“How are your classes going?” He continued the flow of conversation, attempting to ignore the knot in his gut.
She grabbed a dish towel and dried a plate. “Every class is full this week, and the students I couldn’t accommodate are spilling into the next. Lots of women are making wreaths to give away as gifts this year. Online sales are higher than ever. Pretty soon I’ll have to finish unpacking all the boxes in the shed and attic, so I’ll know what to restock.”
She handed him the plate to put away.
The attic. So she hadn’t found it yet. Or if she had, she hadn’t linked it to him. He’d been careful not to leave any clues behind.
“What are you working on?”
The cabinet door creaked when he opened it and slid the plate inside. He noted for the first time how bare it was, holding only a few plates and bowls and two coffee mugs. “I have a customer who brings things in for me to work on now and then. Yesterday, he brought me an antique weather-vane he’d snagged at an estate auction. It’s in pretty bad shape. Tarnished from years in the open elements. Underneath, it’s a beauty, though. Just going to take a lot of work to get it where it needs to be.”
Darcy passed him another plate. “Can I see?” Her delicate brows lifted slightly, and her brown eyes rounded like a child who’d asked their mother for piece of candy.
He closed the cabinet door. “Come on.”
They abandoned the dishes left in the rack, and he led the way to his workshop. He raised the lid from the wooden crate, unearthing the bruised rooster waiting inside.
She knelt to get a better look. “Oh, Dean, you’re right. She is beautiful.”
He ignored the breathy way she said his name. “She? It’s a rooster.”
Her slender fingers grazed the oxidized metal. She threw him a mock scowl. “You do amazing work. I’ve no doubt you can restore him to his original glory.”
A grin curled his lips. This was the second time she’d shown appreciation for his work. It bolstered his ego way too much. “How about dessert?”
In the kitchen, Darcy served him an éclair on a napkin then bit into her own.
The sweet dough melted in Dean’s mouth. “Wow, these are good. What can I possibly bribe you with, so you’ll make these for me on a regular basis?”
She worried her bottom lip. “I’ve a confession to make. I bought them at the bakery.” She scrunched her face. “This is so embarrassing. I don’t bake. Or cook.”
Neither one? Maybe that’s why she was still single. A way to man’s heart and all that. Because from where he was standing, that seemed to be her only downfall. “Don’t like to?”
“I’m terrible at it.”
A drop of cream clung to the dip below her bottom lip. Dean shoved his last bite into his mouth, suppressing his desire to nibble the drop away. What was with him tonight?
She swiped it away with her thumb. Phew!
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“College. I got tired of eating canned soup and Spaghettio’s. One of my roommates was in culinary school, so I learned from watching him.”
“Chef Boyardee and I are best friends.”
“Then you’re hanging out with the wrong crowd. How ’bout I teach you how to cook?”
Pink blossomed her cheeks. “I’d like that. When do we start?”
A warning signal blared through his head. What was he doing? Maybe he could put her off until Christmas. Next year. “Tomorrow night?”
“I’ll be here.”
****
Darcy removed two glasses from Dean’s kitchen cabinet. The small room forced them to work closely together, and every time he moved, his cologne joined the party, teasing every cell in her body.
He was teaching her how to cook—or at least trying to. She could barely concentrate with him beside her. She loved this new Dean, his smile, his laugh. If anyone would’ve told her this Dean and the Dean she’d met three weeks ago were the same guy, she’d have told them they were nuts.
“You’ll want to turn the chicken now so it doesn’t burn.” His deep voice vibrated her ear.
She gripped the tongs and rotated the sizzling pieces of battered chicken. A pocket of grease burst and shot into the air, splattering across her blouse and face. Darcy squealed. The hot drops stung her nose and cheeks.
“You OK?” Dean wedged his body between her and the stove.
She reached for the dishtowel and blotted her face and chest. “I think so.”
