Christmas Sparks (Stonewater Stories Book 1)

by Ginny Frost

  Ryan’s head spun. Like who? He racked his brain. “Daisy Duke, from that old TV show.”

  She shook her head. “Seriously? You’re comparing me to a young woman in tiny shorts?”

  He searched again. “Daisy from The Great Gatsby? And some people called Thatcher that, too.” He grinned.

  “No, they didn’t.” She laughed, though, squeezing him tighter. Neither seemed to care if it was true. The laughter dropped the tension from her body.

  ***

  Daisy? Who was he kidding? Funny and kinda sweet, but a Kramer which spelled trouble. She blinked, realizing belatedly, she stood in his embrace. His soft amber eyes searched her face, his smile warm, his lips inviting. It’d been a long time since she’d been in the arms of a sympathetic male. Did they still exist?

  He’d pulled her from the fire and stayed here late and alone, inspecting her house. When he assumed she was an intruder, he’d even defended her door. Now he hugged her and graced her with an adorable nickname.

  She blinked, an old fire reigniting inside her—a feeling she hadn’t experienced in ages. Wondering what to do from here, she waited. Did people kiss when they felt the stirring, or was there more to it? She and Earl had dated exclusively in college. But the universe was different now. Jill would tease her to no end if she caught Margaret in the arms of a hot fireman.

  Kissing him was a bad idea. His being a Kramer niggled at her. She never saw him personally work on the house, but with three or four brothers, how could she keep track? Earl went to school with them. He’d assured her they were the best contractors in town. Of course, they were also the only contractors in town.

  Margaret stumbled back from Ryan’s arms. No. If she needed to sue his family later, she shouldn’t be making kissy faces with him now. Her nether region protested, but she wrapped her borrowed jacket around her tighter. “Can I go into the laundry room?” she asked. “And grab some coats, too? Everything’s on the first floor.”

  Ryan’s whole demeanor changed. He stiffened, and not in a good way—his body straight, his chin high. “Let me find those for you, Ms. Porter. Please stay outside.”

  She stepped forward to protest or at least tell him what to grab, but he’d already disappeared inside the house. An empty feeling rushed through her, the madness of the hug over. The magic dissipated in the chilly air and she mourned the loss of the moment.

  After a few minutes, he returned with a laundry basket covered with coats. “How’d I do?” he asked, handing over the entire thing. She almost dropped it from the weight.

  “What did you put in here, rocks?” she asked, setting the basket on the steps.

  “Yes,” he said. “Rocks and coats. As you asked.” She raised her head to meet his gaze and got caught in the full brunt of his grin.

  Damn, she could like this guy, if he wasn’t a Kramer. Maybe she’d use him for sex and move on.

  Yeah, right.

  She shuffled the coats and inspected the clothes beneath. Neatly folded stacks of pants, socks, undies, and shirts sat in tightly packed piles. Not a single towel or bed sheet tucked in. Impressive, considering he hadn’t been gone for long. He found clothes for everyone and both kids’ coats. She hated to give him credit. A Kramer, after all.

  “This will do. Thanks, uh, Ryan, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His response seemed formal. None of the sweet understanding or caring attitude she’d met with when she arrived. Apparently, he was done, too. She sighed, bending to lift the basket.

  And of course, at the same moment, he bent as well. Probably a chivalrous offer to carry the basket for her. Too bad he hadn’t announced his intention. The clunk of their skulls smacking together sounded like a shot in the quiet evening. Margaret uttered a grunt and fell back heavily on her ass.

  “Oww, motherf…” She cut herself off, too big of a bomb to drop outside and in front of a cute guy. Blinking to clear the stars in her vision, she glanced over to see how badly she’d hurt him. He sat on his butt across from her, the big basket between them undisturbed. His gaze met hers before he dropped onto his back.

  “Oh, my God. Ryan!” She scrambled around the basket. “Are you…?”

  A huge bray of belly-shaking laughter erupted from him. He hooted, his hand to his forehead, out of control.

  When he didn’t stop, she asked, “Are you okay, or do I call someone?” She hovered over him and he roared on.

