The Christmas Cookie Collection Page 4

  Carrie felt him slipping away. She scrambled, actively grabbing for the toppling effigy. Making noise. Drawing attention. Crap! Santa bucked backward. Wrenches flew into the air, clattering to the ground around her.

  Iris Tobin yelled at her. “Who are you? Get out of here immediately. This is a closed shoot.”

  “Um . . . I . . .” Chagrined, Carrie dropped to her knees and started picking up the scattered wrenches, unable to look at anyone. Way to go, MacGregor.

  “Stop that. Leave the mess. Get out. Who left the back door unlocked?” Iris Tobin snapped. “Ladonna, you were supposed to make sure the back door was locked. We can’t have gawkers stumbling around and ruining our shoot.”

  “Mellow out, Iris,” Mark said, a sharp edge in his voice. “You’re acting like a bitch.”

  The director glared, nostrils flaring and she clapped her hands. “Olig!” She motioned for the bodyguard. “Escort this person out.”

  Carrie stood, preparing to run before the hulking bodyguard could get to her, cheeks blazing a hundred and twenty degrees worth of shame. Why, oh why hadn’t she stayed put in the Yarn Barn?

  Mark stepped between Carrie and Iris. “She stays,” he said, his tone low and dangerous. “This is Flynn’s sister, Carrie. She owns the yarn store next door.”

  “What? Are we inviting in everyone’s family now?” Iris groused. “Should I call my mother? Send her a plane ticket?”

  Mark ignored her sarcasm.

  “I’m going,” Carrie said. “I shouldn’t have been here.”

  “Well what do you know?” Iris said. “We agree on something.”

  Mark reached out, took her hand. Carrie was aware that everyone was watching them. Could they see how his touch unraveled her? Did it show on her face that her stomach was in tumult and her heart, oh her stupid heart, was melting?

  “You belong here,” he said firmly and threw Iris a don’t-­make-­an-­issue-­of-­this glare. Still holding onto Carrie’s hand, he took her behind the counter, retrieved a stool and carried it to one side of the cameras. “You can sit here.”

  This was a bad idea. She wished she could slink off, but now that he’d made a big deal of it she had to stay. She perched on the stool. Mark gave her shoulder a squeeze, then moved back to take his place in front of the camera. Jesse smiled at her. Flynn gave her a little wave.

  Unhappy Iris Tobin folded her arms over her chest. “Places everyone. Let’s start again from the top.”

  The crew zipped about, doing their jobs.

  Across the room Mark’s eyes met her gaze. No, not just met hers. His gaze devoured her. When he gave her a conspiratorial wink, all the air rushed from her lungs and caused her nipples to bead. What was he doing? Was he trying to rattle her? And why was her shoulder still tingling from where he’d touched it?

  Unable to fight back against his long, lingering stare, she clenched her eyes closed, hauled in a deep slow breath as a stunning realization smacked her.

  Dammit. No matter how much she wished it was not true, she was still crazy about the man.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “This is no good,” Iris said on the day before Thanksgiving as she and Mark sat in his suite at The Merry Cherub reviewing the footage they’d shot so far. Delicious smells from the kitchen of the B&B drifted upstairs—­apples, cinnamon, cornbread, pumpkin, nutmeg.

  The rest of the crew had left, taking the bus back to DFW Airport to catch flights home for the holiday. They would all be back by Monday to continue shooting the “Romance of First Love” episode.

  Iris stubbed out her cigarette in a china saucer that Jenny had brought on a tray with tea and cookies to the suite, and got to her feet.

  “What do you mean no good? There are some wonderful stories here. Heartwarming. Touching.” Mark waved away the smoke. “There’s the story of Patsy and Hondo, loving each other since they were teens and finally just now getting married. There’s the story of Sarah and Travis Walker, two polar opposites no one ever thought would end up together. There’s Jesse and Flynn, whose love withstood Jesse’s ten-­year incarceration. There’s Caitlyn Marsh and Gideon Garza. Not even death could keep them apart.”

