The Sugar Cookie Sweetheart Swap

by Kauffman, Donna; Angell, Kate; Kincaid, Kimberly

  The picture window revealed a darkly overcast and blustery day. Snowflakes whipped wildly. The blizzard showed no mercy. He’d searched along the hallway for the outside door. In the process, he’d discovered a second bedroom and a fully stocked pantry before stepping into the two-car garage.

  His socks had stuck to the cold cement floor as he circled the hood of a silver Ford Escape, looking for the Christmas tree. He’d finally found it propped against a small snow blower. The tree needed to be rescued from its chilly fate. He had nearly frozen his balls while dragging it inside.

  It was one big evergreen. Already set in a red metal stand. The tree was wrapped in thick twine, yet the branches were damn prickly. The tree needed water. Every movement he made proved awkward. He didn’t let that stop him. He was jabbed in the forehead and poked near his eye as he maneuvered it down the hallway. He had no idea where Abby slept, but he tried hard not to disturb her. Still, he made enough noise to start an avalanche.

  He shoved the tree into the living room, and stopped. That’s when he saw her, seated on the sofa, wide-awake, and eyeing him warily. “I heard you coming down the hall,” she said, her tone tentative. “You have a very distinctive thump.”

  “My shoulders are stiff,” he admitted, hating the fact he’d made such a noisy entrance. “I couldn’t lift and carry it quietly.”

  “So you wrestled it.” Flat, no humor in her voice.

  “The tree almost won,” he said ruefully. “The door to the garage is narrow. There are pine needles all over the floor. I’ll sweep them up later.”

  Facing him, she appeared pale and not all that pleased. “Why did you bring it indoors?” she asked.

  He heard the slight tremor in her voice and tried to lighten the moment. “The blizzard hasn’t let up,” he said. “Decorating the tree will give us something to do.”

  “I’d have been fine with nothing at all.” She tossed back the quilt and rose. Her jaw was set, and she looked determined not to pursue the matter any further. He watched as she hobbled to the kitchen; one slipper was on and the other off. It disturbed him that her toe still hurt her.

  She’d changed clothes during the night, he noted. Her curves fit nicely in a red waffle pullover and black jeans. Her face was free of makeup and her hair was in free flight.

  He saw her glance at the tree, only to turn away. He understood what she was feeling. Her heart hurt. Abby was about to face her first Christmas without her grandmother.

  A dull ache creased his brow, eating away at him. He knew that whatever he did, it would be an uphill battle to make her feel better. He was determined to try. Holiday perfect it wouldn’t be. Hopefully decorating the tree was the first step. He wanted to make her smile.

  She now stood at the kitchen counter, her back to him. “Add a log to the fireplace,” she softly requested, “and I’ll cook us breakfast, pumpkin-bread French toast.”

  Something he’d never eaten, but it sounded good.

  The tree could wait, he decided, as he leaned it against the wall. He crossed the room and readied the fire. He watched from the corner of his eye as she opened the refrigerator. “Good, it’s still cold inside.” She sounded relieved. Removing the needed items, she cracked eggs and poured milk into a mixing bowl. Sprinkled in vanilla and nutmeg. Then selected a whisk and stirred like crazy. The delicious scent woke his appetite.

  He made a trip to the kitchen for her cookware and paper goods. She followed him back to the fireplace, carrying a loaf of pumpkin bread, the ceramic bowl, a jug of maple syrup, and a container of instant coffee.

  “Where are the Christmas decorations?” he asked her. He could wrap some garlands on the tree and hang a few shiny ornaments with the best of them.

  She hesitated. “They’re boxed in the storeroom in the garage.”

  “Is the room locked?” he asked.

  She narrowed her gaze on him. Her brown eyes held more sadness than annoyance. “You’re persistent, Lander,” she said on a sigh. “It’s very easy access once you shove the ladder and paint cans aside.”