Her blouse wouldn’t be though. Vegetable oil and silk weren’t meant to unite. Oh, well, another casualty of war along with her ruined gloves. She glanced down at her shirt and then at Dean. He was worth it.
“I told you to wear the apron.” He snatched it from the countertop and slipped it over her head. His hands lingered by her collar bones a moment longer than necessary, his gaze fixed on hers. Her blood pressure rocketed. The chicken sizzled.
“I’ll show you the secret to mashed potatoes.” He let go and fetched a block of cream cheese from the fridge.
Who cares about mashed potatoes? His touch made her heart nearly explode.
He motioned her to the mixer with instructions to beat the potatoes until smooth. Dean added the cream cheese, his woodsy scent asphyxiating her senses. Oh, but what a way to go!
He added milk.
“Was fried chicken the first thing you learned how to cook?
“No,” he answered over the loud hum of the mixer. “I should’ve started you with something simpler, but I haven’t had fried chicken in ages, and it sounded good.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
He grinned.
When the food was ready, they piled their plates with Southern cuisine, poured glasses of ice tea—for authenticity—and dined in front of the TV. The intimacy of the night felt very much like a date. Then again, last night had, too. We’re they dating? Stop it, Darcy.
“What holiday mayhem did you bring along tonight?” Dean spooned a bite of macaroni and cheese.
“Elf.”
“Elf?”
“Nothing screams Christmas like a grown man in tights.”
He rolled his eyes.
“It’s a classic.”
“Never seen it.”
“It’s funny. I promise.”
“We’ll see.”
She put the movie in the DVD player. His house was definitely suited for a bachelor. A dark leather couch consumed one wall and recliner, coffee table, and big screen TV swallowed the rest of the room. There were no pictures or knick-knacks, and the place was cleaner than she expected a single man’s home to be.
He complimented her on the meal, though the credit went to him. The low timbre of his laugh, his facial expressions during the movie—especially the part where Buddy the Elf ate maple syrup on his spaghetti—was worth a million ruined silk blouses.
She was falling for this handsome, wounded recluse and had nothing to hold on to. She should keep her feelings platonic, so her heart wouldn’t be devastated when Dean sat her down for the “let’s just be friends” speech. It would undoubtedly come. It always did.
The movie ended. With heavy eyelids, she went to the kitchen to clean up. Dean followed her in, took the dishrag from her hand, and tossed it in the sink. “I’ll clean up. It’s getting late. Go home and get some rest.”
She leaned her hip against the counter. “I’m not tired.” Her mouth opened in a stupid, traitorous yawn.
“Really?”
“Maybe just a little.”
Dean led her to the front door and held up her coat. “Want me to walk you home?”
Darcy slipped her arms inside. “It’s a long way, but I think I can manage.”
He wrapped her pink scarf around her neck. “It’s cold out there.”
He fingered the tassels of the scarf. Stubble lined his jaw, giving him a rugged edge she longed to touch. So close…
He shifted. “I’m busy tomorrow, but I’m pretty sure on Thursday I’ll be in the mood for lasagna.”<
br />
His gaze fell to her lips before retracing the path to her eyes. Was she imagining this spark between them? She possessed enough electricity on her end to set the city of Chicago ablaze all over again. “I’ll bring the bread.”
7
Darcy looked in the mirror one last time, fluffing her hair, checking her makeup. She couldn’t wait to see Dean. Six cooking lessons, and she was already willing to fillet her heart and serve it to him on a silver platter. The lonesome cavern in her chest slowly filled with pebbles of trust and admiration. Would Dean ever want the job of filling it completely?
The doorbell rang. “Come in,” she yelled, finishing up in the mirror. She adjusted her red sweater then went to the front door, greeting Dean as he entered.
“Sorry, I’m late. The project I was working on took longer than I thought.” He passed her a paper sack and removed his boots.
They’d agreed to switch dinner up a bit and cook at her place tonight. “It’s fine. I’m running a little behind myself.”