  “Fluff. Feel-­good pap.” Iris shook her head.

  Personally, he thought the interviews were the best work of his career. He was smooth on camera. His jokes were witty. He’d been prepping for this big break his entire life. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Initially, he’d wanted to be a journalist by day, a novelist by night, but with technology changing the landscape of journalism, his college advisors had quickly steered him toward television and away from print journalism.

  Over the course of the past several days, the crew had gone around town filming the town square, the statue of Jon and Rebekka in a passionate embrace in Sweetheart Park, and the Sweetheart Tree, an ancient oak where lovers had carved their names since the town’s inception.

  All the stories they’d researched were happy ones. High school sweethearts who’d thrown pennies into the fountain and married their first loves. Sure, many of the ­couples, like Jesse and Flynn, had overcome a lot of obstacles on their way back to each other, but the truth was, for all their searching, they hadn’t yet found any high school sweethearts that admitted tossing coins into the fountain who were not happily married to each other.

  Except for you and Carrie.

  And he was determined to keep that a secret from Iris. He’d made Carrie a sworn promise.

  “We aren’t busting anything.” Iris scowled. “We’re confirming this stupid myth. Where’s the controversy? Where’s the conflict? That’s what is going to have viewers tuning in. Conflict. Not happy ­people with smug, sappy smiles on their faces.”

  Irritating as Iris could be, she was right. Ever since his talk with Carrie on the afternoon that he’d arrived, Mark had been tiptoeing around any whiff of controversy. He actively sought out ­couples that epitomized the legend. He wanted to spare Carrie any embarrassment or pain.

  Come on. Be honest. It’s not just about Carrie. You don’t want anyone finding out about your annulled marriage because you don’t want to look like a failure.

  Okay, maybe not. But it wasn’t because he was ashamed of her. Rather, he was ashamed of himself and the way he’d treated her. He was able to hide his guilt in L.A. Forget about what he’d done. But now that he was back in Twilight, remorse pole-­axed him every time he saw her.

  And she seemed to be everywhere. Eating lunch at The Funny Farm restaurant on the square at the same time he and the crew had walked in. Sauntering past The Merry Cherub twice a day on her way to and from work. Spying on them at the shoot in Jesse Calloway’s motorcycle shop. He smiled. Damn, but she’d looked so cute, knocking over wrenches and pissing off Iris.

  He glanced at his watch. She should be coming by right about now. He moved to the French doors.

  “It’s too soft, too pretty, too perfect.” Iris followed him out onto the balcony. “We need to find those high school sweethearts who hate each other’s guts. The ones who’ve gotten divorced. The ones who threw pennies into the fountain and found only busted dreams. They’re here. You know they have to be here. We’ve gotta start kicking over rocks. It’s clear the citizens have circled the wagons and are feeding us pablum. But you’re an ace reporter. It’s the main reason Burt hired you for this gig. Well, that and the damned dimples.”

  Right on schedule, here came Carrie heading down the street. Today she wore one of those round skirts that whirled and twirled as she walked. Red plaid, that skirt. Black tights. Black ankle boots, a perfectly crafted white cable knit sweater molded over glorious breasts. Mark knew first-­hand just how glorious. She looked the epitome of autumn.

  Mark took a deep breath. Imagined he could smell her sweet perfume. Carrie. No other woman had ever smelled like her.

  “There’s got to be at least one ­couple who did not live happily ev
er after,” Iris harped.

  Yeah, he thought, and they’re closer than you think.

  Iris tilted her head. “What about you, Leland? You grew up in this town. What ever happened to your high school sweetheart?”

  “Didn’t have one,” he fibbed.

  “You expect me to believe that? You of the lady-­killing smile.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t have girlfriends. Just no one special.” The lie was acid on his tongue, but he couldn’t tell the truth. He had to protect Carrie.

  His secret was so transparent. Everyone who’d lived in Twilight eight years ago knew the story of what had happened between him and Carrie. Their impulsive Vegas marriage had made the front page of the lifestyle section of the Twilight paper, just as their subsequent annulment had. Small towns thrived on gossip, and sooner or later Iris was bound to find out about him and Carrie. In fact, he was mildly surprised it hadn’t already come to light.

