by Lucy Smoke
“The Christmas Festival?” I sound like a freaking parrot, but I can’t help myself.
This is so out of character for Evan. He never shows his face around town. There was speculation for a while that he was badly disfigured in some horrific accident, and that’s why he has a shopper who attends to all his grocery, clothing, and personal needs. But now that he’s standing in front of me, I see that’s not the case. He’s not disfigured. Far from it.
He brings one hand up to rub his jaw, calling my attention to the sharpness of it, covered in a day’s worth of stubble, and I have the urge to run my fingertips over it to see if it’s rough.
What in the world? You know it’s rough, idiot. It’s stubble.
“I want to help.”
His hand drops back down, and he shoves it in his pocket. I track the movement like a hound dog tracks a coon through the woods. I let my eyes linger a beat too long on the pocket of his jeans, which I then realize is close to his, ahem, manhood, and I feel a blush rise in my cheeks as I snap my head back up to look at him. He makes no indication if he knew where my gaze was as he peers at me.
“Oh. Did you look over the sign-up sheet?”
I thrust the clipboard toward him, and he catches it with his free hand, holding it against his chest, but he doesn’t look down at it.
“No. I don’t need to sign up. I want to help oversee.”
I’ve never been close enough to him to know what color his eyes were before, but now that he’s in front of me, their deep, vibrant blue is hard to look away from.
“You do? But that’s what I’m doing,” I say, standing there, blinking up at him.
He’s tall. Really tall. Like almost a whole foot taller than me.
Not that that’s a feat, I scoff to myself. Most people are taller than my five-foot-two frame.
“Yes, I talked to Anna—”
“Oh, you are on a first-name basis with Ms. Potts?”
I tilt my head to the side and fight the urge to stomp my foot. The nerve of this man. Trying to swoop in and take something I’ve been dreaming of my whole life. Well, okay, not my whole life, but a large portion of it. No one could do a better job as a stand-in for Christmas Festival Director than me, and I won’t let Hottie McOnly-Shows-Up-Once-in-a-Blue-Moon ruin it for me.
“Yes. She said I should talk to you about co-directing.”
This is it. All my plans are tumbling around my ears. I paste a smile on and step a little closer. Sticking one hand out, I grasp the edge of the clipboard and try to pull it back toward myself. One strong forearm holds it pinned against his chest, and I don’t even think he grips it hard to keep it there. I pull a little more, and he cocks one eyebrow.
“Is that all you have, Miss Collins?”
“You can call me Mi—no, call me Miss Collins.” I pull the clipboard again.
“I did,” he says with a little chuckle, and I pause.
“Yes, keep it up,” I say with a grunt as I tug harder. “Can I please have my clipboard back?”
What is his arm made of, steel?
“Sure thing. Right after I go over it—as your co-director, of course.”
“You are not my co-director. This is a one-woman job. You are neither a woman nor the one woman for this job.” I pierce him with my most intimidating stare.
“What’s wrong? Why does your face look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you are constipated.”
I gasp at the audacity he has to talk to me about … bathroom habits.
“I do not look like I am constipated!” I jerk on the clipboard once more before giving up. “Fine. You can look over it, but I’m talking to Ms. Potts before we go any further with this whole charade.”
“Fine by me,” he murmurs, his eyes perusing the papers on the clipboard as he shuffles through them, turning his body slightly to where he’s not fully facing me anymore.
I take a moment to study his profile—his dark hair that flops in a curl on his forehead, the length of his nose, the way his lips are a little too full for a man, the chin that rounds out the strong profile, cutting his jaw in two. A throat clearing jerks me from my perusal, and I turn to see Peter, a shit-eating grin on his face and his hand jerking his ball cap back and forth on his head as he studies me.
“Peter,” I say primly, looking back to where Evan hasn’t lifted his eyes from the papers. “I assume you want to talk about alpacas?”
I blow out a breath and try not to hang my head in defeat. Alpaca races, at Christmas.
