The Christmas Cookie Chronicles: Carrie (3 page)

“Did you?” Her eyes narrowed.

“No.”

“Me either. Once bitten, twice shy.”

He swallowed, tried to think of the right thing to say.

“Listen, I’ve got things to do.” She shifted her weight but did not meet his gaze.

“I’m going to be in town for three weeks, filming a show. Maybe we could get—”

“I know all about your show. Yay for you. In the future, if I see you coming, I’ll be sure to head in the opposite direction. Like now.” She turned and started walking again.

“You didn’t use to hold grudges,” he called out, feeling unexpectedly desperate to keep her engaged in conversation. What was that all about? Why did he care?

Face it. You blew the best thing that ever happened to you.

It was a reality he’d spent eight years running from. He’d tucked her into the recesses of his mind. In the mental file, marked FOOLHARDY YOUTHFUL MISTAKES. From time to time, usually when he was feeling nostalgic or lonely, he’d trot out the memory file. Not often, but every once in awhile when he found himself wondering,
What if?

But now that he was here, looking at her, seeing how she’d bloomed into an amazingly beautiful woman, one thought dominated his brain.

You were a fool to let her slip through your fingers.

He remembered the salty sweet taste of her lips, like a big scoop of vanilla ice cream drizzled with caramel and topped with chopped nuts, and he had a compelling urge to taste them again.

She whirled on her heels and came marching back, wagging a finger at him. “Don’t you believe for one single minute, Mark Leland, that I’ve had the time or inclination to think of you even once. God, what an ego! You think I’ve been sitting here pining away for your return?”

“A guy can hope.”

“Look, yes you were a hottie in high school and I was smitten enough to run off to Vegas with you, but it was just one dumb weekend out of my life.”

One dumb weekend? She’d
married
him.

“Time marches on and you—” She waved a hand, curled her upper lip. “You became a sellout. Once upon a time you wanted to be a novelist. How in the hell did you end up hosting some silly reality show? The way I see it, you did me a huge favor. I dodged a bullet when you left. Thank you. I owe you my undying gratitude.”

A sellout? She thought he was a sellout? He didn’t know why that staggered him, but it did. “You’re going to deny that you were in love with me?”

She opened her mouth as if she was about to hit him with a humdinger of a zinger, but she then snapped it shut. He dropped the smile that he’d been hanging onto. It was his default mode, and he just let it go. It felt scary, shucking off Mark Leland TV personality, letting the well-constructed mask slip, if only for a second.

Narrowing her eyes, she stepped closer. So close the tips of her sneakers were almost touching the ends of his toes. He could smell her. Fragrant as the summer memories of time spent on her family’s porch swing, all ripe honeysuckle and peaches and lovesick teens. Her scent had not changed. It was still the same honest, melodious aroma. She smelled of home.

Every impulse in his body pushed him to grab her up in his arms and kiss her until neither one of them could breathe.

“I was in love with an image of you. The person I thought you were. Clearly, I was delusional. The person I knew would never, ever come back to wreck his hometown for personal gain.”

If she’d hauled off and punched him in the stomach he couldn’t have been more shocked. He shook his head. “I’m not here to wreck Twilight.”

“No?”

“This show is going to help the town. Bring in more business.”

Her glare dissected him like a medical examiner’s scalpel, clean and mean. “Ah, I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“How you live with who you’ve become. You spin yourself beautiful lies and then fall for them. Lying is one thing, believing your own bullshit is something else.”

A brackish taste filled his mouth, and he felt immediately defensive. Who was she to judge? The woman who’d stayed in the same small town all her life. The woman who told
him
their marriage was a mistake. “What’s wrong with who I’ve become?”

“If you have to ask, you’re even more clueless than I thought.” Tart. That tongue of hers.

He should have just let it go. There was absolutely no reason to continue the conversation. He had changed. He no longer belonged here, and she was wrapped in the cocoon of Twilight and couldn’t see beyond the narrow confines of her insular little world. This is what he would have been like if he’d stayed.

But he couldn’t help thinking about all he’d missed. Waking up beside her every morning, making love to her every night. Wistful. Whenever he looked at those lush lips, stared into her saucy blue eyes, he felt an unexpected yearning for what he’d let slip through his fingers.

“Wake-up call, Leland. Your show is going to destroy Twilight,” she said. “Not boost business.”

“How do you figure?” He leaned in toward her until their noses were almost touching. Alarm flared in her eyes, but she held her ground. She’d always been brave. It was one of the things he’d most admired about her.

