Chapter 10
ten
DANIEL COULDN’T FIND anything wildly amiss with his aunt’s recordkeeping. He also couldn’t shake the feeling that she was trying to dig into his personal life.
The latter made confirming the former a little bit harder because every time he opened his laptop to finish reviewing the last ledgers, Aretha showed up with a plate of sugar cookies, a knowing wink, and prying questions. That morning, he hadn’t been successful in dodging them.
“What do you think of Ruby?” Aretha asked after the three of them finished their pancake breakfast. Ruby had excused herself to make some phone calls, leaving Daniel to face his aunt’s interrogation.
He shrugged. “I think she works for a company with questionable ethics. I’m not sure that’s a high recommendation.”
Aretha frowned for a moment, then waved off his concern. “You said she’s working to resolve that issue.”
Yes, for the sake of keeping the store’s reputation intact and making the acquisition. Not necessarily because it was the decent thing to do. Everything R&R did was in their best interest—to benefit their bottom line.
He didn’t blame them. Exactly. Businesses had to make a profit. And conglomerates didn’t grow by being laissez-faire with their plans.
“I like her. She’s smart.” Aretha waited a beat. When he didn’t respond, she poked one of his arms, which were crossed on the table before him. “Don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.” They’d compared résumés early on, and hers was definitely impressive. Top of her business school class, top-tier internships, and a rapid rise up the corporate ladder.
“And pretty too.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I wish I had hair like that. So smooth and silky.”
He was tempted to roll his eyes again and quickly said, “I prefer curly hair.”
Aretha’s thin cheeks turned pink, and she patted her short hair with both hands. “Yeah?”
Her gray curls hadn’t been the ones to jump to mind, but he couldn’t contradict the compliment. “Jack was no fool to snatch you up.”
“Oh, you do tell tales.” She may have denied it, but she giggled like a schoolgirl anyway. “Speaking of, I’m supposed to meet him at the store. Will you and”—her gaze darted toward the stairs—“Ruby be by later? Maybe after lunch.” An arched eyebrow suggested that he could take Ruby out for said meal.
His aunt wasn’t nearly as subtle as she thought she was. If he could pick up on her insinuation, then anyone could. Unless he had misunderstood, which wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Maybe Aretha just wanted to make sure the deal went through.
With a noncommittal shrug, he said, “We’ll stop by. I have some emails to review for work first.”
“Oh, that. You haven’t officially started yet,” Aretha said as she strolled toward the front door. “You should enjoy your vacation.”
Vacation. Right. Was that what this was? Funny. He was working awfully hard for a vacation.
An image of Whitney’s face glowing in the Christmas lights the night before flashed through his mind’s eye, and his face pinched in a way it hadn’t for a while. A tightness filled his cheeks as he stretched long-dormant muscles.
Her joy had been contagious, and she shone brighter even than Mr. Huntington’s lights. When she saw the nativity scene, she’d gasped a little breath. He wasn’t sure she even knew she’d done it. But it snapped something in his chest that had been mostly shut down for years, setting it alight.
He hadn’t felt anything good about Christmas in years. There had been seething anger at first, but that had been mostly directed at Lauren. It had slowly faded to distaste. Then apathy had set in. Pretty much denial of the holiday in general. There were enough people groups in Toronto that didn’t celebrate Christmas that he had always been able to find an open restaurant for takeout the day of.
He wasn’t denying the birth of Jesus or what that meant. He just wasn’t going to celebrate it on some arbitrary day in December that had literally nothing to do with the actual birth of the Savior.
Except last night had been different. He’d felt something . It wasn’t sweet like fudge, but it was warm. Like hot cocoa in the evening chill, sliding down his throat and warming him from the inside out. That feeling certainly wasn’t anything as overt as joy. But seeing the awe in the faces of those kids—Whitney’s too—made his breath hitch.
Whatever he’d felt had been something like wonder .
The moment he identified it, it swelled around his heart again, easing through him, soft and smooth.
Daniel wasn’t naive enough to think it would stick around, but for now he didn’t mind experiencing why the card companies called this the most wonderful time of the year. And if he was fully honest, that meant he was enjoying his time on the island more than a little bit.
When he was officially on the clock for All Terrain, he would work most evenings. A few Saturdays. Probably Sundays too. That was what the executives at the small chain did. He had known that before accepting the position. It was worth it to enter the C-suite.
But maybe Aretha was right. He should enjoy his time while he could.
