Christmas at Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  CHAPTER TWO

  Deacon heard the measured, gritty tap of heels-on-sidewalk behind him and hoped it was who he thought it was. Last he’d seen her, Macy Frost had turned him down for lunch. Footsteps could belong to anyone, right? Why did he think these particular footsteps had extra oomph? Character? Pizazz? Why did he think they sounded exactly the way Macy Frost’s footsteps would sound? He didn’t know her well enough to guess.

  But he was right.

  It was slightly ridiculous that he was not only satisfied but happy that she fell into step next to him. She looked like she’d just come off a runway in Paris in over-the-knee boots, her sunshiney blonde hair caught up in a high ponytail. He couldn’t help thinking that there was no way she could have Ubered two blocks over that fast. She’d had to have run to catch up to him.

  The idea appealed to the caveman in him. It was hot. She was hot. Time to get a grip. Be the savvy businessman he was and not a guy in heat.

  “I thought I’d join you, after all.” She sounded cool and relaxed, but he knew better. Her cheeks were a little flushed from her haste to meet up with him.

  “Nice.” He’d learned long ago that when you want to find out about someone, let them do the talking. Besides, he could listen to her all day. Her Southern accent was light, elegant even. But she also had game. From the athletic way she carried herself, he could tell she’d have been the girl to go climb trees with the boys in the neighborhood. Or beat them in a sprint across the school playground.

  She had a long, sexy stride. They walked in silence for a few beats, and then she said, “My client was sick. She had to cancel.”

  “Oh.”

  “And none of my friends could go to lunch at such short notice.”

  He was amused. “That’s the most unflattering yes to an invitation to lunch I’ve ever received. But I’ll take it.”

  She dropped her head for a second—abashed, he supposed—then looked back up again, keeping her gaze straight ahead. “I know I said I wasn’t interested in finding out more about you. But I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Yes.” Click-clack-click-clack went those boots.

  “No explanation?” This walk down Broad Street was the best thing he’d done in weeks. The sun was out, he was with a beautiful woman, and all was well with the world. After lunch he’d worry about business.

  She shrugged. “I want you to hire me.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “But on my terms. I want a shot at finding you your soulmate. I know time is short. You’re here a month?”

  “Leaving New Year’s Day. So less than, actually.”

  Her chin came up. “I think I can do it, even if you don’t. Everybody has a soulmate.”

  “Do you?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “Ah.” They kept walking. “On what basis do you believe all this stuff?”

  “I just know.”

  “Woman’s intuition?”

  “Perhaps.” She chuckled. “But there’s more. I’m good at what I do. I see connections other people don’t.”

  “You’re very interesting, Miss Frost.” Understatement of the year for him. “But my answer to your proposition is no. N-O, no.”

  She gave him the side-eye. He could do the spelling thing too.

  “I don’t see the benefits of having a soulmate,” he said. “I mean, there’s Tinder. Not that I’ve used it. Finding companionship isn’t a problem for me if I get lonely.”

  “I get that. But there’s more to love than sex.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You’ve never been in love?”

  He shrugged. “Not more than puppy love.” He was a busy man.

  “You must have gotten hurt to be so certain real love isn’t for you. What happened?”

  “That’s awfully personal.” Let her feel nosy. Maybe she’d move on to a different topic.

  “My interest is entirely professional,” she said. “Everything I can learn about the human condition makes me a better matchmaker.”

  “For other people. Not for me. Although the offer is still open for you to line me up some dates.”

  “Just tell me why you don’t believe in love.”

  “Let’s talk about football. Been to a Panthers game?”

  A fire hydrant and a parked red Beemer later, she said, “Mr. Banks, come on,” and cast a glance at him from beneath those thick lashes, her mouth turned up just a little.

  Southern girls and their charm! He hated to admit it, but he was a sucker for it. At least her brand of it. “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll tell you why I don’t believe in love. But only if you call me Deacon.”

  She laughed. “You can call me Macy. But it’ll cost you. You need to tell me—”

  “Why I don’t believe in love,” he finished for her. “Okay, here goes. Four of my good friends are already on their second wives or divorced from their first wives. None of them are over thirty-five.”

  “Interesting.”

  She didn’t act shocked or anything. Deacon supposed matchmakers must hear all kinds of stories. “One of those guys called me the other day and said he’s ready to divorce wife number two and move on to number three.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe it only means you run with a crowd that doesn’t understand that love and commitment feed on each other. Hang around different people.”

  He wasn’t used to people talking back to him, but he liked it. “These are good guys.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” A wintery gust of air swept down the street, and she dug her hands deep into her coat pockets. “But when social media makes you think there’s always someone better around the corner, it’s no wonder romance is dying.”

  “From a business perspective, it makes no sense to me that you’d want to stay in a dying trade.”

  “A calling is something you have to do, even if you don’t get paid for it. That’s what matchmaking is for me. I make what money I can. I enjoy what I do.”

