sixteen

West had a plan. When he went over to the main house at half past six, he was ready to execute it. Dressed as well as he could manage with the clothing he’d sneaked from his own closet in the master suite, he was also armed—with a guitar. Grant opened the door before West even knocked.

“Gillian’s in the kitchen,” he whispered. “Up to her elbows in pasta.”

“And Emma?”

“I’ll text her to come down and meet you. How about the den?”

“Good idea.”

Grant pointed to the guitar case. “What’s that for? Planning to woo her with song?”

“You never know.”

Grant nodded. “Well, nice touch, man.”

West quietly went into the den, closed the heavy door, and sat down to wait. Not for the first time today, he said a silent prayer that this thing would turn out the way it was meant to be—and for the best for both of them.

“Here you are.” Grant opened the door, and Emma, looking more beautiful than West remembered, came into the room. She had on a silky emerald top, jeans, and boots, but it was those dark brown eyes, her sleek dark hair . . . and the shy smile that made his heart beat a little faster.

“I’ll go keep sis occupied until dinnertime,” Grant told them.

“I’m sure she could use a hand,” Emma said quietly.

After Grant left, they both sat down and West thanked her for coming—trying to remember what he wanted to say but feeling distracted by her beauty.

“This is one of my favorite rooms in the house,” he began nervously.

“I like it.” She sounded uneasy too.

“So . . . anyway, I asked Grant to help us get together so that we could talk . . . without Gillian’s interference.”

“Right.” She seemed to be studying him.

“For, uh, some mysterious reason, Gillian seems to have set her sights on me. And no matter what I say or do, I can’t seem to shake her off.”

“Gillian can be pretty determined sometimes.” She tilted her head to one side.

“So I’ve noticed. That woman is a force to be reckoned with.”

“Especially when she really wants something.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Gillian is sort of used to getting her own way. Her dad says he spoiled her too much . . . maybe that’s true.”

“So, anyway, I wanted to make sure you hadn’t gotten the wrong idea about me . . . I mean, where Gillian’s concerned. I have absolutely no interest in her. Zero. Nada. Nothing.”

Emma still looked slightly doubtful. “You’ve sure been spending a lot of time with her.”

“A lot more time than I wanted to spend. I’ve seen some schemers before, Emma, but nothing like Gillian.” He explained how she’d entrapped him in a number of situations. “I’m also discovering how much she twists the truth. She made me believe you and Harris were, well, involved. She said you two went Christmas shopping together—I mean, just the two of you, like a date. But then Grant told me it was his idea to go, and that all three of you went.”

“That’s true.”

“Grant doesn’t seem to think you’re interested in Harris. Not like Gillian wants me to believe. Only today, she predicted that you and Harris would be engaged by Christmas.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She looked down at her lap.

“Well, if you have any feelings for him, I’d like to know, Emma. Then I’ll just wish you both the best and get out of the way.”

She looked up, directly into his eyes. “Grant got it right, West. Harris is only a friend, and that’s all he’ll ever be.”

He let out a sigh. “That’s good to know.”

“And I have no idea why Gil would want you to think otherwise. Well, except that she seems to want you all to herself.”

“Exactly.” He nodded.

“Which is pretty puzzling.”

“Believe me, I know. But I’m glad we got this all out into the open, Emma. What a relief.”

“It does feel good to clear the air.” She smiled.

Suddenly they were both talking, asking questions, trying to fit the confusing pieces of the last twenty-four hours together, and finally laughing over how they’d both been duped by Gillian. Then the door to the den flew open.

“I thought I heard voices in here.” Gillian, looking less glamorous than usual, frowned at Emma. “Grant says you’re staying for dinner. You and Harris and Grant. I thought the three of you were going out tonight.”

“What made you think that?” Emma asked innocently.