Dean’s gaze traveled over her form as he stood to full height. The corners of his lips turned up as he reclaimed the bag. Heat crept up her neck and filled her cheeks. The spark was real.
His smile grew wider.
She playfully rolled her eyes. “Come on. I’m hungry.”
He chuckled, following her to the kitchen.
The countertop held bowls of fresh fruit she’d rinsed and set out earlier. Strong coffee brewed, the bold aroma mingling in the space between them. The normally chilly kitchen felt twenty degrees warmer with Dean in it.
He put the bag on the counter and pulled out its contents. “I brought the ham, eggs, asparagus, and hollandaise sauce.”
A cold blast of air rolled over Darcy as she opened the fridge to present her contribution. “I’ve got the biscuits and fruit.”
His brow arched. “Canned biscuits?”
She shrugged. “I don’t cook.”
“That’s what these lessons are for.”
“You said you were teaching me how to make eggs Benedict with ham. Not homemade biscuits. I thought we’d go the easy route tonight, since Clark Griswold is waiting for us in the living room. ”
“Another movie? It doesn’t involve any men in green pantyhose, does it?”
“Nope. Just an exploding turkey, a crispy cat, and annoying houseguests.”
“Well in that case, let’s skip dinner and get right to it.”
She threw him a mock scowl. “You’ll like it. I promise.”
Darcy preheated the oven according to the directions on the biscuit tube then arranged them on a cookie sheet. Dean fried the ham slices. The sizzling meat filled the silence during breaks in conversation. This Norman Rockwell picture—together in the kitchen, talking about their day, laughing—was as right as waking to a fresh blanket of snow on Christmas morning. And what a present he’d be to find waiting beneath the tree…
The thought sent her pulse racing.
“Ready to make the hollandaise?” He forked the steaming ham slices and transferred them to a plate.
She jumped, startled from her daydream. “Sure.”
His quick movements at the stove made his back and shoulder muscles tease through his gray shirt. She had to agree with every other woman in America. There wasn’t anything sexier than a man who cooked.
“Butter?”
She opened the fridge, remembering she’d used the last of the butter on her morning bagel. “Um…I’m out.”
“Hmm. So am I.”
“Do we have to have it?”
He nodded. “You can’t make hollandaise sauce without butter.”
Of course. She’d know that if she cooked. “No problem. I’ll run and get some.”
“No you won’t. I’ll go get some.”
“It’s my fault. I’ll only be gone a minute.”
“It’s dark out. You stay. I’m going.”
His protectiveness stirred her gut, but she refused to linger on it too long. “We’ll both go then.”
Dean swallowed, tucked his hands in his pockets. Swallowed again. “Get your coat.”
His voice was husky. Why did he look so torn by the idea? Was he angry about the butter, or was the idea of being seen with her in public bothering him? With each step through the hall, she debated whether to stay behind. He’d made so much progress, and she didn’t want to push him into anything he wasn’t ready for.
She removed the biscuits from the oven and turned off the thermostat then covered the ham slices with plastic wrap.
He paused in the doorway and pointed to a half-finished, six-foot tall wreath base in her classroom. “What’s that?”
“My contribution to the town festivities.”
It stood as tall as he did. “It’s huge.”
“Pastor Barnes wanted something to spruce up the church. He said to think big, so I did. He’s going to hang it beneath the steeple.”
Upon learning she was Dean’s neighbor, the pastor mentioned he’d known the Whitfields for twenty-five years and reminisced about Dean’s profession of faith and baptism at age twelve. Her heart leapt at the knowledge that Dean was a believer.
She looked at him now as he studied the giant wreath and felt a prod to ask how his charity auction project was going. Are you sure, God? This may not be the best time. Buzz around town was that Dean refused to carry on the tradition. Remembering his reaction the day Ruth Simpson baited him in Darcy’s classroom, there was probably some truth to the rumor.
Ask him.