“
Fact or Fantasy
is about busting myths and legends, right?” She notched up her chin.

“So?”

“What do you think is going to happen when you bust the very myth this town is founded on?”

“How do you know I’m not going to prove the myth true?” he murmured.

“Because,” she said, darting out the tip of her pink tongue to moisten her lips. The gesture caused something to shift below his belt. “The myth says if you toss a penny into the fountain, you’ll be forever reunited with your high school sweetheart and live happily ever after.”

“You tossed a penny into the fountain?” His pulse was revving like the engine of his Cobra running full throttle on the open road. He could feel blood throbbing through his entire body.

“Once, long ago. When I was young and stupid and believing in a ridiculous legend.”

“Carrie.” Her name came out of him like a sigh. He remembered his longing for her, because it hit him anew. This yearning. A slap to the face—shocking.

“So you see, Mark. The legend is
total
crap, because there’s no way in hell that you and I will ever, not ever in your wildest dreams, be reunited, much less live happily-ever-after.”

“Okay,” he said, feeling sick to his stomach.

“But if you ever felt anything at all for me, you have to make me a promise.”

“What’s that?”

“You cannot tell anyone about us. You cannot use our love affair to disabuse the sweetheart myth. You can’t capitalize on our failure to line your pockets. Especially when doing so will put Twilight’s livelihood in jeopardy.”

“All right,” he said.

“Promise me.” Desperate sincerity shone in her eyes.

“I promise,” he assured.

Her shoulders sagged visibly. “Thank you. If you keep your promise, then everything is square between us.”

“I’ll keep it,” he said, mainly because he wasn’t any more eager than she was for the world to find out exactly how much he’d let her down.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

T
wo days after her run-in with Mark, Carrie was at the Yarn Barn scowling at the cheery Christmas decorations that the knitting club had put up, but she wasn’t glaring at the ornaments as much as she was the current situation. Seeing Mark again had shaken her more than she’d anticipated.

“Chill,” said Renee, the high school girl who worked for Carrie on the weekends. “You’re gonna pace a hole in the floor.”

Carrie stood in front of the window looking out across the shopping center parking lot, realizing for the first time that she had been prowling like a cat outside a mouse hole. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Renee asked, looking up for the first time that morning from the cell phone where she’d been engrossed in a game of Angry Birds.

“Nothing. I’m not worked up.”

“Uh-huh,” Renee said. “Sure you’re not.” The girl reminded Carrie far too much of her smart-mouthed self at that age.

“Don’t you have work to do?”

Renee shrugged, shoved a strand of purple hair from her forehead. “I already put away all the stock.”

Ever since Mark and his stupid reality show had come to town, business had slacked off. It seemed everyone would rather gawk and follow the film crew around town than shop for yarn.

Okay, she was cranky. She hadn’t slept well the last two nights, but it had nothing to do with Mark Leland and those pesky sex dreams she’d been having. “Not at all.”

“What did you say?” Renee asked.

Great. Now she was muttering under her breath. “Stop whacking pigs and knit something,” Carrie told her.

With a long suffering eye roll perfected to an art form by sixteen-year-olds the world over, Renee turned off her cell phone and picked up the basket-weave scarf she’d been working on.

The truth was Carrie was rattled. She thought she’d braced herself for seeing Mark again, but one look in those chocolate brown eyes and she’d known she was in trouble. All the old feelings had come rushing back, stronger than ever. Why? Because she thought she was long over him.

No love like your first love
, Flynn was fond of saying ever since she and Jesse got back together. In fact, it was something irritating that all the ladies of the Sweethearts Knitting Club said from time to time with smug, knowing smiles on their faces.

Bah-freaking-humbug.

So much for her goal of getting through the holidays as smoothly as possible. Just as she was about to turn away from the window, she saw a bus pull into the parking lot. She recognized it immediately. It was the vehicle
Fact or Fantasy
had rented to haul the crew around.

It wasn’t as if she could miss it. A parade of cars followed behind, including a red convertible, packed with young women holding a banner that read:
We Love You Mark.

What a cluster circus. Carrie borrowed one of Renee’s eye rolls. The bus door opened and Mark got out, along with a willow-branch thin middle-aged woman in stern, red-framed square glasses. They started in her direction, the film crew and entourage following behind.

For one panicked moment, Carrie thought they were coming into the Yarn Barn, then she realized with relief they were headed to her brother-in-law’s motorcycle shop located on the other side of her building.