  She sounded so serene, so confident, saying that. There was a part of him—a very stupid, illogical part—that envied her. But he’d never say it out loud. Because then he’d have to admit to himself that the privileged life he led—one he worked seven days a week to maintain—wasn’t perfect the way it was.

  Half a block later, they were at Fast and French. Inside, a huddle of suits and a few hipster types had their backs smashed up against the storefront window.

  “Don’t worry,” she said at the door, “we’ll only wait about five minutes, ten at the most. People get in and out. They need to get back to class or work.”

  So did he. Besides running his empire via phone, he had to deal with the problem of his aunt, her strange mission, and whether or not he could save her from herself. But it was hard to focus on the day’s goals when they waited elbow-to-elbow near the cash register in a gaggle of customers.

  Deacon didn’t like the besotted thoughts running through his head when he was near Macy. She smelled like flowers. He found it much more intoxicating than the fragrance of bread wafting his way and the rich scent of French press coffee in the carafes scattered across the counter. That flower smell made him want to pull out her chair for her and charm her with his wit and intelligence—before sleeping with her and even after.…

  You’re not going to sleep with her. Idiot.

  He hated his conscience. It always showed up when he least wanted it to, but he nearly always succeeded at shutting it up.

  Five minutes later, they were seated at a high-top table with two older women, and placing their order.

  “And two wine punches each, please,” Macy told the waiter with equanimity, then turned to Deacon. “We’ll drink the first one so fast that we’ll need a second one right away. You’ll see.”

  Slamming wine punches, whatever those were. Maybe that was hard-core in Charleston. In Manhattan, it would be a double martini at his plate. “I’m willing to give it a try,” he said to be nice.


  The waiter came quickly with their four punches, one of which they each downed immediately, much to the consternation of the elderly woman beside Macy.

  “I like it.” Deacon wasn’t lying. “It’s refreshing, the way Hawaiian Punch was when I was a kid. But not too sweet. Just right.”

  “I know,” Macy said, out of breath as she stuck a paper straw into her second punch.

  “So how’d you get into matchmaking?”

  “It’s a long story.” She winked at him.

  Wow. He thought women winked to get you to shut up only in old Cary Grant movies. And he’d never seen sucking on a straw as a speech-avoidance strategy, but she worked it, and it was hot.

  “Got it,” he said. “No prying.”

  “Someday I’ll tell you.” She smiled like Mona Lisa.

  She was beautiful, with a champagne sparkle in her light brown eyes, which he’d immediately been captivated by at her office, especially by the golden rim around her pupils.

  When their food came a few minutes later, he enjoyed seeing her expression brighten at the oblong oval platters with bowls—soup-and-sandwich combos—placed in front of them.

  She leaned closer. “Try your soup.”

  “I will.” He also had a gooey croq monsieur alongside it. He took a bite of that first. “Mmmm. Amazing.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She bit her gorgeous lower lip.

  “The best croq monsieur I’ve ever had outside of France.”

  “Told you this place was good.” She ladled a spoon of soup into her mouth, and a blissful expression came over her face.

  God. She had no idea how alluring she was. None. He started thinking even wickeder thoughts than the ones already in his head.

  “This soup,” she said, “it’s really…”

  “Let me try mine.” They’d both gotten the daily special, curried lentil.

  She stopped talking, and her eyes widened as he sampled it—she seemed a little intense, actually. He couldn’t put his finger on what was going on.

  “The hallmark of…” she began as if she were delivering a very important fact, but another diner brushed by her chair.

  “Sorry, Macy,” the guy said, sliding behind her.

  Macy had to yank her coat toward her so it wouldn’t fall on the floor or dislodge her purse, which was hanging over the chair. “No problem, Frank,” she replied cheerfully.

  Deacon held out his hand. “Deacon Banks.”

  Frank shook it. “Frank Hathaway. Take care of this girl. Thanks to her, I met the love of my life.”

  “Is that so?” Deacon saw Macy go pink.

  “Macy’s the best.” Frank grinned and moved past them.

  “You’ve got fans,” Deacon told her.

  “Frank’s a sweetheart. He used to be such a wild man, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “He had a seriously roving eye when he was single.”

  What man didn’t?

  “I almost despaired of him,” Macy went on. “And now his wife Bitsy’s about to have their second set of twins. Love”—she stabbed a finger on the table, like a CEO making a point—“turned him around.”

  Huh. There was no romance, no frills in her tone. She was all business.

  It was true that Frank hadn’t acted as if he’d had a ball and chain around his ankle. But weren’t pregnant women grouchy? And how did one handle two sets of twins? What happened to poker nights? And sleeping in late? And sex whenever you wanted it and with whomever you wanted?

  “I’ve never had soup this good,” Deacon said to avoid thinking about the plight of married men, which surely involved changing dirty diapers and buying tampons.

  Macy stopped adjusting her purse and coat and swung her gaze back to him, her face glowing. “Really? You like the soup?”