  “Ryan!” She placed a hand on each shoulder. Could a concussion cause hysteria? “Seriously, are you all right?” She leaned low in the dim light, scanning his pupils for signs of injury.

  His laughter died off to low chuckles. “What a mess, huh, Daisy?” He winked.

  A giggle escaped her lips. He sat up and pressed his mouth to hers.

  His slow, smoldering kiss burned her from the tip of her toes to the top of her head, leaving a crazy wildfire in the middle. She kissed him back, her tongue flickering over his lip until he opened, and she devoured him.

  Ryan Kramer was a sweet treat—gentle and passionate in his kisses. Not demanding, not pushy, not at all handsy where she’d have to break it off and shove him again.

  He kissed her as zealously as she him. In the heat and fun of snogging someone new, she lost herself. He was a good kisser too, not a slavering, gross, saliva-filled thing. She drowned in his kiss and wanted to stay there forever.

  Chapter Three

  “Heard you had some excitement last night.” Ryan glanced up to see Mayor Denise Anthony in the doorway of his office, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand.

  “Morning, ma'am. Yes, small electrical fire on Cardinal, the Porters.”

  Ms. Anthony probably already knew. She heard everything that happened in town.

  Ryan tapped his clipboard. “I plan to stop by and inspect the damage. Hopefully, the family can move back in soon. I hate to have them out of their house during the holiday season.”

  She nodded. “Nice family, now that the husband’s gone.” She chuckled. “Let me know if there’s any way we can help.” She held up her coffee cup in salute and disappeared down the hallway.

  Ryan gathered his things and headed out the door. Ms. Porter—Daisy—would be at school by now. He paused, one hand reaching for the phone, the other on his briefcase. Daisy and the kiss. His lips still tingled. Hopefully, he’d see her again soon, and maybe there’d be another kiss, or something more. He’d like to revisit the sweet scent of apples and roses and her luscious mouth.

  The house stood alone in the morning light. The plastic sheeting stapled over the side wall had detached on one side and flapped in the wind. Other than that, it looked abandoned without its family. Ryan grabbed his clipboard and toolbox. He’d get to the bottom of it and put Daisy back in her home before Christmas. Maybe she’d even allow him to help repair the wall.

  He used the keys he’d snagged last night to open the front door and headed to the living room. Daylight didn’t help the mess. He glanced down at the half-burned Christmas tree, more determined than ever to find out if his own family caused the fire.

  It definitely felt electrical. The far wall with an unvented firebox bore the brunt of the damage. A hole gaped open to one side of the mantel and another one engulfed the opposite side, straight through to the outside. Hopefully, Daisy had some good homeowner’s insurance. Of course, if he found the contractor was at fault, then she might unload the bills on his dad in a lawsuit. His father would be pissed at having a lawyer sicced on him, but if Kramer and Sons were to blame…

  A knock sounded at the front door. Ryan checked his watch. Now what? He’d just arrived here. Maybe it was Daisy. He hurried to the door. He opened it, and his jaw dropped.

  David Kramer, his father, stood on the porch, a weary smile on his face. The man was dressed in his usual uniform of work overalls, with stuffed pockets, and a slightly too-small down parka, the same one he’d had since Ryan’s childhood.

  “Dad, what are you doing here?” No greeting, no hello. Too flabbergasted to be polit
e. The man shouldn’t be here, especially if he was at fault for the fire.

  Dad put his hand to his chin and his head swiveled from side to side, trying to peer inside. Ryan stepped forward, pulling the door shut behind him.

  His father shrugged, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “Thought I might stop by… Fire, y’know.” A man of few words and no explanations. The years hadn’t changed David Kramer much. “Electrical?”

  Ryan drew in a deep breath. He didn’t want to say anything, as things were still up in the air. But either way, Dad couldn’t go in. “No conclusions yet. I’ve been here two minutes.” Ryan refrained from throwing his chin up in a defiant gesture. The atmosphere felt ripe for a fight. He wasn’t in the mood for another sore spot in their relationship. Things were tight enough.

  “Yeah, I know. I saw ya come. I waited.” His upstate New York accent sounded heavier with the tension between them. He hooked his thumb back toward the road. “We got a job at number twelve. Ted is on the way.”