  He placed the cast-iron pot and skillet on the side table near the fireplace, then went on to say, “Loss is painful, Abby. I’m here to help you have a nice Christmas.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “It’s hard to be happy. Everywhere I look I see Gram: in the kitchen fixing breakfast, sitting on the sofa knitting, fussing over a jigsaw puzzle. Always smiling.”

  “The grieving process can be long and painful,” he said. “You need to focus on the good times, on the strength of the memories she left you,” he said, drawing on his own pain to help her through hers.

  There had been nights he’d been so angry with his father for leaving him that he pounded his fist against the wall. He’d cursed, pushed through the pain, and remained strong for his mother and sister. He now wanted Abby to feel the spirit and cheer she’d once shared with Ada.

  “I made it through Christmas without my father just one year ago,” he said. “You’ll manage, too. Believe me.”

  He surprised himself by putting his arm around her and drawing her close. She fit nicely against him, a woman warm from sleep and softly curved. “Wouldn’t your grandmother want you to continue your special traditions?” he asked.

  She rested her cheek against his chest, an unconscious gesture as she sought his comfort. He liked that. “I suppose so,” she agreed.

  “I’ll deal with the tree after we eat,” he said. “You can sit, elevate your foot, and watch while I do the work if you prefer not to help.” There, he’d given her the option. He’d let her make up her own mind.

  “Thanks, Lander.” Her body relaxed against his, and her acceptance came on a deep sigh. “I always looked forward to decorating the tree. It’s my favorite part of the season.”

  He hugged her tighter. What a surprising shift of events for him. His accident was turning into something very different with this kind, generous woman. Something he’d never imagined when he woke up in her cabin. Warm, intimate. Sharing memories with her.

  He would’ve turned her toward him then, had she not been holding the mixing bowl. Instead, he lightly kissed her on the forehead. The static electricity of her hair tickled his lips. “Christmas centers around the tree at my house as well,” he told her.

  Peering up at him, she said, “We’ve always stood the evergreen in the corner by the front window. There, it catches the natural light during the day and, at night, the Christmas lights reflect off the glass. It looks like we have two trees instead of one. It’s amazing.”

  “I can do that,” he assured her. It made him feel good to see her eyes bright, her pretty smile coming back.

  She stepped away from him then. In spite of himself, he frowned. He felt the physical gap between them keenly. A strange emptiness filled him. He missed her standing next to him.

  He had the urge to pull her back, but didn’t act on it. Human contact in a stressful situation was comforting. Abby needed that comfort. She wasn’t looking for anything else from him, he knew. He was a man she’d found in a wrecked car. Nothing more. The problem was, he had different ideas. He found he liked holding her. A little too much.

  He could’ve hovered around her while she cooked, but instead chose to change into his own clothes. He removed his shirt and slacks from the makeshift line and headed toward the bathroom.

  Abby’s sweatshirt was binding, and it felt good to stretch out his arms in his long-sleeved shirt. His slacks had a hundred wrinkles and a missing back pocket. He didn’t care. He decided to keep on the wool socks she’d given him. They were warmer than his wingtips. The leather had cracked over the toe. He’d lost one shoelace.

  He folded the sweats on the countertop, then returned to the living room. The scent of pumpkin-bread French toast drew him like a crooked finger. His mouth watered. He was one hungry man.

  “Have a seat.” She gestured toward the sofa.

  “I can boil water for the coffee,” he offered.

  She shook her head, smiling. “It�
�s easier to serve you than have two cooks at the fireplace.”

  He understood. She didn’t want them bumping into each other standing so near the flames. But hot sparks from the fire were the least of his worries, he thought. He was attracted to Abby.

  Stepping back and out of her way, he took a moment to appreciate her body. He admired the gentle slope of her shoulders, the fullness of her breasts, and the curve of her hips. The firm tone of her thighs. He stared so long, he soon sported an erection. One he needed to hide.

  Crossing to the couch, he settled deep. He swallowed a low moan of momentary comfort. The cushions were soft. His body relaxed. He covered his groin with the quilt.