What is the world coming to?
2
Evan
I watch as Milly leads Peter to a table next to us, holding out her hand for him to take a seat and he does. He pulls the chair out, swings it around, and sits on it backward. I stifle a grin as she frowns.
“Now, Peter, this is an iconic event wrapped up in thirty-five years of fun, family, and festivities, all centered around the wonderful holiday of Christmas. Your, um, alpacas aren’t part of Christmas festivities, but I will put in a word with Ms. Potts and see what she says.”
I walk over as Milly is talking. Pulling out the chair next to her, I sit down, not missing the way her eyes dart to mine, and she pauses talking for a second.
“Excuse me, what are you doing?” she all but hisses toward me.
“I’m sitting in on the meeting.” I lay the clipboard in front of me on the table and smile at Peter, who looks mildly confused.
“This is my meeting,” Milly says, her cheeks pink. She reaches one hand up to pull her shirt out and release it, fanning herself.
“As your co-director, it’s my meeting as well.”
I give her a wide smile, and she just stares at me.
“We never agreed that you are my co-director.”
“Didn’t need to agree. I just am,” I say and lean forward, clasping my hands together. “Now, Peter, tell me more about these alpacas of yours.”
Peter starts to drone on about his furry farm animals as I study Milly Collins out of the corner of my eye. She keeps her gaze pinned on Peter as he talks, her hand tapping a pen on the wood tabletop. She’s flushed; I’m not sure if she’s angry or hot, but either way, it’s a good look on her. Her strawberry-blonde hair is wavy, framing her face, and I have the sudden urge to touch it and see if it’s as soft as it looks.
The thought surprises me, especially after the promise I made to myself three years ago to never fall in love again. I’ve been a hermit, hardly leaving my house at times, and when I do, it’s for trips outside of Clarissa Cove. I know people talk about me. What else do they have to do in a town this size? But thankfully, the excitement for the festival will take the attention off of me since I’ve decided to reintroduce myself into society. It’s about time.
Milly is shaking her head at something Peter said, and I grin. She’s a little spitfire but uptight, and she just needs to let loose and have a little fun. Although I’m one to talk. When was the last time I just let loose and had fun? Probably three years ago. Before my fiancée left me. On Christmas. Forgive me if it’s not my favorite holiday.
My therapist, who just also happens to be the esteemed Anna Potts, thinks it would be a good thing for me to get acquainted with the holiday again. To start associating better memories with it instead of the sinking feeling in my gut that always comes with the mention of Christmas. Although I find it interesting that she’s paired me with Milly Collins.
Milly Collins of the Archie Collins family line, the mortal enemy of my great-grandfather Merle MacAlister.
The story goes that Archie and Merle were best friends who bought land together. They planned to farm it and split the profits, but they eventually divided the land between themselves, thinking they needed their own crops instead of merging. Merle was walking through the woods one day when he came upon a land marker not where it should be. He started looking around and found that Archie was moving his land markers to give himself a larger percentage of the property over Merle. Archie swo
re he hadn’t moved them and said Merle was lying. Thus starting the generations-long feud between the Collins and the MacAlisters. Our grandfathers kept up the battle, taking each other to court over it several times until the judge forbid them from doing it again. My parents and Milly’s just choose to act like the other family doesn’t exist.
Until now, I didn’t really care, but I bet my parents would have something to say about it.
“Evan?” Milly is peering at me.
I jerk my head up from where I was staring at the table. Peter is gone, and Milly’s hand is lying on my arm. My eyes catch on it, and I feel her fingers flex, one at a time as she slowly lifts it off of me.
“Sorry,” she says, looking sheepish.
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice gruff. I clear my throat. “Did we get everything worked out with Peter?”
“Oh, yes. It’s all set up for you to head out to his farm tomorrow and survey the alpacas for their little competition. You will need to check them out for health, temperament, and just general well-being.” She grins at me as she sits back, her pen continuing to tap on the table.
