by Donna Fasano
His skin was warm and dry, his grip firm, as though he feared she might lose her balance and topple over. His gaze swept over the mess on the hall table, the floor, and the tree.
“What were you thinking?”
Here it comes. She steeled herself for the irate onslaught.
“That thing is huge. Ungainly. I can’t believe you tried to move it by yourself.”
The kindness in his tone took her off guard. Completely. And for a second or two, words failed her. He’d been furious the last time a racket had brought him barging out of his room. When he’d come tramping up the stairs, she’d expected him to harangue her again about disturbing his work.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.
Concern softened his eyes, and she could only nod in response.
His gaze swept over the tree again, and he murmured, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much tacky tinsel.”
“It’s pretty when it’s lit up,” she hurried to assure him. “It turns all sorts of pretty colors. You’ll see.”
He turned back to her. “It’s taller than you are. Heather, really, why didn’t you ask me to help you?”
The quiet kindness expressed in his question was her utter undoing. Strangely, tears welled in her eyes, burning like acid, and the knot of emotion that suddenly lodged in her throat made it difficult to speak.
“I’m sorry. I slipped. It’s Christmas Eve. I waited as long as I could. I did all the cooking yesterday. That tree isn’t tacky. It’s vintage. And it takes five minutes to set up. I tried to be quiet. My friends are coming. To celebrate. Tonight. It’s Christmas Eve. You were so angry about the outside lights. When they went up, I mean.” Thinking about it made her spine stiffen. “I wear socks, damn it. I’ve been tip-toeing around for weeks. I’ve brought the tree down myself before. But I slipped. I’m sorry.”
Was that onslaught coming out of her mouth? Was she babbling? She wasn’t a babbler. The whole while all those words were gushing forth, she’d watched his face change. She’d known she needed to shut up, but she couldn’t stop her lips from moving or her tongue from flapping.
His lips flattened and he frowned.
In all the weeks he’d been under her roof, she hadn’t seen him do anything else.
Heather pulled her hand from his grasp and flicked the tears from her cheeks with her fingers. She blinked. Hard. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Here, let me get this for you,” he said, bending to reach for the tree that leaned against the hall table. “If you’re sure you’re all right?” He kept his back to her, straightening the tree with one hand, righting the brass candlesticks with the other. Then he stepped over the broken ceramic. “A quick sweep with a broom will have that poor angel cleaned up in no time. I hope it wasn’t valuable. I assume you want the tree downstairs? On the main floor? I’ll take it wherever you want it. Just say the word.”
He moved toward the head of the stairs. Either he was graciously giving her time to regroup, Heather surmised, or her distress made him uncomfortable. Whichever was the case, she was glad to have a chance to pull herself together. She combed her fingers through her hair, took a deep breath, moistened her lips, and moved out onto the hallway landing behind him.
Had she really heard accusation in her tone when she’d gone off on her tangent? Had she really blurted out that she wore socks? As if doing so was some sort of punishment he was causing her? Heather stifled a groan as she reached for the banister.
“Head for the great room, please,” she told him. “Thank you, Daniel. I appreciate your help.”
Funny how some names just had a too-proper feel to them, and in her opinion, his was one of them. Daniel was formal, a name you might use when someone was, say, winning some sort of important prize, like a Pulitzer or a Nobel. Maybe if he’d asked her to call him Dan or Danny, he would seem less formidable. But he hadn’t.
“I’m going to run back to the attic and grab the base of the tree,” she told him. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“Be careful on those stairs,” he called over his shoulder.
She held the railing as she hurried up the steps, thinking back to when he’d first arrived, weeks ago on Thanksgiving Day—just as she and her friends were sitting down to dinner, no less. Back then, she’d naturally called him by the name that had been given to her by his agent when the reservation had been made.
D.B. Atwell, famed New York Times bestselling author whose horror books had won a slew of prizes and had been made into more than half a dozen popular films, had rented The Lonely Loon—the entire B&B to be precise—for three full months. Seems he was working on a book, and he’d made it clear from that first day that he was looking for peace and quiet in which to write.
Her simple “You’ll find plenty of that here, D.B.,” had provoked the first frown of many to pucker his brow.
“Daniel,” he’d told her. “Call me Daniel.”
So she’d done just as he’d asked; it really didn’t matter that his name sounded stiff each time she uttered it. Not that she’d had many chances to use it. Although she saw him each morning when he came down for coffee, the opportunity for conversation was rare due to the manuscript pages, or the yellow legal pad filled with notes, or the map of some foreign country that had held him rapt. The man’s intense focus was like that of no one else Heather had ever met. She sometimes wondered, were she to serve him cardboard cutouts rather than scones with his coffee and juice, if he would even notice.
She placed the tree base, the light fixture that would illuminate the tree from underneath, and an extension cord, in a box of other decorations and made her way down the two flights of stairs to the main floor.
“Here we are,” Daniel said. He stood in the center of the room. “Can I help you set it up? Where do want it? In the corner?”
“Just lean it against the chair.” She set the box on the floor, and brushed dust from her hands and the front of her dress. “Thank you, but I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have. You can go back to work.”
