Читать книгу One Winter's Sunset: The Christmas Baby Surprise / Marry Me under the Mistletoe / Snowflakes and Silver Linings - Rebecca Winters - Страница 17

CHAPTER EIGHT

“A MAN COULD hurt himself doing that.”

Cole turned at the familiar voice. Joe Bishop stood in the driveway of the Gingerbread Inn, grinning like a fool. Damn, it was good to see him. Cole notched the ax into the turned-over log beside him, then headed down the hill and over to his friend, one of the few people Cole had known since childhood. The two men exchanged a hearty hug while Harper barked and leaped around them, excited to see another newcomer. “I’m glad you’re here, Joe. And not to help chop wood, though if you want to grab an ax, I won’t stop you.”

Joe laughed. “Count on you to show an old buddy a good time.”

“Come on, let’s get something to drink.” Cole gestured to Joe to follow him. They circled around to the back door of the inn and went into the kitchen, where Cole pulled two icy beers out of the fridge and handed one to Joe. “We had some good times back in the day, more than one, if I remember right.”

“If you’re talking about your bachelor party,” Joe said, “my memory of that night is a little fuzzy. In a good way.”

Cole chuckled. “That was one wild night.”

“Indeed. So was your wedding.” Joe grinned. “That was, what, ten years ago? Every once in a while, I still think about that night. And the cute bartender I met.” He winked. “Remember how she did that little shake when she mixed martinis? I think I ordered five of them just to see her shimmy.”

Joe, still a ladies’ man, the one in their group least likely to settle down. He’d started a landscaping business out of high school, and though he’d been successful enough to be able to expand and conquer the greater Boston area, Joe liked to keep his business small and manageable, so he could take off at a moment’s notice for a weekend with a pretty woman.

“To unforgettable women,” Cole said, tipping his bottle to connect with Joe’s.

Joe took a long gulp. “Speaking of unforgettable women...how’s Emily?”

The beer lost its appeal for Cole. He set his bottle on the steps, then sat down. How was Emily? That was the million-dollar question. Last night, he’d thought they were making progress, getting close again. For a second, it had been like the old days when they were united by their struggles to get from nowhere to somewhere. Then somehow, the closeness derailed again.

He was missing something, some detail, but what it was, he couldn’t say. Was it just about the money?

He used to think they both wanted success, but Emily seemed to resent the very thing he’d worked so hard to achieve. Admittedly, she had a point about him hiring people instead of doing the work himself. But a man could only spread himself so thin. Didn’t she understand he’d done it to ease their lives rather than complicate them?

Cole shrugged. He had no answers last night, and he had fewer now. “She’s here. I’m here. But it’s like we’re on different planets.”

Joe sat on the step beside Cole. “Things have gotten that bad between you two?”

“There are times when I think we have a chance, then other times...” He shrugged. “Not so much. Maybe she’s right.”

“Right about what?”

“That I can’t let go because I can’t admit I lost. That this is more about winning than about love.”

Joe snorted. “That I can see. I have played racquetball with you, remember. I also recall one particularly crazy basketball game in your driveway. You are definitely a win-at-all-costs guy, Cole.”

Cole cupped the beer between his palms and watched leaves flutter to the ground. In a couple of weeks, all would be bare here, covered with white, winter making its mark on the land around him. Even the trees caved to Mother Nature’s power, giving up their leaves, their greenery, all their finery, to an enforced slumber that would last for the next three months.

“I think this time, that attitude is costing me my marriage. The problem? I honestly don’t know if I can change. That’s the very thing that’s made me successful and what drives me every day. But it could also be the thing driving my wife away.” He took a drink. “Maybe I should give her what she wants and leave.”

“What does Emily say is the problem?”

“She says I try to solve everything with money rather than with just being there.”

“And do you?”

“Well, yeah. But it’s easier that way and leaves me time to—” Cole cut off the words and let out a curse. How could he have missed the obvious answer?

“What?”

“It leaves me time to work. To put into the company. Instead of her.”

Joe tapped Cole on the head. “Ding, ding, ding. I think he finally got it.”

“What’s wrong with being successful, though? Isn’t that the American dream?”

“Hell, yes, it is. But what’s the good of all that success if you end up a sad old man sitting in a dark room, all alone at the end of your life?”

Cole chuckled. “Gee, thanks for the bright picture of my future.” He said the words like a joke, but even he could see it ending up that way. He’d invest all his energy in the company, and then end up alone, because he’d forgotten to save some of that energy for the people in his life.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Joe asked.

“Get back to work,” Cole said, getting to his feet and leaving the beer on the stoop. “That’s the only answer I know.”

He picked up the ax and went back to chopping wood. As the metal blade hit log after log, slivering them into fireplace-sized chunks, Cole told himself he was making progress, when he knew damned well he wasn’t doing much more than staying in place.