“Because you guys have reservations at—”

“The reservations you made?” Emma frowned. “Well, Grant didn’t want to go—and neither did I. Are you worried there’s not enough food, Gil? Because when I did your grocery shopping, I assumed you were cooking for seven—so there should be plenty for just the five of us. But if you don’t want me there, I’m happy to take something up to my room and—”

“Or I can take Emma out,” West interrupted. “That should leave plenty for the rest of you.”

“Oh, never mind—no biggie.” Gillian’s smile looked forced. “But if you’re staying for dinner, Em, seems like you could help.”

“I can help too.” West stood.

“Thank you, West.” Gillian’s smile grew even sweeter. “Could you, please, make us a fire? I think that would be so cozy.”

“You got it.” He nodded. “And I’ll make one in the fire pit out back too.”

“Oh, that’s okay. We won’t need to go outside—”

“But I want to make one,” he said. “It’s a clear, starry night. Perfect for an outdoor fire.”

“Oh, that sounds fun,” Emma told him.

“Sounds cold to me.” Gillian grabbed Emma’s hand. “Come on, girlfriend. I haven’t even started the salad yet.”

West felt the spring return to his step as he built the fires—both inside and out. Then he went ahead and cleared snow off the back patio and benches and even set out some fleecy blankets. Unless he was mistaken, he still had ingredients for s’mores left over from Thanksgiving. This could turn into a pretty cool evening. And with Gillian’s unpredictable antics—that he and Emma were now prepared for—it might even be entertaining.

It was clear that Gillian needed help in the kitchen, so Emma jumped right in. First she suggested Gillian go set the table, and then she rescued the pasta that Gillian had left standing in a pan of water. Cold water.

“How’s it going?” Grant asked quietly as he peeked into the kitchen.

“Just fine.” She smiled. “Hey, thanks for your help with West.”

“Why did you get stuck on KP? This is supposed to be Gillian’s gig.”

“Because I thought it would be nice if our dinner was edible.” She winked and he laughed.

By the time Gillian returned, Emma was working on the green salad.

“So what were you and West talking about in the den?” Gillian asked. “What was so funny?”

“Oh, just this and that. Lots of random things.” Emma chopped the green onions with more vigor. She did not want to go there with Gillian right now.

“Well, it seems you’ve got it under control in here.” Gillian patted her hair. “I’m going to freshen up and then spend some time with West.”

“Well, everything should be ready in about fifteen minutes.” Emma chopped even harder. It wasn’t that she was concerned for West’s sake. But how could Gillian honestly continue to assume he was interested in her? She couldn’t be that oblivious . . . could she? Ironic since she liked to tease Emma for gullibility.

When the salad was finished and the sauce and pasta were hot, Emma started to slice the loaf of bread then decided she’d done enough. This was Gillian’s dinner party. Let her do something to help. Emma laid down the knife and went out to discover Gillian, now wearing a fuzzy pink sweater, standing in front of the Christmas tree, dramatically telling the three guys about how she’d nearly mowed down a small pack of preteen snowboarders today.

“You should’ve heard their filthy little mouths.” Gillian shook her fist. “If I was their mom, I’d wash their tongues with soap.”

“Sorry to interrupt.” Emma tapped Gillian on the shoulder. “But everything’s almost ready for dinner.”

“And you put it on the table?”

“I wasn’t sure how you planned to serve it, Gil. I mean, you’re the hostess.” Emma sat down on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other—and feeling stubborn.

Gillian frowned then turned to her brother. “Why don’t you help me?”

“I’m crippled.” He pointed to his cast.

“And you’re the hostess,” Harris parroted Emma.

“And West is in charge of the fire,” Emma said before Gil had a chance to drag him away. “It looks like it needs more wood.”

“Real nice, people.” Gillian narrowed her eyes at Emma. “Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, Emma already did most of the work,” Grant pointed out.

“And the grocery shopping,” Harris added.

“I might as well help her.” Emma reluctantly stood. “That is if we want to eat tonight.”

“I’m ever so grateful,” Gillian said with sarcasm.

