Cole's Christmas Wish (12 page)

And then another hit her shoulder. Before she managed to turn
around and volley a few at him—he’d been hiding in
her
clump of trees, directly behind her original position—one more
slammed into her lower back. Oh, yes, this was war.

He may have gotten the jump on her, but she could still kick
his butt. Silly, silly man, thinking otherwise. For the moment, Rachel let
herself take that long, slow slide backward in time, when everything between her
and Cole had been effortless and fun and...hopeful.

And wow, did it feel good.

Chapter Eight

W
hen the last snowball on each side had
made contact, and Cole’s face hurt from smiling so damn hard, he fell to his
knees and admitted defeat. Rachel, as always, had proven her snowball-fight
expertise and shown him—in no uncertain terms, even—who was boss.

He didn’t mind in the least. He sort of liked it, actually.

“You win, Rach,” he said. “I am at your mercy.”

“Oh, yeah?” She brushed damp hair out of her eyes and dropped
down in front of him. “I like the sound of that. In fact,” she said with a
delicious sort of wink that sent unmanly flutters rippling through his abdomen,
“
you
can make dinner tonight.”

How could a woman with wet, clumpy hair, face scrubbed clean of
cosmetics from exertion and wearing snow-soaked jeans be so ridiculously
beautiful? He’d seen her dressed to the hilt in fancy clothes and expensive
jewelry, with her makeup applied so that she looked like one of those centerfold
models she’d teased him about at Foster’s, but damn if he didn’t find her more
alluring, more sensual, more...everything, just like this.

“You are a strange woman, Rachel Merriday,” he said. “I tell
you I’m at your mercy, and all you want from me is dinner?”

“I didn’t say that was
all
I
wanted,” she countered, rolling backward and stretching out on the snow. “But
it’s a good place to start.”

He crawled to her side and collapsed, mimicking her position.
He was cold and hungry, worn-out to the bone, and thought nothing sounded better
than hot food and a hotter shower, but he felt good. Real good. The type of good
brought on by being outdoors and playing hard. Kids were used to feeling this
way, but Cole hadn’t for a long while.

Too long. And he wouldn’t hurry this moment away for
anything.

“I don’t know, darlin’,” he said in a teasing, laid-back
manner. “You already said you’d do the cooking. Seems to me a woman should live
up to her word.”

She elbowed him in the side. “What happened to being at my
mercy?”

Her words forced his thoughts along a different path, a far
steamier one than a simple dinner could provide, but he didn’t voice them. Doing
so would only bring forth a slew of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. This
entire day—snow-tubing and the snowball fight—had been light and carefree.
Better, he thought, to keep that momentum going.

He raised his arms above his head, as if he were stretching,
and grabbed two handfuls of snow. One quick move had him on his side, facing
her. And then... Well, he stopped to take in the sight of her. Eyes closed, body
posed in a loose and languid way, breathing slow and even. The impulse to kiss
her was strong, unrelenting. It rode through him hard, compelling him to ignore
all the reasons why he shouldn’t—couldn’t—lean in and take her mouth with
his.

Screw it. Some things weren’t definable. Some things, such as
his need for Rachel at that second, couldn’t be denied or explained. They just
were. So he leaned in closer. And then, a little closer yet. Close enough that
he’d be able to count her eyelashes if he wanted.

He didn’t. He had other ideas in mind.

And was less than a beat away from bringing those ideas to
fruition, from tasting her lips with his, when her breathing stilled and her
eyes popped open.

He froze, stared into her eyes, read the surprise there along
with another emotion that Cole couldn’t identify. Desire, maybe, if he were
lucky. Could just as easily have been something else, though. Something that
would put an end to...everything he saw between them.

So he did what he’d started off planning to do, he brought his
hands up and let the snow sprinkle onto her face. “Got you,” he said, hoping his
tone had a light enough ring to it. “Couldn’t let you fall asleep, not when you
promised me a home-cooked meal.”

“I can’t believe you did that!” She sputtered and blinked, blew
snow out of her mouth and sputtered some more. “You, Cole Foster, are nothing
but a sore loser.”

He smiled, sprinkled a little more snow on her for good measure
and stood. “What I am is hungry, wet and cold.” Reaching down, he grabbed her
hand and helped her up. “Let’s go.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll cook. While I do that, you can get
Mary on the phone.”

