A Cinderella Story: Maid Under the Mistletoe / My Fair Billionaire / Second Chance with the CEO. Maureen Child
he could have offered to drive them. Or at the very least, she could have driven his truck. Then he wouldn’t be standing here wondering if her damn car had spun out.
Why the hell was he watching? Why did he care if she was safe or not? Why did he even bother to ask himself why? He knew damn well that his own past was feeding the sense of disquiet that clung to him. So despite resenting his own need to do it, he stayed where he was, watching. Waiting.
Which was why he was in place to see Ken Taylor when he arrived. Taylor and his wife, Emma, ran the gallery/gift shop in Franklin that mostly catered to tourists who came up the mountain for snow skiing in winter and boating on the lake in summer. Their shop, Crafty, sold local artisans’ work—everything from paintings to jewelry to candles to the hand-made furniture and decor that Sam made.
Grateful for the distraction, Sam shrugged into his black leather jacket and headed out of the workshop into the cold bite of the wind and swirl of snowflakes. Tugging the collar up around his neck, Sam squinted into the wind and walked over to meet the man as he climbed out of his truck.
“Hey, Sam.” Ken held out one hand and Sam shook it.
“Thanks for coming out to get the table,” Sam said. “Appreciate it.”
“Hey, you keep building them, I’ll drive up the mountain to pick them up.” Ken grinned. About forty, he had pulled his black hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He wore a heavy brown coat over a flannel shirt, blue jeans and black work boots. He opened the gate at the back of his truck, then grinned at Sam. “One of these times, though, you should come into town yourself so you can see the reactions of the people who buy your stuff.” Shaking his head, he mused, “I mean, they all but applaud when we bring in new stock.”
“Good to know,” Sam said. It was odd, he thought, that he’d taken what had once been a hobby—woodworking—and turned it into an outlet for the creativity that had been choked off years ago. He liked knowing that his work was appreciated.
Once upon a time, he’d been lauded in magazines and newspapers. Reporters had badgered him for interviews, and one or two of his paintings actually hung in European palaces. He’d been the darling of the art world, and he’d enjoyed it all. He’d poured his heart and soul into his work and drank in the adulation as his due. Sam had so loved his work, he’d buried himself in it to the detriment of everything else. His life outside the art world had drifted past without him even realizing it.
Sam hadn’t paid attention to what should have been most important, and before he could learn his lesson and make changes, he’d lost it and all he had left was the art. The paintings. The name he’d carved for himself. Left alone, it was only when he had been broken that he realized how empty it all was. How much he’d sacrificed for the glory.
So he wasn’t interested in applause. Not anymore.
“No thanks,” he said, forcing a smile in spite of his dark thoughts. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t want to meet prospective customers, why he didn’t care about hearing praise, so he said, “I figure being the hermit on the mountain probably adds to the mystique. Why ruin that by showing up in town?”
Ken looked at him, as if he were trying to figure him out, but a second later, shook his head. “Up to you, man. But anytime you change your mind, Emma would love to have you as the star of our next Meet the Artist night.”
Sam laughed shortly. “Well, that sounds hideous.”
Ken laughed, too. “I’ll admit that it really is. Emma drives me nuts planning the snacks to get from Nibbles, putting out press releases, and the last time, she even bought some radio ads in Boise...” He trailed off and sighed. “And the artist managed to insult almost everyone in town. Don’t understand these artsy types, but I’m happy enough to sell their stuff.” He stopped, winced. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Sam assured him. “Believe me.” He’d known plenty of the kind of artists Ken was describing. Those who so believed in their own press no one could stand to be around them.
“But, Emma loves doing it, of course, and I have to give it to her, we do big business on those nights.”
Imagining being in the center of a crowd hungering to be close to an artist, to ask him questions, hang on everything he said, talk about the “art”... It all gave Sam cold chills and he realized just how far he’d come from the man he’d once been. “Yeah, like I said, awful.”
“I even have to wear a suit. What’s up with that?” Ken shook his head glumly and followed after Sam when he headed for the workshop door. “The only thing I like about it is the food, really. Nibbles has so many great things. My favorite’s those tiny grilled cheese sandwiches. I can eat a dozen of ’em and still come back for more...”
Sam was hardly listening. He’d done so many of those “artist meets the public” nights years ago that he had zero interest in hearing about them now. His life, his world, had changed so much since then, he couldn’t even imagine being a part of that scene anymore.
Ken was still talking. “Speaking of food, I saw Joy and Holly at the restaurant as I was leaving town.”
Sam turned to look at him.
Ken shrugged. “Deb Casey and her husband, Sean, own Nibbles, and Deb and Joy are tight. She was probably in there visiting since they haven’t seen each other in a while. How’s it going with the two of them living here?”
“It’s fine.” What the hell else could he say? That Joy was driving him crazy? That he missed Holly coming into the workshop? That as much as he didn’t want them there, he didn’t want them gone even more? Made him sound like a lunatic. Hell, maybe he was.
Sam walked up to the table and drew off the heavy tarp he’d had protecting the finished table. Watery gray light washed through the windows and seemed to make the tabletop shine.
“Whoa.” Ken’s voice went soft and awe-filled. “Man, you’ve got some kind of talent. This piece is amazing. We’re going to have customers outbidding each other trying to get it.” He bent down, examined the twisted, gnarled branch pedestal, then stood again to admire the flash of the wood grain beneath the layers of varnish. “Dude, you could be in an art gallery with this kind of work.”
Sam stiffened. He’d been in enough art galleries for a lifetime, he thought, and had no desire to do it again. That life had ultimately brought him nothing but pain, and it was best left buried in the past.
“Your shop works for me,” he finally said.
Ken glanced at him. The steady look in his eyes told Sam that he was wondering about him. But that was nothing new. Everyone in the town of Franklin had no doubt been wondering about him since he first arrived and holed up in this house on the mountain. He had no answers to give any of them, because the man he used to be was a man even Sam didn’t know anymore. And that’s just the way he liked it.
“Well, maybe one day you’ll explain to me what’s behind you hiding out up here.” Ken gave him a slap on the back. “Until then, though, I’d be a fool to complain when you’re creating things like this for me to sell—and I’m no fool.”
Sam liked Ken. The man was the closest thing to a friend Sam had had in years. And still, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Ken about the past. About the mess he’d made of his life before finding this house on the mountain. So Sam concentrated instead on securing a tarp over the table and making sure it was tied down against the wind and dampness of the snow and rain. Ken helped him cover that with another tarp, wrapping this one all the way down and under the foot of the pedestal. Double protection since Sam really hated the idea of having the finish on the table ruined before it even made it into the shop. It took both of them to carry the table to the truck and secure it with bungee cords in the bed. Once it was done, Sam stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and nodded to Ken as the man climbed behind the wheel.
“Y’know, I’m going to say this—just like I do every time I come out here—even knowing you’ll say ‘no, thanks.’”