Janelle Denison: Ready-Made Bride

She struggled to contain her mirth and failed. “I guess the packaged stuff will have to do. With milk. Do you have marshmallows?”

The woman wanted marshmallows, of all things. He rolled his eyes. “I think there’s some in the cupboard.”

“Will you join me?”

How could he refuse such a request? And did he really want to? He hadn’t had cocoa since he was a kid, and it was either a warm drink and good company or a lonely, chilled night out in his workshop.

“Lead the way,” he said, before he changed his mind.

He followed her into the kitchen and helped her locate the ingredients she needed. She surprised him by being well acclimated to his kitchen and small pantry, and shooed him out of her way. He settled against the counter by the stove, letting her have free rein.

“I’m mostly a night person,” she said, filling a pan with milk then lighting the burner. “I’m used to staying up late, sometimes until one or two in the morning.”

“That makes two of us.” The confession slipped out of its own accord, giving them a mutual foundation of interest to build on.

She found a spoon in a drawer and began stirring the warming milk. “In fact, I usually do my best writing at night.”

“You could use the kitchen table and I could leave you alone-”

“Absolutely not! I’m here to rest and relax and enjoy my time with Andy. And you,” she added, not an afterthought but a genuine sentiment that reached inside him and grabbed hard. “No work. I can do that anytime and anywhere. Besides, I just made a deadline before I came out. I wrote an adventure about Andy losing one of his teeth and how the tooth fairy forgot to take his tooth and leave him a quarter.”

He gaped at her. “You didn’t.”

Grinning cheekily, she reached for two mugs in the cupboard next to the sink and placed them on the Formica countertop. “Guilty as charged. I capitalized on a great story. A sure winner with the kids.”

Kane cringed and groaned, unable to believe his parental absentmindedness had come back to haunt him in form of a mass-market book. “I hope you mentioned somewhere that the guilt-ridden tooth fairy left him five dollars the following night, instead of the usual one-dollar payment.”

Laughing, she dumped powdered mix into each of their mugs and added hot milk. Curls of steam filled the distance between them with the sweet scent of chocolate. “Do you have any cinnamon?”

“Cinnamon?” At her nod, he said, “If I do, it would be in the cupboard above the stove with the spices.”

She opened the cupboard. Spotting the container with a picture of cinnamon sticks on the label, she stood on tiptoes to reach it, and came up a few inches short. Stepping behind her, he stretched and effortlessly retrieved the small shaker, unintentionally crowding her into the counter. The front of his fly grazed her bottom, and his thighs fitted precisely with hers. She gasped at the intimate contact and spun around, her fingers gripping the counter behind her.

She looked everywhere but at him. “The Tooth Fairy’s Folly is one of my favorite stories,” she said in a rush, then skimmed her bottom lip with her tongue. “I brought an advance copy for Andy’s birthday.”

He recognized her rambling for the diversion it was. Unfortunately, his unruly hormones liked the curves of her slim figure enough to ignore the attempted aberration. “I’m sure he’ll like that.” Grabbing her hand, he placed the cinnamon in her palm, letting his fingers linger longer than decorum called for.

Gulping a deep breath, she turned to the mugs and sprinkled cinnamon on the cocoa. “I hope so. You’ll have to read the story and see if I did it justice.”

He didn’t reply because there wasn’t much he could say that wouldn’t turn an enjoyable evening into one of his worst nightmares. “Are all your stories about my son?”

“Yes.” Smiling, she dropped a cluster of small marshmallows into each mug. The white blobs melted together and turned creamy. “The series didn’t start out that way. I created it at a time in my life when I needed something to fill my spare time. Your Andy has been a great source of inspiration for my books.”

“I never knew Andy was your inspiration,” he said quietly.

She gave him a quizzical look. “You haven’t read any of the books I’ve written? The past year has been based on Andrew’s escapades.”

He shifted under her probing gaze. “I just thought all those stories were common childhood experiences,” he said offhandedly.

“I suppose they are, but I try and write them through Andy’s eyes. A child’s naïveté is precious. When Andy regales me with his tales, I take the best parts and embellish them. I owe a large part of my success to him.” She handed him his mug and tilted it toward his lips. “Taste.”

He lifted the rim and took a drink, tasting creamy vanilla, rich chocolate and a hint of cinnamon. “Umm,” he said, smacking his lips. “This is the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted.”

Her expression turned smug. “Just think how much better it’ll be with real cocoa.” Picking up her mug, she sashayed out of the kitchen.

Shaking his head, he followed her.

In the living room, he set his cup on the mantel, then tossed a few logs onto the grate. Within minutes a bright fire crackled in the hearth, taking away the slight chill in the room.

“Is this Andy’s mother?”

Kane straightened and glanced at the framed photograph in Megan’s hand, the one Cathy’s parents had given Andrew so he wouldn’t forget his mother. A blonde woman smiled from behind a sheet of clear glass, her brown eyes full of the sparkle and vibrance Kane had first fallen in love with so many years ago. “Yes. That’s Cathy.”

“Andrew looks a lot like her.” She placed the picture on the mantel. “She’s very beautiful.”

“Yes, she was.”

She sat on the couch and curled her legs under her. Fingers wrapped around the ceramic mug, she took a drink, blue eyes peering at him thoughtfully over the rim.

“Andy must miss her very much,” she said after a quiet moment.

He stared at the dregs of cocoa in his cup, the snap and crackle of the fire like gunfire to his ears. “Cathy died when Andy was only two. He doesn’t remember much about her.”

Sadness and sympathy etched her features. “How did she die?”

He glanced up, his jaw automatically hardening. He had to remind himself that Megan was a stranger in Linden, someone who hadn’t heard the horrifying rumor about Kane Fielding. She wasn’t pointing an accusatory finger, wasn’t looking at him in disdain.

She shifted under his intense gaze. “I didn’t mean to pry-”

“She drowned in a nearby lake,” he said abruptly.

“I’m sorry.”

So was he, more than anyone would ever know. “It was a long time ago.” He bent to tend the fire, not wanting to relive that dreary, rainy day when Cathy had died. He relived it every time he saw the Lindens. Every time he passed the lake that had stolen her life.

Megan propped her elbows on the couch’s armrest, watching as Kane tended the fire. She wondered if he was still grieving over his wife and if that was part of the reason for the shadows and secrets she occasionally glimpsed.

“Have you ever thought about getting married again?” she asked, her voice hushed, yet something-anticipation of his answer-made her chest tighten. Strange, considering she’d only met him two days ago. But she’d known him for a year and a half, she reminded herself, learning from Andrew that a gentle and compassionate person lurked beneath the sometimes brusque facade.

“No.” He carelessly tossed another log on the fire, the muscles across his back rippling with the movement. Sparks filtered up the chimney, and heat radiated outward.