  “Usually it’s too salty, no matter where I go—“

  “Whether it’s New York or Chicago,” she said. “I’ve never been to L.A., or Paris, but I’ll bet you—”

  “I’ve been to both.” He ate another spoonful. “Even in Paris, they oversalt the soup. Okay, maybe a Michelin-starred restaurant on the Left Bank didn’t. But everywhere else…”

  She sat silently looking at him.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She wore an endearing grin that made Deacon ridiculously happy.

  “I’m not a foodie,” he warned her. “I don’t take pictures of what I eat and put them on Instagram.” Heaven help him if he ever did.

  “Neither do I.” She kind of squirmed in her seat. “But you have to admit, perfectly seasoned soup on a cold day is one of life’s great pleasures.”

  “True. So is good wine.” He did like wine, so he wasn’t lying. But when it came to life’s greatest pleasures, nothing was better than sex. Especially outside in a field in the daylight. Or down a dirt road in the cab of a pickup truck.

  Neither of which he’d done. It was cold up North. And people didn’t drive pickups. He had the sudden creative longing to do those things in Charleston with Macy, but there were no fields and an awful lot of Beemers and Lexuses. Plus, she might not be into him like that, and he’d better stop thinking about sex and Macy and pickup trucks before he drove himself crazy.

  She took a hearty bite of her open-faced sandwich, smeared with chopped green olives, and chewed with the impatient intensity of someone who really loved to eat but also loved to talk. After another provocative sip of her second glass of wine punch through that straw, she said, “What exactly do you do?”

  “I buy tech companies. Boutique acquisitions are my favorite.”

  “How did you get into that?”

  He winked. “It’s a long story.” He loved giving her a taste of her own medicine.

  “Oh.” She was a good sport, playing along. “So you’re here on business?”

  “No, actually. I’m with my aunt Fran,” he said, “to help her settle in. I’ll stay in touch with the New York office every day, but I’m officially on vacation.”

  “You’re here for your aunt?”

  “Yes.”

  “She moved here?”

  “She did. You seem surprised.”

  “Not surprised. But I thought you were here for you. It never occurred to me—”

  “That I have family? And that I’d do stuff on their behalf?”

  “Um, yeah. I guess.”

  “I do have a heart.”

  “As you should,” she replied thinly, not willing to be apologetic but knowing she should be, which he found amusing. “Tell me more about her.”

  “Sure.” He leaned closer as the noise in the room rose to a crescendo. “She grew up on Staten Island, but she’s lived the past thirty-five years on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She’s a recently retired talk show host with a penchant for saying, ‘Really? Really?’ to all her guests. I guess you’d say she’s famous for that. She occasionally acts in films and commercials and runs her social circle like a dictator. But she needs new pastures. She saw—”

  “Wait. Are you saying your aunt is Fran Banks?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh. My. God. She’s interviewed all the biggest personalities in politics and show biz! About personal things. She can be very hard on people.”

  “That’s her shtick. She’s quite a talent, don’t you think? She has five Emmys to prove it.”

  Macy clapped her hand to her forehead. “I don’t believe this. She’s interviewed the president! And so many of the cast from Game of Thrones! She even hosted Saturday Night Live! Not once but twice.”

  “Three times, actually,” he said.

  “She wasn’t a family-oriented entertainer—”

  “For a daytime talk show host, she kept the bleep censor alive and well, didn’t she?”

  She laughed. “How did she get away with kissing every man on her show? She’d lay one right on them! No one seemed to mind. I don’t understand it.”

  “Me either,” he said. “She gets away with a lot.”

  “She
’s doing adult-diaper commercials right now.”

  “That she is.”

  “They’re pretty good, actually. Considering the topic. She never shies away from the awkward stuff.”

  “She’s a brave lady.”

  “I had no idea she had a family. She talked about her dogs but never about her family.”

  “For such a nosy person, she’s pretty private,” Deacon said. “But let’s get back to why she’s here. She saw a reality show about Charleston. It has lots of drama and good-looking people in big houses.”

  “You mean Bless Your Heart?”

  “That’s it. And now she wants to be a Southern belle six months of the year, from October to March. So she bought a condo.”

  Macy moved closer. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.” He liked being almost nose-to-nose with her. “Aunt Fran claims she also bought this place because some olden-days Bankses are from here. I kinda think she’s making it up.”

  Macy thought for a second. “I don’t know of any Bankses in our local history books or even present time, believe it or not, and it’s obviously a common name. You can’t ask your father?”

  “No. He died when I was two.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. So did my mother.”

  “Oh no. I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t remember them. It was a car accident. Aunt Fran’s my father’s sister. She brought me up. She’s the only family I have.”

  “Wow. She did that with the big career she had?”

  “Yes. And you probably know she’s had her share of divorces, too.”

  “Oh yes,” Macy said. “None of them famous, interestingly enough.”

  “She has a thing for doctors. She’s a closet hypochondriac and fell in love with hers all the time.”

  “Really?” Macy chuckled. “So you had step-uncles? Did any of these doctors become father figures?”