Hell. Now, what in the world was he going to do about that
one?

* * *

An hour-and-a-half later, after a quick stop at the
store, a quicker shower, and a pair of borrowed sweats and a T-shirt—both
oversize—Rachel had lived up to her word and put together an easy meal of tomato
soup and grilled cheese with ham sandwiches. Now, Cole was finishing clean-up
duty, which was the deal they’d settled on: she’d cook, he’d clean.

Up until two years ago, Cole had lived in the small apartment
above Foster’s Pub and Grill. When he bought this place—a two-bedroom log cabin
on the outskirts of Steamboat Springs—Haley had claimed the apartment as
hers.

During Rachel’s visit last year, Cole had still been in the
process of renovating the kitchen. With his attention otherwise occupied, Rachel
looked over the changes he’d made. The room, while not overly large, had an
airy, open ambience that she liked. He’d chosen sturdy oak cabinets and hardwood
floors, cinnamon-and-cream pebbled granite countertops and what appeared to be
straight-from-Grandma’s-kitchen white appliances.

Navy blue, deep green and splashes of russet were found in the
dishtowels, curtains and throw rugs. The walls, unfortunately, were mostly bare
and were painted the standard off-white. If she lived here, she’d add plants and
pictures and maybe paint the walls an actual shade.

Still, all in all, the kitchen spoke to her. It was, she
thought, a room to relax and chat in after a long day. She could see herself
here, almost too well.

More than that, she could see herself with the man. He was a
stellar specimen of the male species, with his chocolate-brown eyes and thick,
black-as-coal hair, and a strong body that looked damn awesome in a pair of
jeans. She loved his laugh, too. That rumbling, warm, full-of-life laugh of his
made her feel...secure, in some way.

Rubbing her hand across her face, she tried to dispel her
tiredness and her confusion. Naturally, neither occurred. She returned to that
moment when she was lying in the snow, relaxed and content, happy with how the
day had progressed. All at once, a telltale tingle had whispered along her skin,
raising goose bumps and forcing her eyes open.

And there he was. Right there, so very close.

She’d have sworn he was going to kiss her. Dear Lord, she’d
wanted
him to kiss her. Instead, she’d gotten
snow in her face, and that deep, throaty laugh. In the snap of a finger, the
moment ended, and they were—once again—nothing more than friends having fun.

Rachel pushed out a breath, and with it, the memory.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Cole said, hanging the dishtowel over
the sink.

“Just thinking,” she replied with a yawn.

“About?” He returned to the table, sat down and cradled his
arms behind his head. The action caused his shirt to tighten around his chest,
accentuating his lean, muscular angles, and it was all Rachel could do not to
stare.

Or imagine ripping that shirt clean off of him and leading him
toward the bedroom. Oh, God. Not what she should be thinking about.

“Tomorrow, and the gifts we still need to get,” she said,
forcing her thoughts into safer territory. She’d asked him, once again, to phone
Mary before dinner. He’d refused. Stated that the conversation would be
“uncomfortable” and “awkward,” and he’d prefer if Rachel stuck to their original
agreement. Which, of course, meant zero contact with Mary until after the
proposal.

Fair enough, she supposed. Perfectly reasonable, even, since
she had agreed to those ridiculous terms. Somehow, though, for reasons she
couldn’t fully explain, her instincts remained on high alert. She really, really
wanted to trust in those instincts.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to get through them quick enough,” Cole
said. “If nothing else, we can fall back on the vacuum-cleaner idea.”

She snorted. “You do that. While you’re at it, why not buy Mary
another flashlight, as well? Maybe some batteries to go with it, and hey...I
know! How about a sewing machine so she can mend all your loose buttons and torn
shirts?”

His mouth split into the goofy grin she adored. “Two
flashlights are overkill. She doesn’t sew, but hey, nice idea. The batteries
could work, but isn’t that a bit...I don’t know, cheap to give them as a
separate gift?”

“I was teasing, which you know.” Her instincts buzzed harder.
“What type of music does Mary like? What’s her favorite movie, favorite author?
Does she enjoy cooking? Does she wear jewelry? Is she a dog or a cat
person?”

“Whoa there, Rach. That’s an awful lot of questions.”

“If you’re considering
marrying
her, then you should know the answers.”