She was not the least bit curious about what was going on over there, but she pressed her nose against the window and craned her neck just in time to see Mark’s backside looking unnecessarily spectacular in a pair of tailored suit pants.

Humph. She preferred him in jeans. That’s how she remembered him. Rugged, scruff of beard, Levi’s clinging to his hard muscled butt. Not this smooth, shaved, sophisticated man. Columbia and L.A. had remade him into someone she did not recognize. It was inevitable, she supposed. Why then, did she feel like she’d lost something significant?

You didn’t lose a single thing. Forget him. Sell some yarn.

Except there were no customers to sell yarn to; they were all over at Jesse’s. A bulky bodyguard positioned himself at the door of the motorcycle shop after the film crew had gone inside. He held up his hand like a stop sign at the spectators mobbing around the front of the store.

“What’s going on over there?” Renee asked.

“Who knows? Who cares? Watch the shop, I’ll be right back.”

“Huh?” Renee blinked.

But Carrie was already out the back exit and creeping down the alley that connected the Yarn Barn to the motorcycle shop. The wind blew off the lake, whipping through her denim skirt. She shivered.

What the hell are you doing? Go back to your shop. Forget Mark.

Quietly, she opened the rear door to Jesse’s store and found herself surrounded by motorcycles in various stages of repair. Jesse not only sold new machines but repaired old ones as well.

The sound of voices in the showroom drew her in that direction. She crept to the door that led out into the shop and placed her hand on the knob. Flynn hadn’t said a word about Jesse being interviewed on
Fact or Fantasy.
Maybe her sister didn’t know.

Carefully, she pushed the door open a crack. The hinges squeaked. She cringed. The last thing she wanted was to get caught spying on Mark. If he caught her spying, he might think she cared. She didn’t care.

Well, not much.

But she was curious. Cautiously, she put her eye to the slit and peered into the showroom.

Jesse was standing at the counter, his back to her, a sprocket in one hand, and a red grease rag in the other. Mark stood in front of Jesse glancing at note cards in his hand. The camera crew was setting up.

A woman carrying a makeup tray flitted around the two men. “Mr. Calloway,” she said. “Can I put a dusting of powder on your cheeks so you don’t shine on camera?”

Jesse shifted uncomfortably. “Never wore makeup in my life. Not gonna start now.”

The makeup girl shot a glance toward Mark.

“It’s okay, Ladonna,” he assured her. “We can work magic in editing.”

Ladonna smiled and turned her makeup brush on Mark’s cheeks.

Carrie opened the door wide enough to ease through. She tiptoed closer, using various shelving to stay hidden.

“Ready?” a cameraman asked Mark.

Mark tapped his finger against a tiny microphone pinned to his lapel. “Testing.”

The sound guy gave him a thumbs-up.

“Roll it,” The thin woman in the red glasses ordered.

The camera honed in on Mark, who dissolved into a toothy dimpled grin. The same grin that used to turn Carrie’s knees to rubber. Oh, who the hell was she kidding? Her knees were still wiggly as Jell-O.

Mark was so cool and self-possessed. Totally in control. He’d always been something of a cocky guy, but this was a whole new level of self-confidence.

Her heart thumped crazily. He is so out of her league—tall, cutting-edge hairstyle, striking brown eyes. He was perfect for television. No wonder he’d given up on the idea of writing a novel. He’d made choices that led him to the top of his field. He’d changed. While she . . . well, she was still in Twilight wasn’t she? Running a yarn store and living with her father.

Mark’s voice rang out, authoritative and clear. “Our investigation into the sweetheart legend has led us to an infamous resident of Twilight, Texas. Jesse Calloway was a bad boy incarcerated for ten years. But the love of his high school sweetheart, Flynn MacGregor, tamed his wild ways.”

Jesse’s scowl deepened. “That’s not how the story goes.”

Mark made a cutting motion with his hand across his neck. “We talked about this, Jesse. Casting you as the tamed outlaw is the angle we’re pursuing. It’s all about that marketing hook. Redeemed by love. That’s the story.”

“I was wrongly imprisoned for a crime I didn’t commit,” Jesse said. “Are you gonna mention that?”

Her brother-in-law’s life had been hard indeed. Carrie felt sorry for Jesse and wondered why he was doing this interview.

“We’ll mention that in the wrap-up, but for the thrust of the story we’re going with the outlaw tamed,” Mark said.

“I don’t think I want to do this after all,” Jesse grumbled.

“If you don’t complete the interview, Mr. Calloway,” the woman in the red glasses said in her rapid-fire East-Coast staccato, “you won’t get the thousand dollars.”