He didn’t move, not even a smidge. Just stood there looking at her with his arm lost in a sea of silver tinsel. He swung his free hand up to rake at the hair on the back of his head and his expression turned contrite.
“Look, Heather, ah,” he began, “it’s pretty clear that I’ve, um…”
He inhaled deeply through his nose, his mouth going rigid.
His wavy hair curled just above the collar of his shirt. His lips were full, his cheekbones high, his jawline sharp. The muscles of his neck stood out in cords when he tipped his head to the side. His eyelids slid shut, hiding his deliciously dark eyes from her, and he swiped his fingers across his mouth.
The man was better than good-looking. He was all dark and mysterious and… provocative. That was the word that slipped into her mind. Like Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff, or a clean-shaven, Joe Manganiello, only a little swarthier.
The thought made Heather’s eyes widen, and she nearly choked on the saliva that had pooled in her mouth while she stood there gawking at him. She immediately averted her gaze. What was the matter with her? She’d been sharing this house with Daniel Atwell for weeks. Why was she just now noticing—
Oh, you didn’t just now notice, a little voice in her head intoned. You’ve noticed plenty. She glanced toward the picture window, barely cognizant of the dull gray ocean or the frothy waves churning in the distance.
Ease up. Just because she’d sworn off men and intimate relationships years ago didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a gorgeous guy.
“Listen, Heather,” he started again, “I think I need to apologize.”
She tipped her chin up a fraction and met his gaze full on. “For what? You’ve done nothing that warrants an—”
“Wait.” He cut her off. “Let me talk a minute. Please.”
He shifted his weight and the tinsel quivered.
“Judging from the things you said up there.” He lifted both h
is hand and his gaze toward the ceiling for an instant. “In the hallway, I mean. It seems my need for, um, quiet has caused you… well, for lack of a better word, I guess I’d say I’ve caused you some frustration. I never imagined that my being here would—”
“Daniel, please.” She clasped her hands together and stepped toward him. “I should be the one apologizing. We made a business arrangement, you and I. You needed to get away to finish a book. I’m being paid to provide the quiet place that’s necessary for you to do that. I’ve had to turn away a few regulars, yes, but you’ve paid me more money than I have ever earned during a winter season.”
Heather pressed her lips together, her eyebrows arching. She offered him a quick, lopsided smile. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”
She rubbed her palms together slowly then lowered her hands to her sides before assuring him, “What I’m trying to say is, I knew what I was offering to do. From the start, I knew what you needed. I did. And I had every intention of providing it for you. I still do. Honestly.”
His dark gaze took her in.
Before he could speak, she continued, “I’m sorry I ran off at the mouth upstairs. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She paused, cocking her head. “Well, that’s not quite true. I do know what’s wrong. I’m used to socializing, you see. I’m used to having friends around. I’m used to having people in the house. My customers like to chat, to learn about the history of the town, or talk about the best places to eat or shop. All the alone time just started… getting to me.” She heaved a sigh. “I guess you used the right word. Clearly, frustration got the better of me. For a moment or two. But I’m okay now. You’ll see.” She nodded as if to somehow shore up her assurances. “Really.”
She finally stopped talking because she couldn’t think of another thing to say. The silence that fell between them would have been complete save for the faint, far-off rumbling of the surf.
The tension in his shoulders relaxed and he hooked his thumb into the waistband of his jeans. “I can understand how you’re feeling,” he said. “A lot of people have trouble with long periods of quiet. I’m actually cognizant of very little of it when I’m working. Quiet, I mean. I have characters talking and moving and interacting in my head. Scenes unfolding. Plots and sub-plots evolving.” He shook his head. “Sometimes unraveling. My mind can get so chaotic I’m not even aware of it. Real world silence isn’t something I notice. That is, unless it’s broken and my work is disturbed.”
The idea of conjuring people, situations, whole towns out of nothing but a creative imagination intrigued Heather.
His lips curled into a rare, albeit small, smile as he said, “Most everything you said upstairs made sense. I was able to put the pieces together, I mean. You’re planning a little get-together with your friends tonight to celebrate Christmas Eve. You’ve cooked. You need to decorate.”
Then confusion knitted his brow and he drew one cheek muscle back far enough to reveal a dimple she had never seen before.
“But what was that about the socks?” he asked. “You seemed pretty angry about having to wear socks. It’s winter. I would think socks would be a good thing. I still can’t quite figure out how that fits in with the rest of what you were saying.”
Babbling, more like. The thought had her face and neck growing hot.
“Hey,” he said softly, “come on now. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
She sighed. “You’re not embarrassing me. I’ve embarrassed myself. Completely and thoroughly.”
The deep sound of his chuckle startled Heather and she went still. Then almost immediately she blinked several times and her spine straightened when a warm, pleasant feeling swept though her.
“Okay, okay,” he told her. “Let’s forget all about the socks. You don’t need to explain.”
“Oh, yes I do. The complaint was just weird enough that you would never be able to forget, even if you were to try.”
Again, he laughed, and that heated sensation thickened and swirled inside her.
Nodding, he murmured, “This is true. So explain quickly. Keep it short and simple. Then we can put it behind us. I promise not to ask any questions.”
