Mistletoe Hero

Unlike certain blondes who seemed determined to chat him up from now until the Second Coming.

The moment he’d inclined his head, Arianne hurriedly continued as if mentally counting down the time he’d allotted her. “Quinn’s cochairing the committee for Whiteberry’s fall festival and needs help with some of the labor- assembling booths, hooking up electrical equipment-but she doesn’t have much of a budget. After all, the whole point is to raise money for the school. So we wanted to ask you to do it for free.”

He snorted. The lady had a bottomless supply of gall. “And I’d be doing this out of the nonexistent goodness of my heart? You have a nice day, Miss Waide.”

He headed for the door with a deliberately long stride, but what she lacked in long legs she made up for in unholy tenacity. No sooner had he stepped into the cool afternoon air than that voice once again sounded at his ear-or rather, six inches below it. With her nonstop chirping, he would have expected her to have a shrill tone or maybe something nasal, with a hint of whine. She actually had a low, melodic pitch. It wasn’t hard to imagine that she’d used that voice to convince plenty of people to do her bidding.

“Gabe,” she chided, “don’t you think it’s silly to run away? It’s not like you can hide from me in a town this size.”

She had a point. After all, he periodically crossed paths with Shay’s parents and heaven knew they weren’t actively seeking him out the way Arianne was threatening. “No reason to hide when I can outdistance you, short stuff.”

“You can try. I’ll get a scooter and keep up. Ask my brothers if you don’t believe me.”

Oh, he did. He just wasn’t sure how he’d become the object of her persistence. For months she’d simply been the checkout girl at the most reliable place in town to get hardware supplies. Then she’d dropped that bombshell of a dinner date on him, and suddenly he had a smiling thorn in his side who smelled like raspberries.

“Miss Waide, just so we’re clear, you know I was serious when I said you weren’t my type? I’m not playing hard to get or something.”

For a moment, her blue eyes glinted, darkening with some unnamed emotion. Had he angered her? Hurt her?

He refused to feel bad, not if the end result was her staying away from him. In the long run, he’d be doing her a favor.

Her tone cooled. “My proposition today wasn’t of a romantic nature, trust me. Let’s just forget about the other night. It was an isolated incident, prompted solely by-by…” Here she stumbled.

Without meaning to, he took a step closer to her. “Yes? Why did you ask me out?”

“Well.” She squared her shoulders, trying to look as composed as she had been inside the barbecue house. Yet the pulse in the hollow of her throat beat more rapidly. She reflexively licked her lips, a movement that might have seemed calculated in another woman, but seemed like genuine nervousness in Arianne’s case. “You’re an attractive man, and I’m an attractive woman. Dinner together didn’t seem that crazy when I suggested it.”

An attractive man. For years, women-those his own age to those slightly younger on up to those far older who should know better-had looked at him as if, on the outside, he was near flawless. Inside he was a mess, but too few seemed to care about that.

“You think you’re attractive?” He gave Arianne a deliberate once-over, letting his gaze slowly drop down her body.

She swallowed, standing stock-still as the wind whipped her hair around her face. “You’re trying to intimidate me.”

“It’s working. And it’s probably a lesson you need. Bite-size morsels like you shouldn’t chase after the big bad wolf.”

She surprised him by taking a sudden step forward, nearly erasing the remaining gap between them. “I grew up with two older brothers who taught me not to back down in the face of bullies, so save your bluster for someone else. I don’t think you’re that big or that bad.”

You’re wrong. But her clear gaze was so piercing that for a second he almost couldn’t find his voice. “Arianne, you’re a Mistletoe native. I know you’ve…Whatever you’ve heard about me, it’s probably true.”

It was a minor victory that she looked away first.

But she regrouped, meeting his eyes as she asked softly, “Why do you stay?”

He stiffened. “None of your damn business.”

“Because if you feel like you, I don’t know, maybe owe something to-”

“Drop it.” The words came out in a low growl.

Her eyes widened and, for a change, she listened. She kept her mouth shut as he crossed the few feet of asphalt from where he’d stood to his truck.

He should’ve known it was too good to last.

“Will you at least think about helping with the festival? For the good of the town?” she implored.

“No.” He unlocked his door.

“How about this?” She played her ace. “You help Quinn slap together a couple of booths, and I promise never to disturb you again.”

When you put it like that…Feeling unfairly beleaguered and somehow years older than when he’d arrived for lunch half an hour ago, he slapped his hand on the side of the truck and looked back at her.

Arianne offered him a beatific smile.

Against his better judgment, he heard himself say, “I’ll think about it.”

SUNDAYS WERE THE ONLY DAY of the week Gabe didn’t work, so it was the perfect time to catch up on mundane errands. Like grocery shopping. Surveying his barren kitchen pantry, he mentally cursed himself for not remembering to pick up coffee sooner. He debated whether there was enough left to make a full two cups, then opted instead for one really strong mug to kick-start his morning.

Twenty minutes later, he got in the pickup truck and headed for town. There was only one main grocery store in Mistletoe, and it had a huge parking lot to accommodate as many citizens as possible. Right now the lot was nearly empty. Most people were either taking advantage of the weekend to sleep in or at church.

Gabe had once considered visiting one of the town’s houses of worship, wondering if he could find…what, redemption? But he’d decided to spare both himself and the good folks of Mistletoe the discomfort. Shay’s parents were both Sunday school teachers at the Baptist church; the Methodist church was where Gabe’s own parents had been married. He’d been told his mother had been a soprano in the choir, and as a boy, Gabe had liked to imagine she’d once sung to him, even though there’d been little more than a week between his birth and her death.

He grabbed a cart on the sidewalk and propelled it toward the automatic entrance doors. First stop, coffee aisle. Moving purposely through the store, he piled staples into the cart: ground beans, filters, steaks, juice, cereal, new razor blades, eggs and cheese. He was en route to the freezers and his one major vice-besides coffee, of course-when he had the unpleasant prickling sensation of being watched. Slowly he turned, half expecting Arianne Waide to wave at him from a soft drink display. If that were the case, he vowed he’d put an end once and for all to-

His stomach tightened, then dropped about ten feet. “Sir.” Gabe swallowed, hating the arctic glare of Jeremy Sloan’s pale eyes, but unable to look away.

What is he doing here? Gabe’s father should have been in some congregation pew among his righteous brethren, not skulking the aisles of the Mistletoe Mart.

“Gabriel.” The older man spoke without the banked anger Gabe remembered. Instead his tone was flat.

Gabe floundered for a response.

How’ve you been, Pops?

I see you’re eating the same brand of cereal after all these years.

Still hate me?

Gabe had shifted his gaze to the contents of his father’s cart because it seemed far more innocuous than looking at the man who’d dutifully raised him but never warmed to him. Yet now that Gabe took a closer look, the groceries he saw sent a ripple of foreboding through him. Cereal, a large can of coffee, some ground round, dairy, orange juice and shaving supplies. So what? We both drink coffee and eat red meat. I’m nothing like him.