Ah, that explained why Jesse was doing this. He was getting paid for his story. More money for his growing family.

The front door opened, and the bodyguard ushered Flynn in while blocking the chattering hoard outside the store. Her sister’s normally curly brown hair had been pulled into a French braid. She looked beautiful, a glowing mother-to-be awaiting the birth of her first child.

Carrie sidled around the rack of tires for a better look, ducking behind a cardboard Santa and its tray of holiday-sale wrenches.

No one noticed her, so she edged even closer.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Flynn said.

“No problem. We’re just glad you could make it. What’s the story of the town’s most famous lovebirds if only one of the birds ends up on camera,” said the uber-thin woman. She held out her hand to Flynn. “I’m Iris Tobin, the director of
Fact or Fantasy
.”

“Nice to meet you.” Flynn smiled.

“When’s the little one due?” Iris asked.

“Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, seriously? That’s so adorable. We must include pictures of the baby in a little epilogue when this episode airs early next year.”

“We’ll see.” Flynn pursed her lips.

Her sister was a people-pleaser, but she was also cautious. Carrie admired her for not immediately agreeing to Iris’s request to film the baby.

“Do you know what you’re having?” Iris asked.

Flynn shook her head. “We wanted to be surprised.”

The makeup artist bustled around Flynn, touching up her face.

A few minutes later, they started filming again. Mark was very much in control as he coaxed Flynn and Jesse into the story of their romance.

It was a touching tale, one that epitomized the town legend. As long as Mark stuck to couples like Flynn and Jesse, the sweetheart legend would bear itself out, and Twilight’s reputation would be safe. But this show challenged popular myths. Sooner or later, someone was bound to unearth her connection to Mark and bust the sweetheart myth wide open. So far everyone had been keeping quiet about their relationship, but of course it was to the town’s best interest for their failed love affair to be kept under wraps.

Carrie anxiously gnawed her thumbnail. It was unnerving to think that the town’s fate weighed on her shoulders. But he had promised not to reveal their past relationship. Would he keep his promise? Once upon a time, his word had been golden. But now? Who knew? He’d changed so much.

She leaned forward, her gaze trained on Mark. He was impressive. Even in his polished persona, he exuded a raw magnetism that was impossible to deny. Honestly, she was taken aback by how handsome he’d become. He’d been good-looking before, but now he was breathtaking. Damn him.

Mesmerized by her former husband’s accomplished performance, she didn’t notice at first that the cardboard Santa had started swaying. When she realized what was happening, she put out a hand to steady the wavering display. Santa was lighter than she anticipated, the metal tray of wrenches balanced on his extended cardboard hands heavier than they should have been. Instead of helping things, her touch pushed Santa over the edge.

Carrie felt him slipping away. She scrambled, actively grabbing for the toppling effigy. Making noise. Drawing attention.
Crap!
Santa bucked backward. Wrenches flew into the air, clattering to the ground around her.

Iris Tobin yelled at her. “Who are you? Get out of here immediately. This is a closed shoot.”

“Um . . . I . . .” Chagrinned, Carrie dropped to her knees and started picking up the scattered wrenches, unable to look at anyone. Way to go, MacGregor.

“Stop that. Leave the mess. Get out. Who left the back door unlocked?” Iris Tobin snapped. “Ladonna, you were supposed to make sure the back door was locked. We can’t have gawkers stumbling around and ruining our shoot.”

“Mellow out, Iris,” Mark said, a sharp edge in his voice. “You’re acting like a bitch.”

The director glared, nostrils flaring and she clapped her hands. “Olig!” She motioned for the bodyguard. “Escort this person out.”

Carrie stood, preparing to run before the hulking bodyguard could get to her, cheeks blazing a hundred and twenty degrees worth of shame. Why, oh why hadn’t she stayed put in the Yarn Barn?

Mark stepped between Carrie and Iris. “She stays,” he said, his tone low and dangerous. “This is Flynn’s sister, Carrie. She owns the yarn store next door.”

“What? Are we inviting in everyone’s family now?” Iris groused. “Should I call my mother? Send her a plane ticket?”

Mark ignored her sarcasm.

“I’m going,” Carrie said. “I shouldn’t have been here.”

“Well what do you know?” Iris said. “We agree on something.”

Mark reached out, took her hand. Carrie was aware that everyone was watching them. Could they see how his touch unraveled her? Did it show on her face that her stomach was in tumult and her heart, oh her stupid heart, was melting?