His teasing only increased the odd feeling that slowly spiraled in her belly.
Heather inhaled deeply. “The heels of my shoes. They click on the oak floors. The stairs. The kitchen tile. I imagined I sounded like an elephant every time I walked across the room.”
This time his laughter was hearty enough that dimples appeared in both cheeks now. Heather had already come to the conclusion that he was a handsome man, but now she’d say he was irresistibly appealing—enough to make a girl’s toes curl inside her fluffy wool socks.
“You have been going above and beyond, Heather.” He shook his head slowly. “And to think I didn’t even realize it. I was too busy worrying about—”
He stopped himself suddenly and paused to take a deep breath. Then he softly finished, “I was too busy absorbing all that quiet you were providing.” His features went contrite. “I am so sorry. I really am.”
In that very instant, she realized that all the frustration and anger and tension that had been building inside her for days and weeks was gone. The air felt relaxed, and she smiled.
“Here,” she said, closing the gap between them. “Let me take that tree. It looks like it’s about to swallow you whole.”
The tinseled branches shuttered when she shifted the tree and leaned it against the high-backed wing chair.
“Thank you for your help, Daniel. I can take it from here. You can get back to your book.” She turned toward the box she’d set on the sofa, a wonderful lightheartedness lifting her spirits. “Oh, wait. Before you go. You’ll come, won’t you? To the party, I mean?”
He stopped in the doorway and faced her. “Thank you, but no. I have work to do. And, besides, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not going to work on Christmas Eve.”
He didn’t respond, but the mere idea made her sad enough to try again to get him to come.
“You wouldn’t be intruding,” she insisted. “I’d love for you to meet my friends. And I’ve cooked a fabulous meal. International dishes from all over the world. It’ll be fun.”
Although he hesitated, she knew he was about to turn her down again. And if he did, she couldn’t really press him further. It wasn’t her habit to force her guests to do anything they didn’t want to do.
But without thinking, she blurted, “If you agree to come downstairs for the party—” she lifted her hands, palms up “—that means I’ll get to wear shoes.” She arched her brows. “High heels, even.”
Her heart beat once, twice, three times, and she felt breathless as she waited. Then he chuckled. The warm joy that surged in the pit of her gut was more potent than a swallow of brandy on a cold, snowy night.
“When you put it that way,” he said, “how can I refuse?”
Chapter Two
This was a mistake. A massive mistake. Probably the worst he’d made since being forced to return to the States six weeks ago.
He had no business celebrating. It didn’t matter that millions of people all over the world were gathering together to commemorate one of the holiest and most festive holidays of the year. He was too filled with anxiety and anger and guilt, and every other hellishly dark emotion a human could experience, to put himself in the position of having to appear jovial.
Daniel scanned the room from where he sat at one end of the sofa—the colorful tinsel tree, the crackling fire, the evergreen boughs gracing the mantle with a miniature porcelain family of carolers tucked among the branches whose mouths were frozen mid-song, red felt stockings with silver corded accents hung on hooks, knick-knacky figurines of elves and reindeer and Santa and angels with gossamer wings. Every flat surface was occupied by some sort of holiday decoration. A sprig of mistletoe hung from the top jamb of one of the doorways. Cheery music played in the background. The hearty scents of cinnamon and apple
and other delicious, savory smells hung heavy in the air. Clearly, Heather loved to celebrate Christmas.
He was sorry he’d promised her that he’d attend her get-together, but the frustration his need of silence had caused her over the past weeks had him feeling awkwardly ambivalent. He’d stay long enough so as not to be rude, and then he’d make his excuses and return to his room.
“Those meat pies are scrumptious,” Heather’s friend Sara said as the two women entered the living room from the dining room.
Heather had said she’d spent yesterday cooking and she hadn’t been kidding. The long dining room table was laden with bowls and platters of food.
“Those are beef pasties,” Heather told her. “I used an authentic recipe from the UK that I found on-line. I decided on an international menu for tonight. The sweet potato soup is an African recipe. There’s tabbouleh salad from Greece, and the hummus and naan are Indian recipes. I have to confess that I bought the naan, but I did bake the maple cookies. That’s a Canadian recipe. And, finally, the lemon ricotta pie is from Italy.”
Daniel watched her; she was an animated talker. Her blue eyes sparkled and her hands lifted, turned, and fanned out, expressing a warmth and eagerness to engage.
Then unwittingly his gaze traveled down the length of her. She wore a deep red, high-necked dress made of some thin fabric, silk maybe. The waist was cinched by a wide black leather belt, and the full skirt flowed over her lush, curvy hips and fell to mid-calf. The outfit had a unique look, a style he should recognize but couldn’t put a name to. He noticed that the wide sleeves ended in a distinctive point at the backs of her hands, and then it came to him. The dress looked like a garment from the Renaissance Period.
And she looked stunning in it.
The silent observation rushed him, left him astonished. Confounded. He sat there, frowning, as a distinctly rare but familiar feeling of desire sparked to life in him, warming the ice water that had been flowing through his veins and chilling his body for longer than he could remember.