He would work for just a couple hours that morning. He could make the most of it by working in the corner of the dining room and avoiding further interruption. Out of the direct line of sight from the front door in case Aretha returned. Just close enough to the kitchen to hear Whitney’s steady singing—all familiar Christmas carols. She didn’t have a powerhouse voice or anything. It was soft and low, and filled with that same warmth he’d seen on her face the night before.
He had a feeling if she knew he could hear her, she’d put an immediate stop to her impromptu concert. So he set to work as quietly as he could.
Laptop open, he tried to answer a few general questions. All Terrain’s communications director wanted a quote for the press release announcing his hire.
I’m pleased to join the team.
That sounded like he couldn’t come up with anything more original.
He’d come back to that request.
The CEO wanted him to join a call with the shareholders this week. Sure.
He needed to review the next fiscal budget and suggest some cuts to make the stores more profitable.
Ah. He settled into his chair, sliding down into a posture that would get him in trouble with his mom. Earning an MBA and turning twenty-nine did not pardon him from his mother’s scolding. But she wasn’t here. And a quick check around the room revealed that Aretha hadn’t come back either.
An hour later, he’d come up with at least three changes that would almost certainly increase profitability. He was busy typing up his notes when the carol he’d been humming along to from the kitchen suddenly stopped.
“Aaaaahhh! No!”
He snapped his head toward the kitchen door, his neck stiff as he waited for a crash. The silence was worse. He slammed his laptop closed and launched himself toward the kitchen door, setting off the bell as he swung through it to find Whitney still as stone. In fact, she looked a lot like a statue, her hand held before her and her eyes locked on oddly glistening fingertips. Corkscrew curls at her temples had escaped the haphazard ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her wide eyes eclipsed the rest of her face.
“Whitney?” She didn’t respond, so he leaned forward, taking cautious steps across the kitchen. “Are you all right?”
He made it three more steps in her direction before she seemed to realize she wasn’t alone. She blinked and whipped her hand behind her back. “Daniel. I’m sorry if I bothered you.”
He glanced toward the dining room where he’d left his work and shook his head quickly. “Not at all. What’s going on? Did you cut yourself?”
“No.” She shook her head once. Firmly.
He pursed his lips to the side, and she could probably tell that he didn’t believe her.
Slowly she brought her hand from behind her back. No evidence of blood, but the fist she made was awkward at best. Her fingers were coated in something shiny that looked plenty sticky. She pinched her first two fingers to her thumb over and over.
“What is that?” he asked when it was clear she wasn’t going to say more.
Ducking her chin, she mumbled under her breath.
“What?” He leaned in again.
“Butter. Okay? It’s butter.”
He scanned the counters for any indication of how it had ended up all over her hand, but they were perfectly clean, save two rows of pies cooling on racks and space for more that were presumably in the oven.
Suddenly the timer on the oven chirped.
Her eyes grew large, but he was already sliding his hands into the oven mitts sitting on the island. “You wash your hands. I’ll get the pies.”
When he opened the bottom oven door, his glasses immediately fogged over, leaving him enveloped in the scent of heaven. He couldn’t imagine anything smelling better than the desserts. Brown sugar, cinnamon, and a slew of spices as familiar as home.
When his glasses finally cleared enough for him to see, he pulled four pies from the bottom oven and four more from the top. Each as golden as Whitney’s hair and enough to make a man’s mouth water.
But Whitney looked decidedly less pleased with her efforts. She frowned at each pie in turn, slamming her hands against her hips in frustration. When she pressed against her right side, the pocket of her sweatshirt let out a distinct hiss.
Rolling her eyes, Whitney grumbled something under her breath that sounded like, “Stupid pie.”
He’d never seen her in a foul mood. Honestly, that was his schtick, and he wasn’t ready to pass the baton.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“No.” She puffed a few curls out of her face and sighed. “Not really. But fine.” She gestured to the pies, then to the right pocket of her red sweatshirt. The color made her cheeks and nose look even more pink, and he had to fight a tick at the corner of his mouth. She sure was cute.
Blotting her forehead with the back of her hand, she melted into the edge of the island. “I forgot to set out my butter this morning. It needs time to soften before I use it. But it was kind of chilly in here, so I...” Her face broke, and she let out an adorable snort. “I put it in my pocket to warm it quicker. And I forgot all about it.”
“Until you put your hand in your pocket.”
“Yes.” Her scowl didn’t carry much weight as it fell apart under her laugh. “That was hours ago, and it’s a melted mess in my pocket now.”