Darcy gnawed her bottom lip, slipping into her coat. She tugged on her hat and stepped through the door as Dean held it ajar. After locking the door, they moved toward the market, their feet disrupting the snow dust on the sidewalk. “How’s your auction gift coming along?”
Dean stiffened. His jaw ticked. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing escaped. He closed it and shook his head.
Darcy concentrated on the halos of light radiating from the lampposts. The soles of her red ballet flats brushed along the concrete. “I’m sorry about the butter. How’s the rooster? Classes were crazy today and—”
“It’s OK, Darcy.” Dean burrowed his hands in his coat pockets.
OK about the butter, or that she’d pried? Either way, he was cuing her to stop rambling.
They reached the market, and Dean opened the door, allowing her to enter first. An instrumental version of “Winter Wonderland” played through the store’s speakers.
The dairy section stood to their right. Dean grabbed a package of butter sticks and went to the only open register. She offered to pay, but he refused. The teenager yawned and tucked a strand of blue hair behind her ear. The light glinted off her diamond-studded nose ring. With her mismatched vintage clothing, the girl looked like a character from Candy Land.
Dean paid, and the cotton-candy-haired girl followed them out, locking the doors behind them.
The frigid air nipped Darcy’s nose. Her breath swirled in white puffs before disappearing. The temperature had dropped in the few short minutes they’d shopped in the market. Or maybe Dean’s temperature had dropped.
She wished he’d say something. Like, “It’s OK that you’re nosy sometimes,” or “I’m madly in love with you, Darcy. Will you marry me?”
Anything.
They approached Rudolph’s Christmas tree lot. A painted wooden sign poised at the entrance, reminding everyone they only had twelve more days until Christmas. Pines of various species and sizes were strategically arranged to entice customers.
Darcy gave in, halting in front of a Douglas fir at least seven feet tall. Just like the ones her parents erected in the living room when she was a kid, when Christmas held excitement and wonder. When David was alive.
Her heart sank. She curled her mitten-wrapped fingers around the links of the metal fence. She’d saved all her chore money that year, taking on extra jobs to save for that bicycle David wanted for Christmas. If she’d only known he wouldn’t be there…
“What a
re you thinking?” Dean’s voice was soft and low. He studied her, his eyes intense enough to see into her soul. “My brother would’ve loved this tree.”
She craned her neck to see the top. Snow clung to the needles, glittering beneath the street lights. How different would things be if David were still alive? Would he be married with five children? Would she?
For the first time, she realized losing her brother had affected all the relationships in her life. She and David had been inseparable since birth, ripped apart in a fleeting moment. Though she wanted love and marriage, a happily-ever-after, she’d sabotaged every relationship, bracing for loss that may or may not come. Not strong enough to go through that again.
Strong fingers wrapped around her hand. Darcy met his gaze, her body humming from his touch. With this man, however, it was different. She wanted to heal his hurt, which might in turn help heal her own. Holding back was no longer an option.
“Dinner’s getting cold.” He gently tugged her into motion, warming her hand the rest of the way home.
****
Two days later, Dean stood at the corner of Fifth and Main, gripping his cell phone in one hand and steadying a pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree with the other. “Darcy? It’s Dean. I’ll be there in about five minutes. Have the door open.”
He closed his phone and slipped it into his coat pocket. With a grunt, he hoisted the tree onto his shoulder, angry with himself for waiting too long. If he’d have gotten to the tree lot sooner, he could’ve snagged that Douglas fir she eyed the other night. Instead he was delivering Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.
A group of tourist stepped aside as he approached, wishing him a Merry Christmas. He could always spot the tourists—never dressed for the weather and ecstatic about the holiday.
The wind blew the smell of sap and pine across his nose, taking his memory back to Boston. Bethany had scolded him for making the holiday such a momentous occasion, spending more on decorations and presents than their studio apartment could hold. But a native from Christmastown never celebrated the holiday lightly.
Until she died. Now he was the only person in this town who didn’t celebrate Christmas at all.
Bright Copper Kettles Page 5