* * *

“You can do this,” Emily muttered to herself and faced the daunting task assembled before her on the kitchen counter. Carol had gone into town for the day, off on a hair and manicure day arranged by Emily, who’d figured the stressed inn owner could use a little R & R. Martin Johnson, who’d been around the inn often to help Cole with some of the repair projects, had asked Carol if she might want to meet for lunch. Carol had fretted for an hour over her outfit for the day, changing three times before she left.

While Carol was gone, Emily promised to make dinner for everyone. She had to learn how to cook sometime. Better to start now and get some kind of kitchen skills under her belt before the baby came, or Emily would be weaning Sweet Pea on General Tso’s chicken and fried rice from Mr Chow.

“Can’t have you eating takeout every day, can I, Sweet Pea?” she said to the tiny bump under her belly. “Okay, let’s figure this out.”

She braced her hands on the counter and read over the recipe again. Seemed simple enough. For someone who knew what they were doing. Outside, she heard the sound of two axes hitting logs over and over as Cole and Joe chopped wood for the fireplace at the inn. At the rate they were going, Carol would be well stocked into next winter.

Joe had come into the kitchen earlier for some lunch, and spent some time catching up with Emily, telling her that Cole had asked him to help out with the repairs. She was glad. Not just because Cole needed the help, but because it was nice to see Cole’s friend, and to hear about his life for the past few years.

Except every time she looked at Cole and Joe together, it was like her wedding day all over again. She was walking down the aisle toward a nervous Cole flanked by a grinning Turner, then backed up by Joe, who’d been smiling through his hangover. Emily remembered the excitement, the rush of joy, the hopes and dreams she’d had that afternoon, when Cole had lifted her veil and kissed her. It had been a simple, small wedding on a limited budget, but perfect.

Thinking about the wedding made her melancholy and nostalgic. Not a good strategy right now, because it muddied the very waters she had come here to clear. So she’d make a chicken potpie and let the task take her mind in a different direction.

She reached for the onion, celery and carrots and placed them on the cutting board, then picked up the chef’s knife. She grabbed the onion first and raised the blade.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

She looked up to find Cole standing in the back door. Damn. How did the man always manage to look so handsome? He had on a thick dark green sweatshirt, dark jeans and new work boots. His hair was getting a little long, she noticed, but it only added to his sex appeal. “Do what?”

“Cut the onion first. Leave that for last. That way, you aren’t crying over your carrots. Or—” he took a step inside “—you could wait for me to wash up and I can help you.”

“You? Help me. Cook.” She scoffed. “Right. What have you ever cooked?”

“I’ll have you know reheating takeout takes real skill.” He grinned, then crossed to the sink, pushed up his sleeves and scrubbed his hands. When he was done, he grabbed a second cutting board and knife and set them up across from Emily. “Two terrible cooks in the kitchen has to be better than one, don’t you think?”

She laughed. “It could be double the disaster.”

Cole leaned over the bar and lowered his voice. “Then blame it all on me and call for pizza.”

The temptation to have him here, in the close quarters of the kitchen, rolled over her. Every nerve in her body was tuned to his presence, even when he was outside working. She’d glanced out the window a hundred times already this morning, catching quick glimpses of him replacing some of the siding. He surely had a long list of outdoor activities to complete, yet he wanted to be here, to help her make a chicken potpie. Nothing else. Right?

“Deal.” She turned the cookbook toward him. “We’re making chicken potpie.”

Cole skimmed the directions. “I’m good with the chicken and vegetables part, but I have to admit, the words roux and piecrust have me terrified. What the hell is a roux?”

She laughed. “I have no idea.”

Cole read over the directions again. “Sure you don’t want to just call for pizza?”

“Cole Watson, you’re not giving up already, are you?”

“Me? Never.”

“Me, either.” She turned the book back toward herself. “Besides, I need to learn how to do this.”

“Why? Why now?”

“Because it’s about darn time I learned how to cook,” she said, instead of the truth—that she had this dream of baking cookies with her child. Of being in the kitchen with Sweet Pea on a stool, helping to measure and stir. Building a family life of just two. She’d wanted that for so long—

Then why did the thought suddenly sadden her?

Outside, she could hear the sound of Joe chopping wood. She gestured toward the door. “If you want to help Joe, I can handle this.”

Cole arched a brow.

“I can figure it out. And if I don’t, I’ll blame you and call for pizza.” She grinned, half hoping he’d leave, half hoping he’d stay.

“I’d rather stay and help you. I should learn to cook, too, since I’m living on my own now.”

She didn’t remind him that he could afford a team of chefs to make him food around the clock.

“After all,” Cole said, leaning in toward her again, “didn’t you say you always wanted me to help you instead of hiring someone to do the work? Let me help you, Emily.”

She considered him for a moment. What would it hurt? Maybe together they could puzzle through this whole roux and piecrust thing. He had a point. She couldn’t say no when he was offering the very thing she’d asked him for.

“Okay, then, you have onion duty.” She plopped the offending vegetable onto Cole’s cutting board.

“You just want to see me cry.”

