains she kept in the back.
Honestly, it’s just as well you’re not dishing out advice any longer, she thought as she jockeyed into the first available space she could find. A woman could only take so much rejection before her naturally rose-colored optimism turned into a tell-it-like-it-is reality check, tinged with barely concealed cynicism. For that matter, Will could have grown up to be a self-absorbed, commitment phobic, womanizing jerk, for all she knew.
Memories of how his thatch of wheat-blond hair had always looked like he’d just climbed out of bed, those puppy dog brown eyes of his, the ridiculously sweet dimples that only popped out when he smiled like he meant it . . . yeah, so, okay it was hard to imagine him being a jerk of any kind. But still, she wouldn’t be surprised by anything anymore.
“See? You’re jaded.” She debated on indulging in one more crunchable man cookie, then firmly tucked the flap closed on the box. “No more cookie-shaped men. No more real men, either. And, definitely, no more whining. Be thankful you have a job. Be thankful it’s your very favorite time of year. Now, go forth and learn to bake!”
She climbed out and flipped up the hood of her winter coat, then made her way carefully across the parking lot, trying not to pull a face plant, or butt plant for that matter, before making it to the curb. She should have thought to bring weather-appropriate footwear, but she’d come straight from the community center and the forecasters hadn’t been really calling for the snowfall to amount to anything. Of course, that had been in Pine Mountain. Riverside was in the valley and often got dumped on in the winter.
Despite her now half-numb toes, once she made it to the sidewalk in front of the bookstore, she didn’t hurry toward the big double wooden doors. Instead, she took her own advice and took a moment to enjoy the thick, fat flakes as they tumbled through the crisp night air, twirling all around her. She truly loved the winter, loved the snow, loved all the traditions of the holidays. She wasn’t going to let some minor personal setback—okay, even a not-so-minor one—interfere with enjoying her favorite time of year. Her own private little rebellion against the reality check life was handing her. Again. To that end, she stuck her tongue out and let a few flakes melt on her tongue.
“Take that, life,” she said, a resolute smile on her face as she pulled open the big wooden doors with an enthusiastic, rebellion-fueled tug . . . and slipped, almost falling flat on the snow-covered pavement as her feet went out from under her. She managed at the last second to grip the oversized door handle, barely preserving her clothes and her butt, if not her pride.
When she finally managed to right herself, she was relieved to find not a single person had noticed her less-than-graceful entrance. Not because the place was empty. Far from it. The shop was jam-packed. Body-to-body packed. But everyone was facing toward the back of the store. Now that she thought about it, the parking lot had been rather full. Of course, it was only two weeks to Christmas, so every parking lot was an endless sea of jockeying cars these days . . . but this was a little nuts, even for this time of year.
It took her a moment as she tipped her hood off—which crumpled and promptly sent a sheaf of snow down the back of her neck and under her collar, making her squeal—to realize some kind of event was going on.
“I know, honey,” a woman in front of Clara said, when her squeal and wriggling to keep more snow from going inside her coat drew attention. “It is pretty exciting, right?”
“Right,” Clara agreed, dancing a little jig to make the snow melt faster, even though she hadn’t a clue what the woman was talking about. If there were signs posted outside, she’d missed them while having her defiant snowflake moment, and the place was too jammed full inside to see any signs. Her height did come in handy on occasion, however, and she could look over most of the sea of heads to where some kind of table was set up near the back of the store. Ah, a book signing. There were too many people crowded in front of the table to see who the guest author was, but she was guessing, since the entire line snaking up and down almost every aisle was comprised entirely of women, that it was probably a children’s author. Which made perfect sense at Christmastime.
She’d shopped in the bookstore many times over the years, but had to dodge elbows and shopping bags as she tried to figure out where the cookbook aisle was. That part of the store for
mat was foreign to her. She managed to only partially knock over a spinner rack and clear a corner off of a huge display table before mercifully spying Paula Deen smiling benevolently like Clara’s own personal savior from an endcap cookbook display. Sighing in relief, Clara dodged around another cluster of excitedly chattering women—whoever this author was, these women sure were excited, bordering on downright giddy—and escaped into the otherwise mercifully abandoned cookbook aisle. Apparently no one in the store was shopping for anything other than whatever the guest author was selling.