  Moments later, Abby came to him, a little wobbly on her feet. He figured her big toe continued to bother her. He’d insist she sit in her chair while he positioned the tree, then carried in the ornaments from the garage.

  “Instant coffee?” she offered him, once the water in the pot had boiled. “Santa’s Helper was Gram’s favorite blend. We drank it black. I have sugar, if you like.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “It can be a little strong.”

  She watched, her expression tentative, as he took his first sip. He tried not to make a face, but his lips puckered. Strong was a mild word for the dark roasted brew. It had kick. The morning espresso he’d once ordered while on vacation in Mexico had been easier to swallow.

  Abby laughed at him, a teasing sound that warmed her brown eyes. “I figured the coffee might be a little strong for you, but I took a chance. It’s an acquired taste.”

  He took a second sip. For her, he’d brave it. “Give me some time, I’ll get used to it.”

  “You won’t be around long enough to learn to appreciate the flavor,” she said, glancing toward the front window. “The blizzard will pass and the snow plows will begin clearing the main streets in town. The crews will work their way up the mountain. Then you’ll be free to leave.” Her voice trailed off, as if she left a lingering thought or wish unsaid.

  He sank down deeper into the sofa. He would return to Philadelphia, Lander thought. His chest tightened, for no conceivable reason. He’d known Abby for less than a day, yet he felt he’d known her for years. The sensation was strange; the moment, poignant. He felt a significant shift in his life, but wasn’t yet certain as to the outcome. He liked this woman and wanted to know her better. Time, however, was not on his side.

  She returned to the fireplace, then came back and served him a paper plate stacked with pumpkin-bread French toast. Four thick pieces. She handed him a paper cup of warm maple syrup.

  He’d eaten in five-star restaurants much of his life, but, at that moment, nothing could compare to this delicious, hot breakfast. Being snowbound provided the atmosphere. Abby was the perfect companion. Spiky-haired Tennyson now made an appearance. The cat entered the living room as if he owned the place. He took a few steps, then stretched his skinny body. He walked a bit farther, and proceeded to groom himself.

  “Eat?” Abby asked the calico as she set her plate of food on the coffee table.

  Tenn didn’t have to be asked twice. He headed toward the kitchen. Lander heard the creak of a cabinet door, then the pop of a lid. The scent of tuna reached him.

  Abby returned a moment later, settling on her chair. “Tennyson doesn’t have many teeth,” she said. “He eats very slowly, savoring each bite. He’ll be at his bowl for at least twenty minutes.”

  “Savoring is good,” Lander agreed as he poured syrup on his French toast, sliced off a corner, and dug in. He continued to eat and didn’t look up until he’d almost cleared his plate.

  When he did glance at Abby, he found her staring at him. Questioning, yet amused. All it had taken was one bite of breakfast, and his manners eluded him. He hadn’t made any attempt at conversation. He’d eaten like a man who hadn’t seen food for a week. His neck heated.

  “Abby, I—” he started.

  She cut him off. One corner of her mouth curved into a smile. “You were hungry,” she noted.

  “Starving,” he admitted, sliding his hand over his stomach. “Even though I’ve done nothing to work up an appetite.”

  “Your body’s beat-up and you’re healing,” she explained. “You need the extra nutrition.”

  She had a point, he realized. He finished his breakfast, but passed on a second cup of coffee. Santa’s Helper had given him a buzz. He felt energized. He took the initiative and insisted Abby stay seated while he cleaned up. Tennyson had licked his plate clean by the time Lander seasoned the cast-iron cookware.

  He was ready to push forward with their day. He crossed to the evergreen, tugged it toward the designated corner. He secured the red metal stand, then untied and unwound the heavy twine. He shook the tree, and the branches began to unfold like an upside down umbrella. Shades of green contoured the branches, the inner ones darker than the outer tips. The tree stretched and groaned and its prickly needles quivered. The fullness forced him to take a step back. The evergreen was majestic.

  “It’s bigger than we had last year,” Abby said, taking it all in. She’d angled her chair to face the window and propped up her foot on a small, round ottoman.

