Rebecca Winters: One Winter's Sunset: The Christmas Baby Surprise / Marry Me under the Mistletoe / Snowflakes and Silver Linings

“I guess you don’t forget some things,” she said.

“No, you don’t.” But he wasn’t talking about hammers or measurements or anything related to construction. “Do you remember those days, Em?”

“Of course.” Her voice was soft, her green eyes tender, then she cleared her throat and drew herself up. “We’ve moved a long way away from those days, though. In more ways than one.”

He pushed off from the rail and stood beneath her. “What if we could get them back? What if we could be the people we used to be? Would we have a chance then?”

She bit her lip and shook her head. “Fixing some steps doesn’t bring us back there, Cole. You’ve changed...I’ve changed. What we want has changed. You can’t turn back the clock.” She gave the railing a tap. “Have a safe trip back.”

Then she went inside and shut the door, closing the door on him, as well. Cole stood there a long, long time, then picked up the tools, returned them to the garage, got in his car and drove away. He’d done all he could here, he realized. And the sooner he accepted that fact, the better.

But as he left the Gingerbread Inn, and the run-down building got smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror, Cole wondered...if he could turn back the clock with the inn, maybe it would be enough to turn back the clock with his wife, too.

CHAPTER THREE

BY BREAKFAST THE next day, Emily had ten pages written and a swelling sense of satisfaction. They might not be good pages, heck, they might not even be publishable pages, but they were closer than she’d got to her dream of publishing a novel in years. All those years in high school and college when she’d written short stories, and made fits and starts at different novels, but never finished any of them. Now with hours of uninterrupted time, her creativity exploded, with pages springing to life as fast as she could write them. She got to her feet, stretching after the long hours in the hard wooden desk chair.

Nausea rolled through her in a wave. She gripped the back of the chair, drew in a deep breath and waited for it to pass. It didn’t.

“Hey, kiddo,” she said to her belly, “I thought this was supposed to end with the first trimester.”

The baby, of course, didn’t answer, and the nausea kept on pitching and rolling her stomach, neither caring that the calendar said Emily was just past three months pregnant. Her clothes still fit, if a little snugly, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before she would start to show.

And that would mean telling people about the baby. People like Cole.

Emily sighed. She loved her husband—she really did—but she had stopped being in love with him a long time ago. She’d tried, Lord knew she’d tried, to make it work, thinking maybe if she kept acting like a wife, she’d feel like one. But the relationship they had had when they’d first got married had drained away, like a hose with a pinhole. The loss had come so gradually that one day she’d woken up and realized it was over, in her heart, in her head, and continuing the facade would only hurt both of them. Six months ago, she’d asked Cole to move out, and he’d gone, without a fight.

Then Cole had come to her one night, telling her he’d do anything to have his wife back. He’d been so sincere, so racked with sorrow, she’d believed him, and found the old passion ignited. One crazy night, a night where she’d believed yes, he finally got it, and maybe they could make it work—

And in the morning he was gone, off on yet another business trip. She was left alone again. She’d had a good cry, called a lawyer and filed for a formal separation.

Two weeks later, she’d realized her period was late and that one night had resulted in the only thing Emily had ever wanted—and Cole never had.

A child.

She’d kept the pregnancy a secret, and kept her distance from Cole, resolving to do this on her own. Now she had a baby on the way into her life and a husband on his way out. Either way, Emily was determined to make her new existence work.

She pulled on some sweatpants and an old T-shirt, then headed out of her room and downstairs toward the kitchen. A little dry toast should take the edge off this nausea, and then she could go back to work on the book.

Emily was just reaching for the loaf of bread on the counter when she heard a tap-tap-tapping coming from outside the window. She leaned over the sink, and peeked out into the bright late-fall day.

Cole stood on a ladder, perched against the side of the building, hammering in a new piece of siding. He’d switched from dress clothes to a crisp new pair of jeans and a dark blue T-shirt that hugged the planes of his chest. Sunglasses obscured his blue eyes, and a leather tool belt hung at a sexy angle from his hips. For a second, her heart melted.

“He was here when I woke up this morning,” Carol said as she entered the kitchen.

Emily turned around and put her back to the window. What did Cole think he was doing? Did he think that fixing the inn’s porch would fix them, too? “Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m just glad for the help. Anything he can fix helps me in selling this place.”

Emily sighed. “It’s going to be so weird not to have this place here anymore. The Gingerbread Inn is such a big part of my childhood.”

Carol paused by the coffeepot. “Do you want a cup?”

“Uh, no. I’ll have tea instead.” Emily grabbed the kettle off the stove, filled it with water, then set it over the flame. Outside, Cole had stopped hammering. Emily resisted the urge to look outside and see what he was doing now. Maybe if she ignored him, he’d leave. Either way, he rarely stayed away from the office for more than a few hours, so whatever “fixing” he was doing would be done soon and Cole would go back to being his usual Type A, nose-to-the-grindstone self. She’d be on her own, just her and the baby, which was exactly what she wanted, she told herself. Her hand strayed to her stomach, a protective barrier.

Emily looked up and noticed Carol watching her. “What?”

“Tea, huh?”

Emily fished an herbal tea bag out of the glass mason jar next to the stove and held it up. “Yup.”

“Decaf, too. In the morning.” Carol cupped her hands around her mug of coffee and assessed Emily. “Anything you want to share?”

“Nope, nope.” She’d said that too fast, Emily realized. But she wasn’t ready to tell anyone about the baby yet. She thumbed toward her room. “I should get back to writing. I’m on a roll.”

If she stayed in this kitchen one more minute, she was sure Carol would read the truth in her face. The kettle whistled and Emily turned to pour the water. She heard a sound behind her and pivoted back.

Cole stood in the kitchen, watching her. In jeans and a T-shirt, he looked so much like the man she’d fallen in love with that Emily’s heart stuttered, and she had to remind herself to breathe. Cole still had the same lean physique as he’d had in college, and her mind flashed images of every muscle, every plane. Her hormones kept overriding her common sense.

Carol murmured some excuse about needing to start laundry and headed out of the room. Emily shifted her gaze away from Cole and down to her teacup. She dipped the bag up and down, up and down, avoiding Cole’s blue eyes. “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

“Helping Carol out.”

“I can see that.” She let out a frustrated gust. “Why?”

“She’s obviously in a tight spot right now and—”

“Cole, stop making up excuses for being here. I’ve been married to you for ten years, and you have never so much as hung a picture in all that time. So don’t tell me you got this sudden urge to become Homer Handyman.”

“Homer Handyman?” She could hear the smile in his voice, as he crossed the room and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’m not making up excuses, Emily. I saw Carol needed help, and I wanted to do what I could. I haven’t worked with my hands since college, and I have to admit, it feels good.”