Clara tuned out the hubbub and refocused on the mission at hand. Tilting her head, she started a slow scan of the shelves crammed full of cookbooks. My God, there are so many. Was she the only person in the world who didn’t cook? And just how many recipes did any one person actually need? She kept skimming titles, trying to be bolstered rather than intimidated by the sheer numbers of spines she had to scan through. Surely with that kind of inventory, there would be something that would get her through the rudimentary steps without burning her little cottage to the ground. She made a mental note to contact her insurance agent to see about upping her coverage. And another note to put the PMFD on speed dial. She kept skimming.
“I still can’t believe he’s actually right here, in the flesh.”
“And have you seen the flesh? My, my, he sure grew up fine, didn’t he?”
“Oh, that’s better than fine. That’s prime, grade-A man meat right there.”
A gurgle of shocked laughter followed that proclamation, then, “When you’re right, you’re right.”
Clara looked up over the top of the bookshelf to find two middle-aged women standing in the line snaking along on the other side. The children’s author was a guy? She supposed, if she thought about it, that probably wasn’t so odd. And if he was “grade-A man meat,” well, that explained the enthusiasm a little more. She craned her neck to try and get a peek behind the table again, but it was hopeless. Not that she cared, really. She was giving up men. Okay, so she was temporarily giving up men. Eventually she’d want sex again, so she’d have to get over her newly jaded and cynical outlook. But that was next time. And not until next year, or at least until twelve cookie columns from now. For the time being, she was single, celibate, and focused on her career. Such as it was.
“I read a story in the paper about him. Said he’s from Bealetown, born and raised. Came home from college to help his mom after his dad passed. Joined the fire department, just like his dad, his granddad, too. Well respected from what I read.”
“Makes you wonder what the family thinks about him being part of something like this, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I don’t know. I mean, it’s a charity thing, right? Doesn’t the money from the sales go to that children’s hospital? I bet they’re real proud of him.”
“Well, I’m not sure how proud I’d feel if my Jimmy shucked his clothes to pose on the front of some calendar, women drooling all over him.”
“No offense, honey, but nobody is going to pay money to see your husband naked on the front of anything. Billy Mason, on the other hand . . . well, we’re here, and we’re drooling, aren’t we?” The woman laughed, and, to her credit, her friend laughed right along with her.
“Like you said,” her friend added, “it’s for charity. We’re here just being civic minded is all.”
“Exactly. If that makes you feel better.” They both snickered again.
But Clara wasn’t really listening any longer. Her attention had been derailed when they’d mentioned the name Billy Mason. Couldn’t be. It was just that she’d been thinking about Will for the first time in eons—her memories had made her take that mental leap. Because what would the odds of it be, anyway? Except, she remembered, all too clearly, his telling her one night about how everyone called him Billy back home, and when he’d left for college, he’d decided he wanted to be known as Will, something more adult sounding.
Clara had followed along, though, privately, she’d thought Billy really suited him better. It was cute, and sexy. When he smiled, he had those sweet dimples and a hint of a cleft in his chin, plus there had still been a few freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t been classically handsome, more a hybrid between cute, towheaded kid and burgeoning adult. He’d been taller than she by a fair amount, which she’d also privately liked, and though he was a lot less gawky than she was, he was more geek than jock. Rawboned, her grandfather would have termed it—as she’d once overheard him describing her. “Only, you know, a girl,” he’d added at the time, but, after looking up the word, Clara hadn’t thought the qualification made it all that much better.
She remembered that though Will still had a bit of that adolescent baby face, his jaw was angular and his beard, though also blond, was more whiskery looking than peach fuzzy. His neck was a little on the long side, his Adam’s apple a wee bit too pronounced, but she remembered him having broad shoulders, and big, capable hands, helping her by always automatically carrying her books, or ushering her, steady palm on her back as they navigated through crowded hallways and along rows of seats in packed lecture halls. Something about that broad hand always made her feel steadier, less klutzy. Yep, steady, reliable, always with a grin and a funny aside . . . that was the Will Mason she knew. Or had known, nine, almost ten years ago.