  Lander saw what he knew she preferred he not see. Her shoulders were squared and she had a stiff upper lip. This time it wasn’t her big toe that caused her pain. She gripped the arms of the chair as if holding on for dear life. She was desperately afraid to let go; afraid to succumb to her memories and heavy heart.

  Tennyson sensed her mood. He hopped up and curled on her lap, demanding her attention. Abby’s hand shook slightly as she stroked him. Lander could see how much the cat meant to her. The calico was a link to her grandmother. He heard Tenn purring clear across the room.

  “The tree is dry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll add water to the stand, and then bring in the boxes from the garage.”

  She swallowed, nodded, and continued to pet her cat.

  In a very short time, he had located the ornaments. The storeroom was neat and the cardboard boxes were marked. There were three total. He hefted the first, and his muscles strained. He swore it was filled with bricks, not shiny Christmas decorations.

  Back inside, he set the box down by Abby’s chair. “What do you have in here?” he asked her, exhaling sharply.

  “I should’ve warned you,” she said, looking guilty. “You’ll find solid lead figurines: a vintage Santa, his sleigh, and eight reindeer. Gram and I display them before the hearth.”

  Solid lead. That explained the weight of the box. At any other time it wouldn’t have mattered. He was a strong guy. At that moment pain radiated from his ribs, but he refused to complain. The tree was more important. He’d manage somehow.

  He hunkered down beside her and unpacked the box. Each figurine was preserved in bubble wrap. He took his time, admiring the unique set. The pieces bore the same image on both the front and the back of the figure.

  “These are amazing, Abby,” he said, meaning it. The holiday figurines rolled back the years to his own youth and the Lionel train set he’d owned as a kid. Fitting each railroad car and caboose on the track, rearranging the miniature houses each day, then letting out a holler when the whistling locomotive set off on its circular trip around the tracks. Those were good times.

  “The figures have been handed down over generations,” Abby told him. “They were cast in Germany.”

  He rose and, one by one, arranged the figures to the left of the fireplace, leaving Abby room to cook their meals.

  “How’s that look?” he asked her.

  She scrunched her nose and said, “We always lined up the reindeer in pairs.”

  He matched them up. “Better?”

  “Separate the sleigh from the reindeer by an inch or two.”

  He did so. “Okay, now?”

  “I’d like Santa nearer to the sleigh.”

  He complied.

  She shook her head. “Santa’s too close now.”

  He back
ed Santa up.

  “Could you tilt the sleigh on one runner, so it looks like it’s flying through the sky?”

  Flying through the sky? He was about to make the adjustment, when he heard her chuckle. A muffled chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless.

  She was playing him.

  He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. He gave her a hard stare, which didn’t faze her in the least. She actually laughed at him.

  “Your laughter is at my expense,” he said, walking toward her. He pretended to be upset. He wasn’t. He was glad to see her happy.

  “I’m sorry, Lander,” she said, trying to make amends. “Really I am. No more teasing. Swear.”

  Reaching her, he rested his hip on the arm of her chair and leaned in, sexually close. “Should you break your word and make fun of me again, I will settle the score.”

  Her eyes rounded. “You’d get even with me?”

  “You’ve been warned.” He breathed against her mouth.

  Awareness slipped between them, warm and potent. Inviting. Tempting. Stimulating. She licked her lips; her mouth was full and lush. And kissable.

  He wanted to kiss her, but he intentionally held back. Instead he decided he would tease her on his terms. A hot look, a subtle touch, a suggestive word. Endless foreplay throughout the day.

  Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

  Chapter 3

  Abby held her breath and waited for Lander to kiss her. She waited and waited, and waited some more. He was so close, the stubble on his jaw scraped her cheek. He stared deeply into her eyes, and his blue gaze darkened. Dilated. His masculine heat embraced her. He carried the scent of bayberry soap. Fresh, clean, and woodsy.

  Calmness failed her. Anticipation gave her goose bumps. Her whole body tightened. She was afraid he could hear the pounding of her heart.