His lips twitched. He couldn’t help it. They stretched into a full smile that made his shoulders jerk with humor. Whitney’s eyes flashed with a joy that matched the bubbling in his chest.
“What are you going to do with your pocket butter?”
“Pocket butter?”
“You got a better name for it?”
She laughed. “How about no name. The butter in my pocket gets no name. Zero recognition. It will never be mentioned again.”
“Ah, that doesn’t seem fair.”
“To whom?” She dipped her chin and glared playfully up at him.
“To me.”
Shaking her head, she turned back to the row of pies, steam still rising from their tops. “What am I going to do with these pies?”
“So pocket butter was supposed to go in the pies?”
She shot a hard look in his direction. “The butter that may or may not have met its demise in my pocket was indeed supposed to be used for the crusts. But when I forgot I had gotten it out, I started over on the recipes. And I may have added ingredients to a bowl that was already partially full. Jack asked me to go over his lines for the pageant with him this morning, so I did. And ... I think I lost track. I honestly don’t even know if they have bottom crusts.”
Daniel shrugged. “Sell them as a low-carb option.”
“What if they taste like feet ?”
A laugh burst out of him.
Whitney whipped in his direction, eyes wide and unblinking. “I didn’t think you knew how to laugh.”
That didn’t deserve a response. Of course he knew how. He just chose not to most of the time. He couldn’t help it if Whitney’s laugh was contagious. She was the one being ridiculous.
“So, what are you going to do with the pies?”
Covering her face with her hands, she looked up between slender fingers. “I don’t suppose you might be willing...”
“Say less.” He held out his hand, and she immediately pulled a fork from the nearby drawer. He wasted no time cutting a small square from the edge of the pie nearest the sink.
“Blow on it. It’s hot.”
He lifted one eyebrow at her, and her cheeks turned even more pink.
“Sorry. Too much time with the kids.”
He nodded his concession to her apology and did indeed blow on it. His breath made the spirals of steam dance over the row of treats, releasing even more of that heavenly scent. Inhaling once more, he took a careful bite, schooling his features to remain placid even as his tongue savored an explosion of flavor.
It was sweet and textured. Layers of spice only enhanced the naturally sweet apple slices. He wasn’t a culinary critic—not by a long shot—but this was divine. Better than it smelled, even.
He couldn’t hold back a groan.
“That bad?” she whispered, twisting a dish towel to within a breath of its life.
After swallowing, he paused. Then slowly he said, “Well, it doesn’t taste like feet.”
She snapped her towel playfully in his direction. “Daniel!”
He chuckled. “It doesn’t need pocket butter. Or anything else, for that matter. It’s perfect.”
Whitney snatched the fork out of his hand, and he didn’t know if he was more surprised that she’d taken it or offended that she’d stolen his opportunity for more of the pie. He hadn’t shared silverware since ... ever. But she didn’t give him a chance to change her mind. She dug in and failed to cool her bite before shoving it into her mouth.
“Ah!” She let out a burst of steam, huffing and puffing to cool her tongue.
“Should have blown on it first.”
She swatted him with the towel again while waving her other hand over her tongue. “Burned my taste buds,” she squeaked.
“More for me, I guess.” He stole the fork back and scooped up another bite, exaggerating the motion as he blew to cool it. “So good,” he said around the bite.
“Jerk,” she mumbled, but her smile didn’t fade. “I’m not sure I should trust you, though.”
“Maybe I should have lied so there’s more for me.”
Her eyebrows formed an uncertain V . “Just to be safe, I better ask Aretha when she gets back.”
He shook his head as he shoveled in more pie. “She’s at the store with Jack all afternoon. I’m supposed to meet up with her—me and Ruby are—later today.”
The joy that had been so infectious only moments before slowly leaked out of Whitney. The spark in her eyes disappeared, her smile dimming a fraction. She tried to paste it back in place, but he wasn’t fooled.
He’d said or done something wrong—though he wasn’t sure what. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge. “Um...”
“You should definitely find Ruby. Maybe bring her a slice of pie so I can get a candid opinion.”
Before he could figure out what to say or how to fix his mistake—whatever it had been—Whitney slid over one of the pies that had been on the counter when he entered, sliced it, and served a piece of it.
“Ruby gets a different pie?”
Whitney nodded. “Ruby gets a piece of cooled pie that won’t fall apart on the plate and look like a complete mess.” She held the white plate out to him with one hand and steered him toward the door with the other. “Go on. Take it to her.”