  Then he realized the town had a vested interest in keeping their myths alive. Of course they would stay mum on the topic of his history with Carrie. And if their relationship was found out, Carrie could always deny that she’d ever thrown a penny into the fountain. No penny thrown, no myth set in motion.

  He watched Carrie stroll closer, her steps springy and self-­confident. She was almost underneath the balcony now. He held his breath. Willed her to look up.

  She just kept on walking.

  “I’m sending out a mole,” Iris said. “Someone to hang out at the local hot spots, put their ear to the ground for gossip.”

  “Hey, maybe the myth is true.” He shrugged. “It could be a self-­fulfilling prophecy. These ­couples go into marriage with their high school sweethearts thinking that they are with their soul mates and it will last forever, and so it does. It’s kind of sweet when you think about it.”

  Iris made a face and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Don’t be a dolt. The myth is total bullshit. All romantic stories are bullshit.”

  “Burned by love, huh?” he observed wryly.

  “Everyone has been burned by love,” Iris declared. “In one way or another. Every single human being on the face of the earth.”

  Angry much? Mark raised his palms. “Gotcha.”

  He leaned over the edge of the balcony, watching Carrie walk away. Her auburn hair tumbled provocatively down her shoulders. And the way those hips swayed. My. My. Those hips could have been exclusively yours, but you threw them away. Yes, yes. Stupid in hindsight.

  Carrie turned the corner, disappeared from view. Bye-­bye, Beautiful.

  “You used to live in this town.” Iris narrowed her eyes. “You should be the mole.”

  “They don’t trust me. I’m the enemy, remember.”

  “It may take you a little time to win them over, but you’ve got the looks and the charm. Someone is bound to blab.”

  “Why can’t we just roll with the idea that the myth is true? In all the other Fact or Fantasy episodes, we’ve proven every one of the legends were fantasies. Why not have one episode where fact wins?”

  “Because the sweetheart legend is not a fact! Besides, I don’t want to perpetuate this crap. Somewhere in this town the love of someone’s life has broken their heart and you’re going to find them.” Iris shook a bony finger at him.

  “Okay, boss.”

  “So go.” She flapped a hand at him.

  “Go where?”

  “Go out and find the lovelorn. I suggest you try the local bar.”

  “Now?”

  “Can you think of a better time? We only have two weeks left and we’re losing four days of filming because of Thanksgiving.”

  “Are you flying home for the holiday?” Mark asked.

  “What for?”

  “Celebration, family, that sort of thing.”

  Iris snorted. “I have no time for that stuff. It’s maudlin and mawkish.”

  “You don’t have to act tough all the time.”

  “Look who’s talking? Why aren’t you going to have Thanksgiving with your family?”

  “My parents are on a cruise for their thirty-­fifth wedding anniversary.”

  “Lucky you. Now go. Head to the local bar. Do your job and when you get back, I want this sweetheart myth busted wide open.”

  Carrie wasn’t much of a drinker. Because of her father’s history with alcohol, she tended to stay away from the stuff, but she’d had a stressful week with Mark in town, plus she and her father were hosting Thanksgiving dinner the next day and she needed to decompress before gearing up for the celebration.

  She climbed on a stool at the Horny Toad Tavern, hooked her boot heels over the top rungs and ordered a beer. The jukebox was playing “Blue Christmas,” perfectly suiting her gloomy mood. Go Elvis. Raylene was behind the bar looking as glum as Carrie felt.

  “What’ll you have, honey?”

  “Beer will do.”

  “Any particular kind?”

  “Whatever is on tap.”

  Raylene poured up a mug, slid it over to Carrie, and then trailed off to wait on other customers.

  Carrie sucked foam off the beer, and a pleasant burning sensation tickled her nose. She swiveled around to survey the crowded room. On the dance floor, ­couples were boot-­scooting, dancing cheek-­to-­cheek. A cluster of mistletoe dangled from the strobe light over the dance floor. Every now and then some of the ­couples bussed lips.