  As if on cue, Ted’s truck pulled up in the driveway. He swaggered out of the vehicle and joined the two men on the front porch. Ryan’s chest tightened at the sight of his big brother. His and Ted’s relationship was an ugly shitstorm compared to the quiet resentment between him and Dad.

  “What’s up?” He nodded his chin at the house. “You working?” He made air quotes at Ryan. “You could work for me and Dad. But I’m sure your inspecting is much more fulfilling.” He thumped Dad on the back, a little too hard. Dad took the hit, flashing a smirk that Ted didn’t see.

  “Look, Ted, Dad, you gotta leave the property while I do my inspection. If Ms. Porter gives you permission to visit the site later, then fine. But right now…”

  Ted cut him off. “What’s your problem? We’re here to say hi, to help out, and you pull a bullshit ‘respect my authority’ act. Calm down, little bro.”

  Ryan’s ears burned. Once again, Ted belittled and insulted him for no reason. “Ted, I’m not going to fight. I need to inspect the damage and turn in a report. If I see Daisy, I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up, but Ted jumped in first. “Who’s Daisy?” He started up the step, probably an attempt to intimidate Ryan with his slightly superior height. Ryan didn’t move. He learned a long time ago not to back down to Ted, and he had the scars to prove it.

  “Ms. Porter. Get her permission to enter the property.”

  Ted opened his mouth, probably to razz him about the Daisy comment again. Ryan cut him off for once. “I’ll talk to you both later if we need to discuss the situation further.”

  His brother stepped back, frowning. Like a typical bully, he backed down when anyone stood up to him. “Fine. Be that way. Come on, Dad.” He spun on his heel and stalked back down the driveway.

  Dad glanced at his oldest son walking away. “Well, then…” he said in his calm, quiet voice. He stuck his hand out for a shake. Ryan grasped it, grateful his dad wasn’t an asshole like his brother. “Be seein’ ya.” And he left.

  Ryan watched him go with a pang of regret. In a perfect universe, he’d be part of Kramer and Sons' Contracting. He let himself back into the house, shaking off the ugly. The world was a flawed place, but damned if he’d put his tail between his legs for Ted or the company.

  Chapter Four

  Grabbing a stray soda can, Margaret glanced over the parlor. Their room upstairs was lovely, but at home, they had a three-bedroom house to roam around. Here, when things became tight, she and the kids would wander downstairs and hang out.

  Margaret tidied the area. Jill and Mikey left tons of detritus—books, wrappers, and whatnot. She hated turning the room into their playroom, hated more the children didn’t understand it wasn’t their space.

  “Where’s your brother?” Margaret placed her plan book in her school bag. Teaching in December felt like juggling chainsaws. A good teacher kept a balance between holiday fun and actual learning. The children were so hopped up on December cheer that some days, breaking out the finger paint was the best choice.

  Not that it mattered, with all the issues she was struggling with. She needed to feed the kids dinner and ensure they completed their homework—despite the fire, new location, and Jill’s growing crush on one of the Inn owners.

  Jill glanced up from her phone. “What?”

  “Your brother?”

  Jill sneered. “I don’t know where the snot factory is. Why am I supposed to watch him every second? I have things to do.” She stood and whirled out of the room like a tornado. Margaret smiled as her daughter stormed out.

  Ah, fourteen.

  Sighing, she turned to Patrick at the desk. “Have you seen my son?” She put a certain amount of pathetic into her words. Playing on Patrick’s heartstrings wasn’t a habit she wanted to continue, but he did have the best view of the downstairs rooms.

  “He headed upstairs about fifteen minutes ago. You were kinda absorbed.” He wrinkled his nose slightly but not in a mean or snobbish way. Patrick was genuinely nice. The nose twitch meant, “Oops, you didn’t notice your kid. No worries,” rather than “Wow, bad mothering.”

  “Thanks, Patrick.” She tried not to sigh again or ask which direction Jill had gone. With one key per room, hopefully, Jill or Mikey had it upstairs. Being locked out would be a serious annoyance.

  Climbing the stairs, she mentally reviewed her to-do list: insurance, call her ex-husband, Earl, and stay away from the fireman. The usual things. She’d barely entered the second-floor hallway when Jill came rushing at her.

