Chapter 25
SYLVIE
“Will you excuse me for a minute?” Kent said. He looked a little pale.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine. I just want to put my coat in my room. Make room for the others.”
It was a lame excuse. I looked around to see what might have upset him. Maybe it was just too many people at once. “Okay. Dinner will be served soon.”
I wandered over to the bar where Emmy was holding court. I could immediately see why she was in such a good mood. The guy she’d mentioned meeting at the coffee shop earlier was standing beside her with the kind of easy smile that suggested he was completely charmed by her animated storytelling.
“Sylvie!” She grabbed my hand and pulled me close. “This is Mitch. Lucy’s brother.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
I could see the writing on the wall. She was warning me about hooking up with Kent, but she was looking at Mitch like she was trying to decide where to lick first. He was exactly Emmy’s type: tall, blond, and built like he could wrestle a grizzly bear and win.
He had that rugged outdoor look that Emmy always went for, though it was rare to find guys like that who could also keep up with her quick wit and boundless energy.
Lucy was there with her husband, Sean. The whole group seemed to be in high spirits as they discussed their holiday plans.
Mitch was telling them about his family’s tradition of deep-sea fishing on Christmas morning down in Florida, while Emmy was regaling him with stories about some of our more eccentric local Christmas traditions.
“Wait, you’re telling me people actually race down Main Street in sleeping bags?” Mitch asked, his eyes wide with delighted disbelief.
“Every year for the past thirty years,” Emmy confirmed. “And people take it very seriously. There’s a trophy and everything.”
I loved seeing Emmy like this—animated and flirtatious, clearly enjoying the attention from someone who appreciated her personality instead of just tolerating it.
Too many guys in our small town had known her since childhood and couldn’t see past the fact that she’d once put gum in Tommy Morrison’s hair during Sunday school.
It was hard to look at guys you considered brothers for most of your life and get excited.
One of the downsides of small-town living.
Our dating pool was pretty slim. It wasn’t like we had any kind of industry that attracted healthy, single, young men.
I was a fly on the wall, half-listening to Mitch and Emmy while keeping an eye on the party itself. I was technically the hostess. I wanted to make sure everyone was having a good time. I spotted Kent. He was holding a glass and talking with one of the locals. He looked comfortable. Relaxed.
And sexy as hell.
My pleasant observations were interrupted when Lucy turned her attention to me with a knowing look.
“So, Sylvie,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “People have been asking questions about your handsome lodge guest all evening. What’s the story with you and Kent?”
I kept my expression neutral. “There’s no story. He’s just staying at the lodge for a few days.”
“Uh-huh,” Sean said, not looking convinced. “And that’s why he’s watching you like a hawk right now? I swear the man has some kind of internal Sylvie radar. Every time you move, his head turns to track you.”
I glanced across the room and caught Kent looking in my direction. When our eyes met, he raised his wine glass slightly in acknowledgment before turning back to his conversation with Brom and a couple of other local business owners.
“You’re all being silly,” I said, but I couldn’t deny that I loved knowing Kent was keeping tabs on me.
There was something thrilling about feeling his attention on me, knowing that even when he was engaged in conversation with other people, part of his focus was always on where I was and what I was doing.
It made me feel noticed in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
It was not something I had ever experienced, if I was being honest.
When dinner was announced, I made my way to the buffet table with everyone else, loading my plate with Stacy’s famous casseroles, fresh rolls, and winter vegetables that had been roasted to perfection.
The spread was impressive for such a small gathering.
Clearly the Northwood family had pulled out all the stops, despite their financial struggles.
I found an empty table near one of the decorated trees and was pleased when Kent appeared with his own plate, settling into the chair across from me without asking if the seat was taken. There was something intimate about the gesture, as if he’d naturally assumed we’d eat together.
“This looks incredible,” he said, surveying his plate. “I think I took too much of everything.”
“That’s the point of a buffet.” I laughed. “Besides, you worked hard yesterday. You’ve earned it.”
He took a bite of Stacy’s green bean casserole and his eyes widened. “Damn, this is good. Does everyone in your family cook like this?”
“Stacy’s the real talent in the kitchen. Like I said, Mom tries, but she gets distracted easily. And I am not great. I really don’t even try. I don’t have the time to learn.”
“You’re the brawn,” he said.
I laughed. “You could say that. I can handle the basic stuff. I can make a mean grilled cheese, and I won’t poison anyone with my spaghetti, but nothing fancy. When you’re working fourteen-hour days during the busy season, cooking becomes more about fuel than flavor. I’m usually eating on the run.”
Kent nodded thoughtfully, cutting into his slice of ham. “I can’t remember the last time I cooked anything myself. We had kitchen staff growing up, and now I mostly eat out or order in.”
“That must be convenient,” I said, though I couldn’t imagine not being able to make my own meals.
“Convenient, sure. But this?” He gestured around the room, taking in the warm atmosphere, the families eating together with the genuine laughter filling the space. “This feels more real somehow. More like what a meal should be.”