“No, but it is definitely a bonus.” She took the celery, trimmed off the ends and began to cut it into little green crescent shapes. Across from her, Cole had peeled the onion and sliced it down the middle. He made slow, neat, precise slices in the vegetable, so exact it was as if he’d measured them.

Cole stopped cutting and looked up at her. “What?”

“You’re treating that onion like it’s a prototype or a stock report. It won’t break if you chop it fast, Cole. We only have so long to get dinner on the table.”

“I like things neat,” he said.

“Neat? That’s an understatement. You should have been an accountant, Cole, with all those straight lines. Though, there were a couple times you didn’t mind a mess. One in particular I remember.” The last few words came out as a whisper. “Remember the closet in our first apartment?”

“That wasn’t a closet—it was an overgrown shoe box. It was impossible to keep neat.” He stopped slicing and looked up at her, and a knowing smile curved across his face. The kind of smile that came with a shared history, a decade of memories. It was a nice, comfortable place to be.

“The ties,” Cole said. “You’re talking about the ties.”

Oh, how she would miss this when her marriage was dissolved. All the memories they held together would be divided, like the furniture and the dishes and the books on the shelves. She’d be starting over with someone else. A blank slate, with no inside jokes about food fights and messy closets.

Emily craved those memories right now, craved the closeness they inspired. Just a little more, she told herself, and then she’d be ready to let go. “Remember that day you couldn’t find the red one with the white stripes?”

He nodded. “The one you gave me for our first Christmas. I said it was my lucky tie and I wanted to wear it on my first sales call.”

Their gazes met, the connection knitting tighter. She smiled. “You were so mad, because you like everything all ordered, and this was out of order. So I tore the closet apart looking for it, and because I was frustrated and in a hurry, I just threw all the ties in a pile on the floor. You came in and found me—”

“And at first I was upset at the mess, but then you held up the tie—”

“And I told you that if you made a mess once in a while, maybe you wouldn’t be so uptight.”

They laughed, the merry sound ringing in the bright and cheery kitchen. “But you forget the best part,” Cole said, moving a little closer, his voice darkening with desire. “How we ended up making love on that floor, on top of the ties, and having a hell of a good time.”

“In the middle of a mess.”

It had been a wild, uninhibited moment. They’d had so few of those. Too few.

Cole caught a strand of her hair in his fingers and let the slippery tress slide away. “Why didn’t I do that more often, Emily?”

She ached to lean into his touch, to turn her lips to his palm, to kiss the hand she knew so well. “I don’t know, Cole, I really don’t.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then a mischievous light appeared in his eyes and his hand dropped away. He shifted his attention to the onion again, and this time did a frantic chopping, sending pieces here and there, mincing it into a variety of tiny cubes. “There. Done. And messy as hell.”

She laughed. “I think the pie will be all the better for it.”

“Oh, yeah? Wait till we make the crust. You might not feel that way with flour in your hair.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He eyed the five-pound bag of all-purpose flour on the counter. “Oh, I would. And I will. I never did get you back for throwing my ties on the floor.” Cole came around to the other side of the bar, scooping up a bit of flour in his hand. “Are you sorry about that?” he asked.

There was a charge in the air, fueled by the innuendos and heat between them. It was delicious and sweet and she hoped the feeling stayed. “Not one bit.”

Cole held his hand over her head. “You want to rethink your position, Mrs. Watson?”

She hadn’t been called that in months, and the name jarred her for a second. She remembered when Cole had first proposed and she had written Mrs. Cole Watson a hundred times, until the proposal felt real and she could believe she was really going to marry the man of her dreams. Soon, she wouldn’t be Mrs. Watson anymore. Or a missus at all.

“I’m sorry, Cole,” she said softly.

He dropped his hand and met her gaze. “They were just ties, Emily. I didn’t really care.”

“I know,” she said. She was trying to hold on to the moment, but knew it was a butterfly, fleeting, impossible to catch. Eventually, Cole would go back to work, and she’d be on her own again. A single mom. Better to end it now than to prolong the inevitable. Emily returned to the vegetables. “Let’s, uh, get this pie made before Carol comes home.”

If he sensed the change in her, he didn’t say anything. He helped her finish chopping the vegetables and cooked chicken, then lifted the heavy food processor onto the counter and helped her assemble the ingredients for the piecrust. “Okay. Here goes nothing,” Cole said, pushing the pulse button. Several pulses later, the flour and butter and ice water had coalesced into a crust. “Voilà!” Cole said, lifting off the plastic lid. “Piecrust.”

“I am impressed,” she said. “What are you doing for your next trick, Superman?”

He grinned. “That you will have to wait to see, Mrs. Watson.”

She shook her head and dipped her gaze before he saw the tears that had rushed to her eyes. “Don’t call me that, Cole. Please.”

“Emily, Emily,” he said, tipping her chin until she was looking at him. “We cleaned up the mess with the ties. Why do you have such little faith that we can clean up the mess with our marriage?”