“Of course I know the answers!” Cole sat up straight and
shifted in his seat. “But would you rather be given a CD of your favorite type
of music or something unexpected, something that you’d never think of buying
yourself in a million years?” He shrugged. “I think the unexpected is more
romantic than the obvious.”

He had her there. Damn him. She wasn’t about to let on to that
though. “Yes,” she said with a sniff, “I would never, in a million years, buy
myself a flashlight.”

“You would, but not for the same reason
I
bought that particular flashlight.”

And that made zero sense. She regarded him silently, trying to
decide what he was up to. Even if Mary existed, even if Rachel had lost her
mind, he was up to something. He
had
to be up to
something. She had to figure out what.

“Do you have some paper and a pen around here somewhere?” she
asked. “I’d like to write a list, see everything we’ve already bought in print.
Maybe then, I’ll be able to align my thinking with yours, so we’re...um...on the
same page.”

One eyebrow quirked in curious amusement, but he didn’t argue.
He left the room, returning a minute later with the requested items, which he
dropped on the table in front of her.

“Thank you,” she said as she flipped open the spiral-bound
notebook.

“Welcome.” Rather than retaking the seat he’d vacated on the
other side of the table, he sat in the chair next to her. So close, she could
feel the heat of his body. “I’m really okay with the roaming and talking method,
Rach. We don’t need a list for tomorrow.”

“Shh. Maybe you don’t, but I do.”

On a clean page, she numbered from one to ten along the left
margin, filling in the top five lines with the gifts they’d already purchased.
Next to each item, she then wrote the reason—as she understood it—for buying
that particular gift.

When she was done, she had:

Snow Globe—Representation of when/how they met (outside in the
winter)

Photo Album—To put pictures of their journey so far (they met as
children)

Camera—To create more memories with

My Perfume—Because he likes the scent/doesn’t know what brand she
wears

Flashlight—No freaking idea why or what he’s thinking

She read the list once, twice. Squeezed her eyes shut for a
millisecond and then read the list again. Her mind replayed every last thing
that had happened since she’d arrived in Steamboat Springs, beginning from the
moment she and Andrew had stepped into the Beanery.

Cole’s unexpected announcement that he had a girlfriend. His
crazy plea for Rachel’s help in wooing Cupcake, a woman whose first name he
refused to share. How his friendship with Rachel had prepared him for this
relationship because the two women shared similar pasts, similar temperaments,
similar...barriers.

What else? Margaret Foster’s obvious pleasure when she spoke of
Cole’s falling in love weighed against Lola’s certainty that he didn’t have a
girlfriend.
The vase
. Cole’s words about Rachel’s
eyes, how she’d then deemed the vase a romantic gift because of that sentiment,
followed by his intense reaction to that.

One by one, each moment, each conversation, each time he’d
sidestep one of her questions, each odd look and muffled laugh...all of it
roared through her head, along with images of his teasing smile, their absurd
winter picnic at the playground, the way he’d... Oh.

She drew in a sharp breath and read the list for the fourth
time.

Why, the sneaky devil. The snow globe represented how he and
Cupcake met, did it? Well, Rachel had met Cole in the winter, outside, in the
school playground. And no man in his right mind bought the woman he loved
another woman’s favorite perfume.
Rachel’s
scent.

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she tried to find the
weak threads holding her conclusion together, tried to convince herself that
this
couldn’t
be the case. Could
she
be Mary? Could she be... If Cole loved
her,
wanted to romance
her,
why wouldn’t he just tell her? Why would he go to such extremes
to get her attention? Was he trying to make her jealous, or...?

“Andrew,” she whispered. She hadn’t told Cole about Andrew
until...oh, a week or so before arriving in Steamboat Springs, when the decision
had become final. Why had she waited? Because...she hadn’t yet decided if her
relationship with Andrew was important enough to mention? Or because she was
still hanging on to hope she didn’t know she had?

Both, probably.

“Andrew? Did you need to call him?” Cole asked, interrupting
the forward motion of her thoughts. “Go ahead, Rach. I’ll...go put your clothes
in the dryer. Give you a little privacy.”

She nodded faintly as he stepped away from the table, piecing
together what she
hoped
to be true with what she
actually knew. She could be wrong. This could still be nothing more than wishful
thinking. But if she weren’t...was it even remotely possible that Cole had
created a fake girlfriend out of jealousy? To accomplish what, exactly?