Dressed in a thick black sweater and ski pants, Mitch is ready to go when we sit down to breakfast the next day. Candace and I are still looking at the world through slits. We have a full hour before we have to get to our posts. I did manage to put on a temporary outfit for breakfast, consisting of a sparkly gold knit top and black pants, and I ran a brush through my hair. Fine. So I applied a little makeup, too. Um, and glittery gold nail polish.
The fireplace is lit, making the room all warm and cozy. I love that on a frosty morning. And trust me here, this place wrote the book on frosty mornings.
“I declare, Mitch, you’d think you were a kid going to his first day of school,” Granny says, scooping eggs and hash browns onto his plate.
His teeth sparkle a brilliant white. I want to tell someone to dim the lights, but I realize it’s a new day and I have to adjust.
Mitch says a quick prayer—and I do mean quick, here. He talks as though he’s already downed a pot of espresso, and I know that’s not possible. Granny and the cappuccino machine are not on speaking terms. Unless it says “mountain grown” on the can, she refuses to make it.
“How can you be that bright and cheery first thing in the morning?” Candace wants to know. She puts a spoonful of mixed fruit on her plate. How does she eat like that? I’ve never understood her health nuttery. Has this woman never heard of fat grams, carbohydrates, chocolate? She so needs a life.
He shrugs.
Granny fills her own plate. “You ready for opening day?
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Mitch says.
“Well, you’d better be if you’re going to compete with Monica.” Granny isn’t one to mince words.
“I think I can handle Monica Howell all right,” Mitch says with a slight bite to his voice.
Candace looks at both of them. “Granny, Mitch has done a fine job of researching this business and pulling together a great first day. I’ve no doubt the business will do well.”
Granny raises a pale, gnarled finger. “Well, he’d better keep an eye on the competition, that’s the truth of it.”
Mitch shoves the last bite of toast in his mouth, leaving most of the food on his plate, and scoots his chair from the table without saying a word. Candace and I exchange a glance and keep eating. Mitch takes determined steps across the floor. The front door closes behind him with a definite slam.
“Wonder what’s got him in a snit,” Granny comments as if she truly has no clue.
“I think he’s nervous today,” Candace says.
Mitch does seem a little touchy. Candace must be right. No doubt he’s feeling opening day jitters.
At this point I can feel Granny’s gaze boring into me, and I look up.
“You’d better keep that scaly reptile locked away, too. If he gets in my kitchen, I’ll make him into a purse!”
“Granny, that’s not very nice,” Candace says, trying to smother a giggle behind her hand.
I don’t know whether to laugh or call the animal abuse hotline. I’m thinking she and Guacamole deserve each other. I eat the last of my oatmeal—and what color is oatmeal?—and excuse myself from the table. Heading up the stairs, I stop to greet the housekeeper. Sculpted with gel, her short black hair with blond tips flips out. Dressed in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, she looks all of nineteen.
“Kaci Butler, right?”
“Right.”
“Since we only talked briefly the other night, I wanted to make sure again that you’re all right with Guacamole being loose in my room.”
She gives me a cocky grin. “Remember, I told you that I grew up with a python in the house. I’m not afraid of reptiles.” She pops her gum with attitude and stares at me through thick dark lashes.
“So you know iguanas can get a little agitated when a stranger comes near?”
“Yeah, know all about it. Don’t worry.”
She makes me feel like an old woman fretting over nothing. Is thirty-two old? I guess to a nineteen-year-old the answer would be yes. I want to say, “I’m past the braces, so deal with it,” but then that wouldn’t be very Christian. Instead I say, “Well, all right, if you’re sure.”
“Yep.”
“Thanks.”
She heads on down the stairs, and I go up to my room, all the while praying Guacamole doesn’t weird out when he sees the stranger in my room.
I somehow managed yet another trip up the ski lift—this time with Lisa—and walked over to the coffee shop. There has been a steady stream of customers, and I have to admit I’ve enjoyed myself today. I love the smell of coffee, the whir of the machine, the friendly attitude of everyone who enters. ’Course, I could do without the gust of cold air that swishes into the room when the door opens, but I guess you can’t have everything.
I restock the Danish rolls and tidy the counter.
“Gwen, I’ll need two frappés, please,” Lisa calls over her shoulder. She’s working the register while I prepare the drinks, then after lunch we’ll switch.
It’s hard not to lick the frappé or whipped cream from my fingers, but somehow I manage. I serve the current customers with a smile. Right behind them I see Mitch enter the shop with a beautiful woman. Hello? Do I want to see this?
I quickly hide behind my machine and peek around the side. Mitch’s face is red and all aglow. I’m hoping it’s because of the mountain air and not because of the woman beside him, whoever she is.
“What’s the matter, Jake, haven’t you ever seen a woman before?” Lisa’s voice growls to the man in line. He’s one of the ski lift operators.