When they got to the kitchen, Emma handed Gillian the bread knife then wondered if that was terribly wise considering Gil’s current disposition. “Uh, why don’t you slice the bread while I dish up the pasta?”

Gillian cut into the loaf. “I just don’t know why you’re being so mean to me, Emma.”

“Mean?”

“Yeah, it’s like you’ve turned on me or something.”

“I’ve turned on you?” Emma paused from dishing pasta into the serving bowl. “I thought it was the other way around.”

“You mean because of West?” Gillian turned to look at her with innocent-looking blue eyes. “Are you jealous because of that? Because I can’t help it if West likes me better than you.”

Emma slid the rest of the pasta into the bowl, trying to think of an appropriate response . . . without starting a regrettable fight. “Do you honestly believe West likes you better than me?”

“It seems obvious. We’ve been spending all our time together lately. And I don’t see why you should care since you’ve been spending all your time with Harris.”

“Not intentionally.” Emma poured the alfredo sauce over the pasta. “Although it seems you’ve been pretty intentional about spending time with West.”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, how about the fact that you barely tolerated him at first—because he’s a caretaker. Remember?”

“I’ll admit I was acting pretty snooty. And that was wrong.”

“Yeah, but that still doesn’t explain your sudden interest in the caretaker.”

“Ooh, Em, now you sound like a snob.” She laughed.

Instead of responding, Emma focused on stirring the pasta.

“Surely, you’ve heard opposites attract, Em. And wouldn’t you agree that West and I are almost total and complete opposites?”

“Yeah, I’d agree with that. But you must know that West isn’t the guy for you, Gil. You’re not dumb.”

“What do you mean by that?” Gillian stopped slicing bread.

“I mean, anyone can see that he’s not really into you.” Emma poured dressing over the salad then gave it a good toss.

“Oh, Emma, don’t you think that’s between West and me?” She shook her knife. “And FYI, he and I would’ve been having a nice, intimate dinner tonight if you and the guys hadn’t invited yourselves to crash our little party.”

“Gillian.” Emma moved closer, looking into her friend’s face. “You can’t possibly be this oblivious. Don’t you know that West doesn’t really like you? Not like that anyway. Not how you seem to like him. Sure, he’s polite to you—because he’s a nice guy. But he’s not into you.”

“What gives you the right to speak for West?” Gillian sounded angry.

Emma held up her hands. “Nothing. You’re right. West can speak for himself. But I’m your friend, Gil, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I don’t plan on getting hurt.”

“Right . . . but honestly I don’t know why you’re doing this. I mean, can you honestly say that you care that much for West? Or is this some kind of game for you? Because none of it makes sense. Not to any of us. Harris and Grant both think you’ve lost your mind. And I thought maybe you were competing with me—or maybe even trying to protect me.” Emma peered closely at her. “Are you?”

Gillian’s grin looked victorious. “Not this time, girlfriend. This is about me. Me and West.”

“So you’re saying you have genuine feelings for West? You’re that serious about him?”

“Maybe.” Gillian returned to slicing bread.

Emma sighed as she carried the salad and pasta bowls to the dining table. This was not going to be easy. But maybe it was time for West to step in and straighten Gil out. Hopefully not until after dinner.

“Hey, West,” Gillian called out sweetly as she brought out the bread basket. “Since you’re in charge of the fire, how about lighting these candles for me?”

“At your service.” He appeared with the lighter.

“Come and get it,” she called out. “If you guys have any complaints, aim them at Emma. Compliments can come to me.” She laughed as they all sat down.

Emma couldn’t help but be impressed with how easily Gillian played the role of hostess, even being polite to Emma, as if they hadn’t just had that awkward conversation in the kitchen. As a result, Emma’s stomach was tied in knots and she mostly just poked at her food.

“Compliments to the cooks,” Harris said as he set down his fork. “That was good pasta.”