  “Mom, Mom!” she called, her eyes wide, her hands flailing. Either a boy called her, or something was wrong.

  Margaret lowered her chin. “Spill.” It worked for either situation.

  “It’s Mikey.”

  Margaret’s blood pressure spiked. Pulling in a deep breath through her nose, she squared her gaze with Jill’s. “What is it?”

  “He’s locked in the bathroom.”

  Margaret’s shoulders dropped about six inches. Locked in the bathroom, no biggie. The boy did it twice a week. Jill usually didn’t get so worked up. Placing a hand on her daughter’s arm, she said, “Not a problem.” They headed upstairs.

  In the room, silence dominated the space. Strange, but not unheard of. Mikey might be playing with tub toys, dumping shampoo down the drain, or flushing the toilet paper directly from the roll. He’d only done that once, thank goodness.

  “Mikey? She set her bag down. “You in the potty?”

  A scramble of footsteps sounded, and the shadow of his feet appeared in the space under the door. “Yeah, Mommy. The door won’t open.”

  She tried the knob. It refused to budge. “It’s different than at home, baby. Turn the key in the lock on your side and you can get out.”

  “I gots the key, Mommy but…”

  “But what, honey?” She kept the panic out of her voice, flashing of a thousand things going wrong with the key, with her kid locked inside a strange bathroom with razors and poisons.

  “It broked. See.” Mikey pushed half of a key under the door.

  Margaret knelt to view the keyhole. Yep, something blocked the opening. “Can you turn the part that’s left in?” she asked, a tiny bit of panic seeping into her words.

  “No, Mommy.” Mikey’s voice sounded steady as a rock. “I can’t grab it. I tried.”

  Jill hovered over her shoulder. “We could poke it through with a pencil or something.”

  “But how would we turn it?” Margaret considered. “Grab my school bag.”

  Jill did as instructed. “This probably happens in your class, right?” Worry tinged her expression, and Margaret patted her daughter’s arm.

  “I have safety locks at school. But we aren’t stuck yet.” She grabbed a ruler, a pen, and her wallet from the bag.

  “So, MacGyver, Mom.” Jill folded herself down on the floor next to the door. “Teach me your lock-picking skills.”

  Margaret didn’t bother to roll her eyes. Placing the pen inside
the old-fashioned lock, she pushed. A tinkling clatter sounded behind the door.

  “The key popped out, Mommy. Now what?”

  “Push it under, hon.”

  The other half of the key appeared under the door.

  Disappointment filled her heart. The piece of broken brass would never fit in her side of the lock.

  Time for plan B.

  She tried to lever the ruler next to the lock, trying to pop it out, but the ruler was too thick. She grabbed a gas card from her purse and attempted to wedge it into the lock. After a minute of trying, the card snapped in two. She took a breath.

  Mikey was fine.

  It was fine.

  Hinges.

  She studied the frame, but the hinges were on the inside. No lifting them out. Blowing out a breath, she pushed down her frustration.

  “Okay, Jill, head down to the lobby and ask Patrick for a spare key. Or another idea.” Margaret fished around in her bag for a letter opener or bobby pins to pick the lock with.

  Jill returned in a heartbeat. “No other keys. He asked if he should call the fire department.”

  “Oh, God, no.” Margaret spat the words out before she even considered. Jill gave her a sidelong look.

  “A hot firefighter might be helpful,” she teased.

  “A responsible fire chief might call child services on me for endangering my kids twice in two days.” She rubbed her forehead. “Okay, Mikey. We might have to break down the door. But don’t worry, baby. I’ll have you out soon.”

  From the landing, Patrick’s voice sounded. “Oh, please don’t break the door. We just refinished those, and Emil will have my head. Nothing like this has ever happened here before.” He sounded worried.

  Margaret glanced back at him. What did he think they would do besides break in? She shook her head.

  “You don’t have to smash the door, Mommy. I got this.” Mikey’s voice seemed muffled. His shoes disappeared from view under the door.

  “Sit tight, kiddo. I don’t want you hurting yourself.” She placed a hand on the smooth wood, trying to soothe her jangled nerves.