“Oh no, if I’m going, you have to go,” I say. “You wouldn’t let your co-director pick anything without your say, would you? If anything were to go wrong, everyone wouldn’t blame me, now would they?”
“Are you blackmailing me?” She leans forward a little, her eyes flashing.
I shake my head. “I would never. Since it’s your family that are the crooks.”
“Well, that’s a low blow! Your great-grandfather is the land stealer, not mine,” she says, gritting her teeth.
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“You can’t remember it. You weren’t there.”
“Neither were you.” I enjoy watching her fire as she debates the truth of our stories.
Whose family is to blame for the years and years of dislike?
“True. I just enjoy watching you get your panties in a twist.”
“My panties are not in a twist. Plus, you shouldn’t be talking about my panties at all.”
Of course, my thoughts go straight to what she could be wearing underneath that baggy shirt and pair of jeans. Lace? Seems a little too scandalous for Milly, and granny panties seem a little too old. My bet is on regular cotton briefs, and instantly, my dick twitches.
Cotton panties? It has been a while. Over three years.
“Evan? Focus. If you are dedicated to doing this with me, we need to go over the schedule for tomorrow.” Milly slides the clipboard toward her and pulls a few pages off, laying them in front of us and pointing at the paper clearly labeled Schedule.
“I’m going to need you to call Mrs. Clifford in the morning, eight a.m. sharp—no earlier, no later. She’s a stickler for time. Ask about the flower shipment for the holiday play. She should give you an estimated arrival date. Then, Edward over at the hardware shop is donating the wood to fix the nativity scene, and I need you to convince him to also be the one to fix it. He’s the only one I trust. Check in with the church about the food pantry. We are doing a holiday food box for those who are homebound, and I need a head count. Oh, we also need to set up the box here at the restaurant to collect the food donations—”
“Could you maybe give me a list with these instructions? I doubt I’m going to be able to remember.”
I’m beginning to regret this with every fiber of my being. I thought it would be good to get outside of my little bubble I’d stuffed myself in, but now, it sounds like I’m the patsy for Milly Collins, at her beck and call, and I’m not down with that. We are supposed to be equals in this endeavor whether she wants to acknowledge it or not.
“Here you go,” she says, thrusting a piece of paper toward me where she’s made some adjustments.
“Wait, aren’t we going to Peter’s at ten? I’m supposed to do all of this other stuff between eight and ten?”
“Welcome to the position of co-director, Mr. MacAlister. I think I was wrong before. It will be nice to split up the duties.” Milly sits back and smiles at me as I look at my mile-long list that has to be accomplished tomorrow. She stands, collecting her things, and holds her hand out. “Your phone, please.”
I unlock my phone and hand it to her where she taps away at it before handing it back.
“I programmed my number in there. Let me know if you have any questions. See you at ten tomorrow at Peter’s.” She smiles brightly.
I watch her walk away, her hips swaying with each step, her light hair bouncing, and I grin. Maybe this is exactly what I need. A little arguing with Milly has been the most fun I’ve had in a while, and she’s nice to look at as well.
I gather my paper and phone off the table and stop by the bar, ordering a shot. I down it and slip my coat back over my shoulders. Walking outside, I see Milly standing off to the side, her finger furiously typing away on her phone, and I smile. This is exactly what I need indeed. A couple of weeks with spitfire Milly Collins, and I will hopefully be a new man. Not the shell of my old self I’ve become.
I stick my hands in my pockets and turn away, walking down the sidewalk toward home. The castle on the hill where no one ever comes. They believe me to be a beast, but I’m just trying to get my life back together.
3
Milly
I stomp my feet and shiver. Rubbing my hands together, I bring them up to my mouth to blow hot air in them as I stand outside on this cold December day. I spin, my eyes glancing over the many curly-haired faces looking back at me as they munch on their food, their shrewd eyes staring me down. I blink. They don’t. I feel like I’m about to be interrogated by the crew of alpacas in front of me, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.
