CHAPTER THREE
Glen
Fired. I trudge back through the snowy airport parking lot and slink into my truck. It’s freezing inside, and puffs of white clouds form from my mouth. I text Casey that Garland Contracting’s services are no longer needed and promise her that she’ll get paid regardless.
The truck rumbles toward my house, and I sink into my seat as if I can hide from the view of any busybodies.
Snow sweeps over the hilly landscape, dusting even the red sandstone mountains.
Everything sparkles and normally I admire the prettiness, but Mr. Brenner’s words crawl through my body and wrap around my gut.
Why did I have to fall through that glass window? And why did I have to get fired in front of the king?
I can still feel his fingers where he touched my cheek, all gentle-like, when he removed the mistletoe.
He was handsome too. More attractive than I had any business noticing.
If I didn’t know better, I would have thought there was something between us. I shouldn’t confuse concern with interest, pity for passion.
Mr. Brenner yelled at me in front of the king. The king’s pretty blue-green eyes had gone wide and worried, and I wanted to tell him I would be okay, that I’d manage.
Didn’t think I was the type to go off-kilter over royals from some foreign country but reckon I was wrong. The king’s cute, upturned nose and pretty eyes fill my mind as make the drive home.
Not that the large white farmhouse feels like home anymore.
I park my truck in the driveway, then enter. The large wide painted floorboards, shabby chic furniture draped with soft fabrics, and windows overlooking the large yard and views of Nevada mountains were once my dream.
Now it’s the place where the policemen came to break the news to me that Dean had passed, the place where I had to tell Max that his Papa had been called up to heaven.
I thought Dean and I would have decades.
I do my best, of course. I hang up garlands and lights and make snowmen in the yard like they’re eviscerating every terrible memory.
I try to make Max happy, and I’m mostly successful. But then, Max is good at being cheerful.
Dean and I found Mistletoe Springs together and moved up from Texas.
We loved the old western-style Main Street with its raised pastel painted houses, high up wooden sidewalks, and shutters for doors that made entering any store fun.
He was gonna be the town doctor, and I was gonna be a stay-at-home dad until Max got older.
Things didn’t work out how we planned.
He was presenting at a medical conference out of state. He wasn’t supposed to get carjacked while he was driving back to the airport. He wasn’t supposed to... My chest tightens, and I gulp water before bile can enter my throat and I relive all the horribleness.
He was supposed to return home.
After Dean passed, I wanted a job where I could be available to take care of Max easily, where I could do school pick-ups and drop-offs. I didn’t want to simply live off Dean’s life insurance.
Contracting work seemed the answer. I always was handy.
Less good with my feet apparently. I definitely failed at staying on a ladder during an airport stampede. Mr. Brenner said I should have prepared for that anyway and reckon he’s right.
I glance at photos of Dean in the kitchen.
“Sorry, babe,” I tell him.
He smiles at me, shiny teeth in place.
“At some point you’re gonna look significantly younger than me,” I say. “You’ll win the good-looking contest.”
He continues to beam.
I snort and shake my head, then text a few of my contacts, letting them know I’m available for work.
I can’t believe I got my team fired from the airport.
I’ll need to pay my team out of my own pocket and find new work for us.
Not an ideal position before Christmas, that’s for sure.
People think about construction projects when the whole world isn’t covered in ice and snow, and now that it is. .. My gut twists.
When the business stuff is sorted, and I’ve officially let my contacts know that my company is available for new projects, I start browsing cookbooks. At least I’ll be able to make Max a fancy meal tonight.
Hopefully. Cooking ain’t my thing.
I flip through the pages. Why has no one bothered to put pictures in these recipes? How am I supposed to know what these various types of food are supposed to look like?
I bake snickerdoodles, and the room fills with the scent of cinnamon and sugar.
Then I prepare meat pie, and the good scent in the room vanishes.
I try to roll the pastry out, but must have made a mistake somewhere, because it don’t stick together.
I press the pastry with my hands, hoping my fingerprints will disappear once it bakes.
Right now, it looks like something a first grader would be embarrassed to have made in art class.
I remove some of the dough and roll it into circles, trying to make cute snowmen, though somehow they look vicious instead.
When the school bus drops Max off outside this house, when he leaps from the steps and waves goodbye to the driver, and everything in my heart eases and feels right, I tell myself that everything is wonderful.
And it is.
And I’m not wondering about what the King of Solberg is making of Mistletoe Springs at all. Not wondering if he’s gazing wide-eyed at them red hills with the same wonder I thought he glanced at me with.
