That Maddening Man. Debrah Morris
raised one brow. “Oh? He should be careful. A guy who doesn’t know what he’s doing could get hurt.”
Santa Jack winced. “I’ll warn him.”
“Can we go today?” Lizzie was all atwitter at the prospect of not only chopping down a tree, but meeting one of Santa’s special friends.
“That’s up to your mother.” Jack shot Ellin a look that was pure challenge.
“Can we, Mommy? Plee-e-se?”
Ellin decided Jack Madden knew exactly what he was doing. He’d set her up to score major villain points if she vetoed the plan now.
“Maybe.”
Lizzie pushed out her bottom lip and folded her arms on the padded restraint. “You say maybe, but that just means no.”
“It does not.” Ellin didn’t like being put in the hot seat. She was used to getting what she wanted and it wasn’t often someone turned the tables on her. Jack Madden might be good as gold, but he was also sly as a fox.
“Say yes!” Lizzie whacked the back of Ellin’s seat with her wand, either to get her attention or magically change her mind.
“Okay!” Wow. She’d just been suckered by Santa Claus. She eased on the brakes when she spotted Jack’s truck.
Lizzie went from pouty to perky in ten seconds flat. “We’re gonna chop a Christmas tree.”
Santa grinned. “I’ll tell my old buddy Jack to swing by your place later this afternoon. Around four o’clock?”
Ellin shoved the gearshift into Park with more force than was needed and popped open the trunk. “Fine. We’re staying at Ida Faye’s.”
“Oh, he knows where you live.” He sounded like a character in a cheesy horror movie. “Dress warmly. It gets cold out in the woods.”
Ellin answered his gotcha grin with a frosty glare. He shivered. “Oooh. It’s getting a little chilly in here. He turned to Lizzie. “You stay good, princess.”
“I will,” she promised. “Tell your friend Jack to help us chop down a big tree.”
“I’ll do it. Will you put out some cookies before you go to bed on Christmas Eve?”
“Yep. You like chocat chip? Or peanut butter?”
He appeared to think it over. “Chocolate chip, I think.” He gave Ellin a smart little salute as he got out to retrieve the gas can. “You have yourself a merry little Christmas, Ms. Bennett.”
“Yeah, yeah. You, too.” What an exasperating man. She’d like to deck Kriss Kringle’s halls for him.
“So, what’s she like?” Jana McGovern folded her arms on her desk and leaned forward in the classic pose of one who is all ears.
“She’s nice enough.” After changing out of the Santa suit, Jack had stopped by his twin sister’s small accounting office to get permission to cut a tree on the wooded property she owned with her husband Ted. As usual, he could not escape her evil clutches without first being grilled like a slab of sirloin.
“You sure about that? Because I heard she was a real pain in the butt.” Jana poured two cups of coffee and set one in front of her brother. “I believe ‘stuck up’ was the sobriquet of choice.”
“I think she’s just—”
“Aloof?” Jana supplied helpfully. “Arrogant?”
“I was going to say self-assured and outspoken.”
“You’re too nice, little brother,” she dismissed. “Poor Jig had to kick his blood pressure medicine up a notch after one brief meeting with the lady in question. Owen wouldn’t come out of the men’s room for an hour.”
Jack smiled. Owen Larsen, the newspaper’s layout artist and town’s oldest bachelor, was notoriously shy. “She’s not so bad.”
“Looking?”
“What?”
“Is she as attractive as I’ve heard?”
“Depends on what you call attractive.” Jack couldn’t afford to give her any encouragement. Minding her own business was not a life skill Jana had mastered.
She was always after him, nipping at his heels like a determined cattle dog. According to her, he’d needed to get back out in the world, take another chance, have another adventure. Use his God-given writing talent, and most importantly, fall in love. Apparently, being older by seven minutes entitled her to tell him what to do.
She just didn’t get it. He liked waking up every morning knowing exactly what the day would bring. Predictability was highly underrated, in his opinion. He knew all too well what the rest of the world had to offer and liked this part of it better. She accused him of being an underachiever, but he was just an old-fashioned guy trying to make a difference right where he was. He enjoyed both his jobs. He couldn’t imagine leaving his many friends to live among strangers.
And adventures? They were more often misadventures with ugly consequences.
“Attractive may be a subjective term,” Jana said. “But most of us agree on its basic meaning. So how good-looking is she?”
“Somewhere between mud fence and Mona Lisa.”
She gave him a knowing look. “Oh! You like her. I can tell.”
“You can’t tell anything.”
“Hah! Of course, I can. You’re not talking about her, so therefore, you think she’s hot.”
“Remind me again,” he drawled. “Is it Aristotelian or Ramistic logic that enables you to reach such truly cockamamie conclusions?”
“Jack, you little devil.” Jana reached out and patted his cheek. “You’re spouting big words. You are definitely working on a serious crush here.”
He gave her a concerned look. “Will you be visiting our planet much longer? Or do you plan to catch the mothership next time it’s in town?”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with you getting a little action, for a change.”
“For your information, twisted sister, I happen to get plenty of action.” He dated. Some. He was waiting for the right woman to come along. The woman his father assured him he would “know” when he met her. The one who’d “turn him inside out and five ways to Sunday.” He wanted happily ever after and the kind of relationship his parents had. Up until today, he hadn’t met anyone who even remotely filled the bill.
Jana laughed. “Sure you do. Like I get plenty of chances to dance on MTV. Just be careful, little brother. She’s older than you, and she’s from the big wicked city. A woman like Ellin Bennett will chew you up and spit you out like an Arkansas hairball.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “What colorful imagery, Jana. Maybe you should be a writer.”
“Nah, I’ll leave it to you. So how’s the book coming?”
“On its own terms.” Jack had long since stopped trying to explain right-brained activities to his left-brained sister. “Writing isn’t like bookkeeping.”
“When was the last time you worked on it?” she demanded.
“What are you, my conscience?” He finished his coffee. “I didn’t come in here to be pecked to death. You don’t understand the creative process.”
She snorted in derision. “What do you mean? I’m creative.”
“You’re an accountant,” he reminded dryly. “Being creative could land you in the slammer. Now, are you going to let me cut the damn tree or not?”
She fished the key to the property gate out of her purse with a big grin. “Here you go, Don Hemingway