“To be fair, it should probably be compliments to the grocery store and food packagers,” Emma confessed. “We just put it together.”

“Well, the salad was great,” West said. “Looks like some thought and effort went into that. In fact, it’s all been good.”

“Thank you, West.” Gillian beamed at him. “I’m glad you like it. And there’s still dessert.”

“I have another plan for dessert.” He grinned. “We’ll have it outside. Around the fire pit. Along with some music, if Emma doesn’t object to playing for us.”

“I never object to music.” She stood to gather empty plates.

“Let Gillian take care of that,” West told her. “I need you to help me.”

“Okay.” She set the plates by Gil and followed him back to the den.

“Here.” He handed her the guitar case. “I meant to give you this earlier, but we were interrupted.”

“Huh?” She stared at the case. “Oh, yeah, you promised to loan me your guitar. Thanks.”

“This isn’t a loan, Emma.”

“What do you mean?” She looked at him, seeing a twinkle in his eyes, like he was amused.

“It’s a gift. Call it an early Christmas present if you like.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. Open it.”

She laid the hard case on the desk and slowly opened it. “Oh, West. It’s so beautiful.” She picked it up to examine the guitar more closely. “It’s a Martin, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Yep.”

“But it’s way too nice. You can’t give me this.”

“I can if I want.”

“But it had to be expensive.” She knew a guitar like this could run close to five grand. How could he afford it?

“You’re not supposed to question a gift, Emma. Bad manners.”

“But—I—”

“I want you to have it. And I want you to play it tonight. We can jam together out by the fire. It’ll be fun.”

“What will you play?”

He went over to the big wooden cabinet that filled one wall. He unlocked and opened it to reveal a number of beautiful instruments inside—banjo, mandolin, ukulele, and a couple more guitars. He removed a handsome guitar. “This’ll work.”

“Isn’t that your boss’s guitar?” She felt seriously worried. This guitar looked even more valuable than the one he’d just presented to her.

“It does belong to the homeowner . . .” He paused to tune it.

“But aren’t you stepping over the line, West? Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Nah, he’s pretty understanding.” He grinned like this was fun. “Let’s grab some coats and get outside before the others. We can warm up a little.” He led her through the mudroom, where he helped her into a long fleecy coat.

“You’re sure it’s okay to use this?” She frowned.

“Sure. These spares are for guests.” Now he got out a wooden box filled with graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars. “For dessert.”

“Sounds good.” She nodded, but still felt worried. West was taking too many liberties with his boss’s generosity. What if he got fired? But before long, they were out by the fire pit, and as West stoked it up with more wood, she pushed her worries aside and began to play the gorgeous guitar. It sounded great.

“You’re not half bad.” He grinned.

“It’s the guitar. It sounds fabulous.” She smiled back at him but still felt concerned. How could he afford to give her such a fine instrument? What if it, like the one he was using, actually belonged to the house? She couldn’t believe West was deceitful or a thief, and she hated to keep questioning him about this. Especially since he seemed so happy tonight. He was clearly in his element—and a surprisingly good musician.

“You’re really good,” she said after they finished a familiar folk song.

“You sound surprised.” He chuckled as he broke into a Gunner Price song—one that she loved and knew by heart. As they played it together, taking turns on the vocals, Emma couldn’t believe how well their voices blended. When the song ended, his expression turned serious. “Emma, there’s something I need to tell—”

“Hey, that last song sounded great,” Harris called out. He and Grant, dressed warmly, came over to the fire.

“Yeah. You guys could seriously go pro,” Grant added.

They thanked them, and West started another Gunner Price song. One that Emma knew well enough to sing harmony throughout. While Harris and Grant roasted marshmallows, they joined in on the chorus. The four of them didn’t sound too bad.

In the midst of another robust tune, Gillian came outside, followed by her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Landers seemed pleased about the impromptu music fest, but Emma could tell by Gillian’s scowl she was in a bad mood.

