Page 57

Jackson’s expression softened, and that smile she loved so much spread across his face. “Then I guess we’re doing this. Mr. and Mrs. Claus, reporting for duty.” He turned to her, his eyes sparkling with warmth. “May I, Mrs. Claus?” he asked, plucking a Santa hat from the counter and dropping it onto her head .

Before Vanessa could answer, he swept her into his arms and dipped her dramatically, like something out of an old movie. She gasped, then laughed, her arms wrapping around his neck as he kissed her, the hat falling to the floor where Rascal promptly leapt on it.

When he pulled her back upright, both of them were laughing, and Mabel was clapping her hands in delight.

“Perfect!” Mabel declared. “You two are absolutely perfect.”

And they were, Vanessa thought.

Nothing had ever been more perfect than this man, and this home, that she’d found in Fir Tree Grove.

* * *

Christopher hefted another armload of firewood to carry back to the bed and breakfast for the fire that evening. The cold December air bit at his cheeks, and his breath came out in white puffs that dissipated quickly in the bright midday sun.

He’d been out here for the better part of an hour, gathering wood from the shed and stacking it on the back porch. He didn’t really need to—he’d stocked up plenty before the storm—but he needed something to do with his hands and occupy his mind.

Layla had said she was staying in Fir Tree Grove for Christmas, and he was happy about that… beyond happy, really, but he wasn’t sure what it meant, exactly, for them. He couldn’t come right out and ask her, not when she was still dealing with her parents, and he was, if he was being honest with himself, a little afraid of the answer.

Just because she was staying for Christmas and giving the town more of a shot didn’t mean that she wanted more with him.

Christopher was bending to pick up another log when he heard voices from the front of the house. He straightened, listening. The crunch of footsteps on the gravel driveway. The sound of car doors opening.

They were leaving.

He told himself to stay where he was, to give them privacy and let Layla say goodbye to her parents without an audience. But he couldn’t help but glance over to see how it was all going.

Her parents’ black Mercedes was in the driveway, the engine running and the exhaust puffing white in the cold air. Steven Thompson was loading suitcases with a set, grim expression, and Mary stood beside the passenger door, her coat buttoned up to her chin, her expression unreadable.

Layla was talking to her mother, her face also firm, but she didn’t look as upset as before. She was talking to her mother, her voice too low for Christopher to hear. Mary was nodding, saying something back. The conversation looked… civil, at least. Not warm, but not the cold dismissal he’d witnessed at dinner either.

Steven closed the trunk and came around to join them, putting a hand on Layla’s shoulder. She looked up at her father, and even from this distance, Christopher could see the emotion on her face.

Then, to his surprise, Mary stepped forward and pulled Layla into a brief hug. It was stiff and awkward, but it was something.

Mary pulled back, said something else, and then turned toward the car. Steven gave Layla’s shoulder one more squeeze before following his wife.

But Mary paused with her hand on the car door. She looked back at the house, and Christopher realized with a start that she was looking directly at him. To his surprise, she stepped away from the car and walked toward him, her heels clicking on the gravel. Christopher set down the firewood he’d been holding and went to meet her, more than a little surprised and confused.

“Mr. Holcomb,” Mary said when she reached him. Her voice was cool.

“Mrs. Thompson.” He nodded. “I hope you had a comfortable stay.”

“It was… adequate.” She glanced back at the B&B, and Christopher braced himself for criticism. But when she looked back at him, her expression was thoughtful. “Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”

It wasn’t much, but after a couple of days with Layla’s parents as guests, he heard it for the concession it was. He smiled politely. “Of course. It’s what I do.”

Mary was quiet for a moment, studying him with those sharp eyes that were like Layla’s, but much more calculating. “I don’t understand this place,” she said finally. “I don’t understand what my daughter sees in it. It’s so… small. So limited.”

Christopher felt a flash of defensiveness but kept his voice level. “It’s not for everyone.”

“No, it’s not.” Mary’s lips pressed into a thin line. “But I can see that there might be something to the side of Layla that has been reawakened by her stay here.” She paused, and Christopher saw reluctant acceptance flicker across her face. “I don’t understand it. But I can tell it has been important to her.”

He could tell the admission had cost her something. Christopher felt his anger soften slightly.

“Your daughter is remarkable,” he said quietly. “She has a beautiful heart and she sees things in a beautiful way. That’s not something that should be suppressed.”

“Hmm.” Mary paused. “Thank you again, Mr. Holcomb.”