But . . . Will Mason, studly fireman calendar guy?
Clara had to have it wrong. And yet, with her mind still sifting through yesteryear and all those long nights she’d spent in the library with him, or grabbing pizza, or walking the quad, suddenly she was nudging herself through the crowd, working her way toward the back of the store. Not to butt in line. She just needed to see, needed to know for sure, whether it was him. It would bug her and keep her up wondering if she didn’t find out. At least, that was her excuse.
Every step closer she got, the more she tried to convince herself it wasn’t him . . . the more she knew it couldn’t be anyone else. When Will had left a week before the end of their freshman year, right during finals, she hadn’t known what the emergency was, just that it was something to do with his family. When he hadn’t come back, or contacted her, even to say good-bye, she’d asked around and found out his dad had died of a heart attack. She knew he had four younger sisters, who would have also become suddenly fatherless, and that he came from a long line of firemen. So, the story lined up.
Of course, he’d been pretty emphatic that he wasn’t going to end up being another one in that long line. He’d been the first Mason in his entire family tree to go to college. And, from what he’d told her, they’d all been very proud of him, supported him and his choice. She wondered if he had ever gone back, gotten his degree.
Of course, she thought, as she excuse-me-pardon-me’d her way up another row, if he was here signing some kind of hot fireman calendar . . . she had to guess probably not.
Hot, hunky fireman calendar guy. Will Mason. She smiled to herself, just not able to picture those two things in the same sentence. Unless calendar guys had gotten less bulky muscle mass and more . . . well, refined sounded better than skinny. Will had been strong, and able-bodied, but though she’d never seen him without a shirt, she really couldn’t imagine his body being the kind that someone would want to spray tan, oil up, and put on the cover of a calendar.
“Hey, no butting in line.” The woman next to her shoved her shopping bag in front of Clara to block her way.
Clara grunted as the heavy bag connected with her stomach and hips. “I’m not—I don’t want a calendar,” she managed through a pained wheeze. “I’m just—”
“We all waited,” the woman persisted. “You have to wait.” She shoved her bag again.
“Mel, come on, she’s just trying to shop here—” Someone tried to pull the woman back in line and Clara took the opportunity to squeeze by before being thumped again.
“No cheaters,” the woman—Mel—erupted, and yanked her arm free just as Clara was edging past, which had the unfortunate result of se
nding a sharp elbow, backed up by the full force of the weighted-down book bag, directly into Clara’s hip.
The woman in front of Clara turned at the commotion, and instinctively reached out to help, which was very kind of her, except by turning, she’d created a gap in the line, which Clara careened straight through as she tried and failed to regain her balance. She barely missed barreling into the woman standing just beyond that, saved only when the person next to her quickly tugged the woman out of the way . . . which gave the still wheeling Clara a direct opening straight to the front of the line. Which was where she landed, half sprawled across the heavy wooden table that had been set up for the signing.
Breath knocked out of her, sounding like a gasping fish as she tried to wheeze out an apology, she managed to demolish the rest of the neatly organized table display as she scrambled off and tried to push herself upright. Which would have worked, except her free hand was on a slick, shiny calendar, which slid when she pushed upward, sending her right back across the thigh high table. “Unh, oof! Gah!” was what came out instead.
A pair of strong, very capable hands clamped on her upper arms, lifting her up just enough to get her feet under her. Her rescuer stood, as Clara’s feet found purchase on the carpeting, but he kept those wonderfully steady, strong hands on her as she tried to stop wobbling on her feet.
She sucked in a deep breath as the air rushed back in, and finally looked up to apologize once again, and thank him for keeping her from doing any further damage, to herself or his nice table display. Only whatever words she might have said died as her throat closed right back over again. She stared into a pair of oh-so-familiar puppy dog brown eyes. A quick scan over the rest of him, however, proved that was the only part of Will Mason that was familiar.
Holy . . . moley. Late bloomer didn’t even begin to describe the—what had that woman called it? Man meat? Dear Lord, he had plenty of that. And none of it needed a spray tan or any other fake enhancements to help sell it, because it was pretty damn fine in all its chiseled magnificence, all on its own.
The Sugar Cookie Sweetheart Swap Page 3