“What a great idea.” Mr. Landers reached for a marshmallow roasting stick. “Music and s’mores. It’s like being at sleepover camp.”

“How about some Christmas songs?” Mrs. Landers suggested.

So West and Emma did some fun, sing-along Christmas songs like “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and “Rudolph.” Everyone was happily singing, roasting marshmallows, and eating s’mores—everyone except for Gillian. Her expression had turned even more sour, and between songs, she complained about the cold.

“You certainly do make yourself at home here,” Mrs. Landers said to West as he threw another log on the fire. “I hope your boss doesn’t mind.”

“Oh, his boss doesn’t mind.” Gillian’s tone suddenly turned sly.

“How would you know?” Grant held his marshmallow stick in front of her.

“I have my ways.” She grabbed off his gooey marshmallow and popped it into her mouth with a smirk.

“Thanks a lot.” Grant shook the stick at her.

“Have you even met his boss?” Harris challenged Gillian.

“Sure.” She licked her fingers, narrowing her eyes at West. “Haven’t I?”

“How could you possibly meet West’s boss?” her dad questioned. “He and his family are spending Christmas at our place in Scottsdale right now and—”

“Oh, his family might be at our house, but he didn’t go,” she said glibly.

Emma glanced at West to see he looked perplexed—or was it embarrassed? Perhaps he felt worried to think his boss might still be around. But how did Gillian know so much about this? What was going on here?

“So where’d you meet West’s boss?” Harris pressed Gillian. “Here in Breckenridge? Does he own other properties? And what’s he do for a living anyway? The dude’s got to be pretty rich.”

“Oh, yeah. He’s very rich. But he’s also very dishonest.”

“How do you know so much about him?” her mother demanded.

“Because I spent a lot of time with him.”

“When?” Grant asked her.

West loudly cleared his throat. “I think it’s time I did some explaining.”

“Please, do. If you can.” Mr. Landers sounded seriously aggravated.

“Yeah, this should be good.” Gillian chuckled.

“This is my house,” West said solemnly.

“You mean because you’re the caretaker,” Mrs. Landers clarified. “It might feel like your house, but I’m sure your boss wouldn’t agree—”

“I am the boss,” West admitted. “I own this house.”

“How is that even possible?” Harris demanded. “You’d have to be—”

“He’s TW Prescott,” Gillian declared triumphantly. “You’ve all heard of Gunner Price since his music is everywhere. He even played it tonight. So get this, gang, West’s full name is Tyler West Prescott, aka TW Prescott. And he’s made literally millions as the creator of most of Gunner Price’s biggest hits. He also writes songs for other well-known musicians.” She wrapped an arm around West’s shoulders, like they had some special bond or unspoken understanding. “Our buddy West here has been going incognito as the caretaker. And also as our rather popular ski instructor. And, just for the record, the so-called caretaker’s cottage is actually his music studio. Right, West?” She grinned at him.

He simply nodded, and suddenly they were all asking him questions, slapping him on the back, shaking his hand, and treating him like a real celebrity. Everyone except Emma. Feeling totally blindsided, she quietly set down the expensive guitar, and as Mr. Landers quizzed West about why he’d remained here instead of going to Arizona, Emma slipped back into the house and went upstairs.

All this time, West had been pretending to be someone he wasn’t? Who does that? And why? Even more irritating—and just like the gullible girl Gillian always claimed her to be—Emma had swallowed it whole. Hook, line, and sinker. She’d even gone as far as to imagine the simple sort of life she and West might enjoy together someday. She’d dreamed of something not so very different from her parents’ relationship. Except that, besides the need to work for a living, she and West would have their music to enrich their unpretentious lives. And they would have true love to sustain them.

It had been a pretty picture. But that sweet scene had been blasted to smithereens when Gillian made her startling announcement. Now Emma didn’t know what to think. She felt like the brunt of a bad joke . . . like she’d been tricked . . . humiliated. All she wanted now was to escape.