“Yeah, but not one that looks like that,” he says, turning to the woman beside Mitch and definitely enjoying the view.
“You can stop drooling, lover boy. I’ll tell you right now you don’t have enough money in your bank account to snag that one.”
We both turn to Lisa, anxious to find out what she knows about this woman.
He leans his whiskered face over the counter. “And how do you know that, princess?” He winks.
I try not to cringe. He’s not exactly a prize catch here, but then who am I to talk?
She leans toward him, her eyes cold and daring. “Don’t call me princess,” she says with a snarl. “I know because that woman is Monica Howell. Plenty of guys in this town have tried to catch her, but she only has eyes for Mitch Windsor. Everybody who’s lived here any time at all knows that.”
He frowns and turns back to the couple. “By the looks of things, he’s not fighting her all that hard.”
My gaze darts to Mitch, who is laughing beside her. These people are definitely robbing me of my joyful self.
“So what do you want to drink?” The impatience in Lisa’s voice is obvious.
“I want a tall, hot Americano.”
Lisa stares at him. “Don’t we all.”
He smiles at her, and she rings up the sale while I prepare his drink. I give it to him and he walks away, still managing to get another look at Monica.
“Jake the jerk,” Lisa says.
“You know him?”
“I go to school with him. He drives me crazy.”
After talking to another couple, Mitch and Monica walk my way. I suddenly realize their names even sound good together. Mitch and Monica. They could have their towels monogrammed M&M. What could be better than that? Chocolate and the man you love all having the same initials?
My mood plunges when I realize my name is Gwen. Do Mitch and Gwen go together? G&M? Not unless you’re a car.
“Lisa, Gwen,” Mitch says. “I want to introduce you to Monica Howell.”
“Hello,” we say in unison.
Monica lifts silky black hair behind her shoulders, causing light to glint from her golden hoop earrings. Her blue eyes sparkle, and she flashes a Catherine Zeta-Jones smile. I glance at Mitch, who’s glowing so much I could use him in my room as a night light. Hmm, now there’s an idea.
“Lisa is going to school, working part-time at the coffee shop downtown and helping us out. Other than that she’s pretty much bored,” Mitch says, laughing at his own clever comment.
Monica smiles and quickly turns her gaze toward me.
“This is, uh—”
My mouth goes dry. His eyes glaze. “Gwen Sandler,” I say, extending my hand. Why don’t you just shoot me now?
“I was going to get to that,” he teases. “Seriously, Gwen’s saved us.”
My spirit perks a teensy bit here.
“She was going to cook for me, but as you know, Granny came along, so Gwen has saved the day by working at Cool Beanz.”
Wait. How did Monica know Granny came along? I thought he didn’t care for this woman, yet he acts as though they have daily conversations.
She nods then her eyes scrutinize me a little too closely. “You know, you look familiar.”
She probably saw me at Dream Slopes, trying, but failing, to ski. I merely smile. No need to give her any more information than necessary.
“I doubt if you know her. She’s only recently moved here from Arizona.”
“Oh, a desert flower,” she says with the hint of a smile on her lips that never reaches her eyes. Something about the way she says that makes me feel I should defend myself.
“She’s a flower, all right,” Mitch says, rushing to my rescue.
Monica turns to him with a pout. “Not the cactus type, I hope, all prickly and everything.” She turns to me and forces a chuckle.
I totally don’t feel a part of this conversation, but I smile good-naturedly, trying not to allow my first impression of this woman to sway me forever. We all say and do things we don’t mean from time to time. Maybe she’s a little nervous about Mitch’s opening day being a success since she’s the competition. Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.
They give Lisa their orders, and I watch Monica. Every guy in the room is watching her, too, and she’s aware of their gazes. She glances at them each time she tosses her hair behind her shoulders. When she talks, her eyes flitter about as though she’s looking for the nearest mirror or nearest admirer. She likes being the center of attention, and she plans to keep it that way.
Something about her bothers me, and I don’t think it’s jealousy—well, maybe there’s a tiny hint of that going on in the deepest recesses of my heart, but I think it’s more than that. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“Gwen, did you hear what I said?” Lisa, Mitch and Monica are all staring at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Lisa. What?”
“I said two hot mochas, one skinny, both with whipped cream.”
“Two hot mochas, one skinny, both with whipped cream,” I repeat and set to work. Yep, that pretty much sums them up. Wait. I thought Mitch liked Americanos. Why is he changing his drink to match hers? He’s trying to please her—why? All right, I admit it. That thought makes me a little green.
Just call me Guacamole.
Candace and I plop on the sofa after dinner, coffee in hand. I’ve made drinks all day and still managed not to consume any myself until now. I curl my feet up underneath me. I’m bone tired. Though I do a lot of standing in my classroom, I also do a lot of sitting at my desk while the students work on their lessons. Today was nothing but standing.