But of course, he’s gazing at them with more wonder. Mistletoe Springs is awfully pretty. Anything between us was because I got the oxygen knocked out of me, and he’d never seen a man with mistletoe on his cheek and sparkling with crushed Christmas ornaments.
I let Max play outside after he gets home from school, then I hang Max’s coat on one of the wooden knobs by the kitchen door and tell Max to start his homework while I put the meat pie into the oven.
When my mind wanders to blue-green eyes and flaxen hair for the umpteenth time, I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but I google the king anyway.
I immediately regret it when I see the king in lots of grand rooms with a pretty blonde woman.
They gaze adoringly at each other. Guess that’s his dead wife.
Apparently, she got sick. Why do people sometimes have to die so early? Ain’t fair.
There’s no sign that the king ain’t anything but straight. I’m being a real fool. If he weren’t straight, he would be dating fancy rich men who don’t get themselves fired in public.
I set my phone down and clean up the kitchen. I hope the food will taste good this time. I should have paid more attention when Dean explained how to cook and not just got lost in his smooth tenor voice and his sparkling green eyes.
“Dinner!” I call from the kitchen, putting on my best cheerful dad voice, the one that tries to sound like everything’s fine even when it’s not.
Patters sound over the floor. Then, Max slides into his seat like a baseball player sliding into home plate.
I try not to wince at the misshapen pastries. Maybe if I act happy about it, he’ll be happy about it.
And I want Max to be happy. Kid’s been through enough.
His eyes immediately narrow. I don’t blame him.
He peers at the food, then grabs his fork and gives it an experimental tap, like he’s some archaeologist examining some object that nobody’s seen in three thousand years.
“Are we having dessert for dinner?”
“Does that sound like me?”
“You seem different.”
I smile guiltily.
I should have handled the situation with Mr. Brenner better. Climbing down the ladder when the stampede started would have been wise, for instance, and embarrassingly, I was as distracted by the king as everyone else.
I wince. I hope he didn’t think I was some fawning fan. Reckon I looked at him too long, wanted to keep talking to him too much. No wonder his security had to pull him away.
“We’re having an English meal,” I tell Max. “From one of your Papa’s cookbooks.”
“Cool.”
I lean closer and whisper conspiratorially. “I made snickerdoodles!”
Max’s eyes widen, and maybe he’s going to ask me just how I’ve had time to do this. Instead, he raises his arms into the air. “Yay!”
I grin at his happy expression.
Max takes his fork, digs into the pastry and the meat beneath, then puts it into his mouth.
I hold my breath.
He scrunches his eyes, then swallows. He smiles at me, but I know him too well to be fooled.
I take a bite of the food. Salt, I should have added salt to the pastry and the meat. Now the meat has too much, and the pastry... well, that tastes just like rubber. Unsalted rubber. I need to chew a lot, and I let out an embarrassed laugh. “Guess your Papa still wins the cooking awards.”
If the food wasn’t cooked, I would take it away. It is cooked, and thankfully not burned... but it don’t taste good, that’s for sure. The pastry is tough, the meat is bland.
“You know, Dad,” Max says. “I don’t think I’m going to be hungry after dinner. I can have dessert at school.”
I sigh. “That bad, huh?”
My gaze swerves to Dean’s smiling picture.
I can do this.
I can be a good father.
“Don’t worry, Dad. This has protein.”
“You know about protein?”
“I know about a lot of things,” Max says, jutting out his chin in the way he sometimes does when I get melancholic. “The more protein I have, the more I’ll grow. That’s what Tyler’s older brother says.”
“Tyler’s older brother is correct.”
Max smiles at me happily.
“How was school?” I ask, just in case Max is going to ask for weights or something and really throw me off-center.
He’s eight, I tell myself.
He’s a child.
“School was boring,” Max declares. “How was work?”
“Not boring.”
The phone pings before I can explain about the king and the firing and all the things he might learn in school tomorrow.
I lurch for my phone, like it might self-destruct like in one of those spy movies if I’m not quick enough.
A text pops up—interview tomorrow.
“I got an interview!” I say, my voice rising, and the lasso around my gut loosens. “One of those Vegas guys wants to renovate Mistletoe Springs Restaurant, and he wants to interview me!”
“Wow!”
“Super wow!” I agree. “I’ll have to steam my suit.”
Max giggles. “You don’t wear suits, Dad.”
“Don’t tell anyone.” I wink. “Gotta be professional.”
I go to google the fancy Vegas builder, and my gaze falls on my past google history of the king. I definitely was being ridiculous. My gaze lingers on the man’s high cheekbones and pink cheeks anyway, and I don’t like the way my chest clenches when I exit out of the tab.