There was something wistful in his voice that made me curious. “What were family dinners like when you were growing up?”
“Formal. Quiet. My father believed meals were for eating, not talking.” Kent’s expression grew distant.
“We had a dining room that could seat twenty people, but it was rarely used. All of us had shit to do. Everyone was in sports and clubs. It was rare that we were all at the table at the same time. We usually ate in the living room while watching TV or in our rooms.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was what it was.” He shrugged, but I caught the hint of sadness he was trying to hide.
After dinner, it was time for the dancing portion of the evening.
I found myself on the makeshift dance floor with Alder and Aspen and some of the other children who were still awake.
We were doing some silly group dance that involved a lot of spinning and giggling.
I was having such a good time that I’d almost forgotten about the adult drama happening around the edges of the party.
Almost but not quite. Because even while I was laughing and twirling with the kids, I was acutely aware that Kent was watching from across the room, leaning against the mantelpiece with that intense focus that made my stomach do little flips.
I was just about to excuse myself from the children’s dance circle and go ask Kent if he wanted to dance when Tom Bradley, one of our lodge guests, approached me with a polite smile.
“Mind if I steal you for a dance?” he asked.
Tom was a nice enough guy, a widower in his sixties who’d been staying at the lodge for the past few days. He had been nothing but courteous and friendly. I couldn’t very well turn down a guest without seeming rude, especially not in front of half the town.
“Of course,” I said, taking his offered hand.
It was just a harmless little dance. Tom was a gentleman, keeping appropriate distance and making pleasant conversation about how much he was enjoying his stay at the lodge.
We were maybe fifty seconds into the song when I suddenly saw a hand on Tom’s shoulder.
“Mind if I cut in?” Kent’s voice was polite but carried an undertone that suggested this wasn’t really a request.
Tom looked confused but stepped back graciously. “Of course, no problem.”
Kent smoothly took his place, pulling me into his arms without even acknowledging Tom’s retreating figure. The dismissal was so complete and casual that it bordered on insulting.
“Kent!” I scolded as Tom walked away looking somewhat bewildered. “That was incredibly rude. You couldn’t have asked nicely?”
“That was me asking nicely,” Kent said firmly.
I pushed at his chest, though he didn’t budge an inch. “You’re the worst.”
“Only at some things,” he replied with a cocky smile that made my chest pulse with desire. “I’m the best at others. Maybe I can show you before I head back to the city.”
The words sent heat racing through my veins. I found myself stammering like a teenager. Was he hitting on me? What exactly was he implying? Was I overthinking this, or was there a definite invitation in that statement?
It was exactly what Emmy warned me against. But damn. Being up close with him made me want to pretend I never heard her stupid warning.
I was just opening my mouth to throw some witty comeback at him when the front doors of the lodge suddenly burst open with enough force to rattle the windows.
A blast of frigid air swept through the room.
Everyone turned toward the entrance where old Phineas Withers stood swaying slightly in the doorway.
He was wearing a moth-eaten knit sweater, baggy slacks, and old boots that had seen better decades.
His knit cap was perched precariously on his nearly bald head. The old curmudgeon looked half-frozen.
“Turn that damn music down!” he shouted, waving his cane in the general direction of the sound system. “And stop stomping around like a bunch of hooligans who’ve lost their damn minds!”
The cheerful party atmosphere immediately tensed. Phineas continued his tirade, waving his cane dangerously close to a couple who had the misfortune of being near the door.
I didn’t hesitate. However cantankerous and difficult Phineas could be, he was still an elderly member of our community who was clearly in distress. Plus, I didn’t want him taking anyone’s eye out. I hurried over to him, sidestepping his waving cane and ignoring his obvious anger.
“Mr. Withers,” I said gently, taking his arm to guide him toward the fireplace. “You look like icicles are about to form on your eyebrows. Come warm up by the fire. You’ll feel less grumpy.”
He muttered loud enough for me to hear. “I’m not grumpy. I’m right.”
“How did you get here tonight?” I asked as I led him across the room, noting the strong smell of alcohol on his breath.
“How the hell you think I got up here, young lady?” He held his hands out to the fire. “I drove like I always do. Young people these days don’t know a damn thing. Use your brain, girl.”
His harsh words rolled off my back. I had dealt with drunk and difficult people before, and Phineas’s bark had always been worse than his bite. If Phineas was nice, I would be worried. Him being grumpy was a regular state.
“You’ve had quite a bit to drink tonight, Mr. Withers,” I said carefully. “Are you sure you drove yourself here?”
The question seemed to ignite something in him. His eyes flashed with anger as he glared at me, his face flushing red above his gray whiskers.
“Are you calling me a liar?” he demanded, jabbing his finger toward my face. “Is that what you’re doing, you little—”
And then, just as his finger was inches from my nose and his voice was rising to truly unpleasant levels, Kent appeared beside me. Without a word, he gently but firmly moved me aside and stepped between me and the angry old man, his presence both protective and calming.