  Bah-­humbug.

  This town was too damn romantic for its own good. The ornery Grinch in her wanted to see the legend busted, but she was a Twilightite to the core. She couldn’t disrespect her home.

  It occurred to her that she would be the only single person at the Thanksgiving dinner table. Her brothers, Noah and Joel, were bringing their girlfriends home from college. Flynn had Jesse, and even her dad was dating again. Barbara Duffy, the public librarian.

  That was okay. No problem. She didn’t need a date. Didn’t want one, really.

  It occurred to her then that she hadn’t had a serious relationship since Mark. Oh, she’d had boyfriends. Plenty of them, in fact. But not a single one she considered a keeper. Why not? Did she purposely pick inappropriate guys because she was secretly holding out hope that there was some truth to the legend of Jon and Rebekka? Some dumb indoctrinated belief that pennies flung into a fountain could somehow reshape the future?

  Mark is back in town.

  No. Stop. Don’t even toy with that dangerous idea.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  She didn’t have to look over to see who had just spoken to her in that bone-­vibrating bass. She’d recognize it anywhere. Her hand tightened around the beer mug, and deep inside something foolish was happening to her body—­a fine quivering, a smooth warmth, a delicious strum of energy. Carrie wasn’t even going to acknowledge that she was turned on. No way. Mark Leland did not hold that kind of power over her.

  “Yep,” she said, not glancing his way as she took another draw from her beer.

  He acted as if she’d said, “Yep, have a seat.”

  She wouldn’t glance over because even as he pulled out the neighboring bar stool and sat down, she was fighting a highly stupid urge to grab him by the arm, drag him onto the dance floor underneath the mistletoe, and kiss him until she forgot that eight years and the distance from L.A. to Twilight stretched between them.

  Dammit! She thought she’d beaten this attraction. Snuffed it out. Stamped it down. Gotten rid of any pesky desire she’d once felt for him. Apparently, she had not. Finally, unable to stand it, she darted a quick glance his way.

  Big mistake.

  He’d shed the high-­dollar suit and shoes and instead wore faded jeans, a western shirt, and cowboy boots. There, in the shadows from the neon bar lights, he could have been nineteen again. He possessed deep brown eyes a girl could bathe in. Dimples that her index
finger ached to caress. He was long and lanky and sexy as sin.

  Stay strong.

  There was no backtracking. No repeating the past. What was done was done. Hmm, how many more tired adages could she drag out to convince herself that it was well and truly O.V.E.R. between them?

  Raylene came over. “What’ll you have, Mark?”

  “Beer will do.”

  “Slummin’, huh?” Carrie couldn’t resist the dig. “Beer is quite a comedown from Dom Perignon.”

  Another guy might have taken offense, considered that putting up with her barbed tongue wasn’t worth the effort, but Mark just laughed. “Actually, Dom Perignon is way overrated.”

  “Aha, so you have drunk Dom.”

  “I have,” he said mildly.

  “You know what, I’m happy for you,” she said, finding that she meant it. “You got everything you ever wanted.”

  “Not everything.” His voice deepened.

  Carrie darted a glance his way, saw dark emotion in his eyes. Was it regret?

  “I wouldn’t blame you for hating me forever,” Mark said.

  “I don’t hate you.” She splayed both palms against the smooth wood of the bar. I still love you, you clueless nimrod.

  But there was no way in hell she would ever tell him that. She’d only quietly admitted it to herself right that very moment. She would always love him in a way, she supposed. Her first love. Her high school sweetheart. But so what? There were ninety thousand reasons they could never be together. She’d just have to live with the hole in her heart until one day when she found a new love who had the power to wipe Mark Leland from her memory.

  At that moment, the music shifted on the jukebox, going from Christmas melodies to The Rolling Stones playing “Memory Motel.” Okay, what joker put that song on?

  “That means a lot to me,” he murmured. Then he moved his hand ever so slightly and lightly touched her right thumb with the pinkie finger of his left hand.