I can’t say I’ve ever been this close to one in person, and it’s unsettling. I’m not much of an animal person. I wasn’t allowed to have a pet, growing up, so I’ve never really been given the option to be.
“Miss Collins,” Peter says from behind me, and I whirl, blowing another round of hot air into my hands. “Are you ready for the tour?”
“The tour?”
“Yeah. Don’t you want to meet all of them, get up close and personal?” Peter grins.
I take a step back. “Not exactly,” I start to say and get distracted by a large Jeep pulling into the driveway.
Peter and I stand together and watch Evan jump down from the impossibly high Jeep, his boot-clad feet hitting the ground with a thump. I work my eyes up his jeans, which fit his legs perfectly. A light-colored sweater peeks through the gap in his jacket as he pulls a knit cap out of his pocket, positioning it over his head and pulling down. His hair charmingly curls out from underneath it, and I can’t help but stare, squeezing my legs together at the feelings coursing through my body. I can think of a few ways to warm up now.
“Sorry I’m late. Had a long list of things to do,” he says, looking pointedly at me.
I smile. “How was Edward? Did you give him my best?”
The scowl I get in return makes me laugh, and I see the corner of Evan’s mouth try to tilt up.
“I think you gave me everyone you didn’t want to deal with.” His eyes narrow at me, and I bring one hand up to hide my mouth.
Guilty as charged.
“I would never,” I tell him and turn to face Peter. “Peter here is going to give us the grand tour.”
I watch Evan glance around just like I did, taking in the small barn and fenced-in piece of land where about six alpacas sit, staring at us, still munching on food.
“The tour? Isn’t this everything?” He sweeps an arm out, and Peter harrumphs.
“You need to get to know each one of my girls,” he says and hooks a thumb toward the beasts.
“I don’t think we need to get to know them per se. Just inspect, make sure they won’t make a ruckus and mess up the Christmas Festival.”
“My girls would never make a ruckus.” Peter glares at me.
I widen my eyes with a grimace. I guess I could have phrased it better.
�
�Lead the way, Stinson,” Evan says, placing his hand on the small of my back and escorting me further toward the scary creatures.
I dig my heels in, and he pushes a little harder.
“Here is fine,” I say, leaning away from his hand.
“Are you … are you scared of the alpacas?” He drops it back to his side and stuffs it in his pocket as he looks at me.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I glance ahead to where Peter is already opening the gate, and I feel my heart speed up. “No.”
“So, you are scared.”
“Yes … I mean, no. Quit confusing me.” I huff and step back, his proximity and cologne muddling my thoughts. I immediately find that stepping back does nothing to stop his scent from flooding me, kicking my heart rate up another notch. “Don’t they spit on people?” I ask, eyeing them again, their calm demeanors not fooling me.
“I think you have them confused with llamas. They spit on people.”
“Are you sure?” I reach over and grip his arm. To his credit, he doesn’t cringe at how hard I’m gripping.
“I’m not completely positive, but I think it’s llamas,” he says, laughing.
“Do you think this is funny?” I spread my arms out wide, but his laughter is infectious, and pretty soon, I’ve forgotten my fear in favor of joking with him.
We make our way to the open gate where Peter stands, holding the halter of the alpaca next to him and giving us a look of pure impatience. He’s wearing a pair of overalls, unhooked on one side, and a wool coat with a rainbow zigzag pattern. His boots are untied, and he has long socks sticking out the tops of them, which he’s tucked the bottom of his pant legs into. A furry cap completes his odd look. It’s all very … Peter.
“This here is Lady. She’s my personal favorite, but don’t tell the others,” he says with one hand cupping his mouth, hiding it from the alpacas.
I highly doubt they care because, you know, they can’t understand English—or any language for that matter. But I smile at Peter anyway, walking through and staying on the complete opposite side from Lady, who is staring me down with a look of disdain. I think she can sense my fear.