We ran through the inventory, decided we needed a few more items, and Lisa showed me how to fill out the order forms. Thankfully, I was able to sit while doing that, but that was the only time all day.
“So how do you think it went?” I ask Candace.
She takes a drink from her cup and looks at me. “I think it went well. Mitch had a lot of business, and from what I could see, everyone seemed to be having a good time. I didn’t hear any complaints, though that doesn’t mean there weren’t any.”
Granny walks into the room and collapses onto the sofa across from us. She grunts once she lands. “Well, they’d better not complain, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“What’s the matter, Granny, is your arthritis acting up again?”
She squirms in her seat like she’s trying to get comfortable. “It sure is.”
“You know, Granny, you don’t have to do this.” I can tell Candace is treading lightly here.
Granny’s head jerks up. “I don’t have to do anything except die and pay taxes. I want to do this for my grandson.” She gives me a hard stare as though I have something to do with this discussion. I take another drink to avert her gaze.
“I know it, Granny,” Candace soothes. “I’m only saying you don’t have to do this. I feel badly that you’re aching today, that’s all.”
Granny softens. “I’m sorry I bit at you, Candace. I guess Mitch isn’t the only one who is touchy today.”
Beneath that hard shell, I’m thinking there beats the heart of a gentle woman.
“It’s all right. We’re all a little tired and cranky,” Candace says.
“How did you do today, Gwen?” Granny’s question surprises me. She squirms a little more, obviously in pain.
“We had a lot of business today. No doubt I’ll be making mochas and lattes in my sleep tonight.”
Granny chuckles. “I guess you will. I don’t know how people drink that stuff.” Another grunt. Her nose wrinkles here, but I have to admit she looks kind of cute all crinkled up.
Right then the front door opens, and Mitch walks in. He’s looking better than a large chocolate frappé with whipped topping. In my book, that says a lot.
“Well, there he is,” Candace says. “How’s my big brother doing?”
“Your big brother is tired,” he says, shrugging off his winter wraps and boots and plopping down beside Granny on the sofa. I’m guessing he didn’t notice the empty space beside me.
Mitch runs a weary hand through his hair. I wish he’d let me do that for him.
“You ready to eat?” Granny asks, though she doesn’t look all that eager to get up.
“I am getting hungry,” he admits.
“I’ll be glad to get it for him,” I say, hoping Granny won’t resent my offer.
I’m surprised when she lifts a hopeful smile. “That would be nice, Gwen. Thank you.” Granny kicks off her shoe and massages her big toe.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Mitch asks, following me to the kitchen.
“I’m sure,” I say over my shoulder, imagining that I’m Mrs. Windsor, and my husband has had a rough day on the slopes. I waltz into the kitchen. Now I’m no Martha Stewart, but I can take care of my man.
Once I pile his plate with meat loaf, potatoes, gravy, mixed vegetables and a dinner roll, I turn and plow right into him, knocking the plate to the floor. It shatters into tiny slivers across the ceramic tile and peas roll into every nook and cranny.
That’s what I get for comparing myself to Martha Stewart.
I get on my knees, and start to scoop things into a pile. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were there. I have this terrible habit of not paying attention to things. I get my mind on other things or distracted or whatever—” I stop myself when I realize I’m babbling.
Mitch joins me on the floor. “It was my fault. I didn’t mean to stand so close. It’s just that you—”
I drop the peas I’m holding and look at him, waiting on his words. I have no idea what he’s going to say, but something in his voice makes me think I want to hear this. We’re on our knees, our faces mere inches apart. His gaze is fixed on me. I mean really fixed on me.
His face changes color right in front of me. Is he… Yes, I believe he is—he’s actually blushing here. How cute is that?
“It’s just that you smelled like…well, what I mean to say is…your perfume, it kind of reminded me of Mom’s perfume.”
Did I hear what I think I heard? My imagination stops cold. He’s telling me I smell like his mother? Quick, somebody sign him up for Romance 101. This is so not what I want to hear.
I stare back at him a little longer than I had intended, then I return to scooping peas in a pile. Once the debris is cleaned from the floor, for a fraction of a moment I consider giving him the rubbish to eat, but then I do the kind thing and gather a fresh plate of food.
I smell like his mother. If my mother heard that, she’d be calling Herbert Caudell.
We go back into the great room, and I announce that I’m going out for a while.
“Aren’t you tired?” Candace looks at me with utter shock.
“Yes, but I need to pick up a few things from the store,” I say, edging my way toward the stairs. When I imagined myself as Mrs. Windsor, I didn’t mean Mitch’s mother, for crying out loud.
This calls for an emergency trip to the store. I refuse to smell like his mother for one minute more.