Tropical Holiday Tails - Zoe Chant Page 0,24

wound he didn’t even realize he had.

He had given up correcting his name to Chet; they all called him Chef without batting an eye, and he had to admit that he liked it.

Christmas Eve caught him entirely by surprise, and he might not have marked it at all if Scarlet had not come to talk with him about special preparations for the Christmas dinner the following day.

After they had finalized a menu and she had clicked away in her sensible, low heels, Chet stood for a while in the empty kitchen and gazed around it.

It was an ample, modern kitchen, outfitted sensibly in every way, and Scarlet kept it stocked in high-quality ingredients and good tools; it was a cook’s dream.

It was his dream, Chet admitted to himself, even if he’d never realized it.

Christmas Eve. The anniversary of his desertion from the ranks of Royal Guard.

It was always a bittersweet day.

He couldn’t regret his choice; it was impossible to think of any life without Agneta—Magnolia—at his side, and he loved her as deeply and wildly now as he ever had. But he had never entirely made peace with abandoning his duty, and every year, he raised a glass to the guardsmen he’d left behind.

This was the first year he’d ever thought he might find that kind of companionship again, that he could once again have a sense of belonging to a greater whole.

He poured himself a glass of red wine, but hesitated over the toast. His betrayal felt fresh, scraped raw again by hope.

If Magnolia…

“I thought I’d find you here,” her voice came merrily behind him. She walked more quietly than a woman of her size was expected to.

Chet turned, the wine still in his hand. “Your Highness,” he said unthinkingly.

“Oh, darling,” she said, the way she said it only for him. “We really have to work on that.”

She was holding a manila envelope, and she was smiling. “I brought you your Christmas present early,” she said, holding it out to him. It wasn’t wrapped.

Chet felt a stab of guilt as he put down his wine. He’d never gotten around to finding her a better present, completely swept up in his unexpected kitchen duties. “Magnolia,” he said achingly.

“Open it, Chef,” she told him.

Chet was so used to the nickname by now that it didn’t register until he’d bent back the clasps and was pulling out the paperwork within.

It was a contract: one part long-term lease, one part employment. His name was at the top, and there were sticky notes at all the places he was expected to initial and sign.

“What is this?” he asked, not daring to hope, as he flipped through the pages skimming section headers.

“Your Christmas present,” Magnolia teased. Chet hadn’t seen such light in her eyes in a long time. “And mine, I might add.”

“This is long-term…we’d stay here?” Chet felt slow and stupid with anticipation. Was it…possible? Was it right? “You…”

“I want to stay,” she assured him, as if she knew his thoughts—and maybe she did. “I love it here, and I’m tired of traveling. I’ve never seen you this happy; I want you to do this.” Then she grinned, and added pointedly, “Chef.”

“Your…”

“Magnolia,” she said firmly. “I’ve decided to keep this name.”

Chef let the contract fall to the floor as he stepped forward and gathered her into his arms. “Magnolia,” he said, kissing her neck and breathing in the sweet scent of her hair. “My love.”

“Merry Christmas,” she laughed, sliding her strong arms up around his neck. “To both of us.”

“I have other gifts for you,” Chef murmured.

“I can’t wait to unwrap them,” Magnolia whispered back.

Scarlet and the Christmas Kittens

This story was included at the end of Tropical Christmas Stag. It has no particular spoilers, but does have a number of hints of the secrets that would soon be revealed…as well as a line that is one of the greatest puns I’ve ever written, even though no one would actually understand it until book ten.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Grant. I simply cannot confirm that Conall Wright is residing here, nor could I promise that he would be available to play at your daughter’s wedding if he was.” Even though it was a phone call, and Mrs. Jubilee Grant was several thousand miles away, Scarlet kept her face in a perfect mask of polite restraint.

Predictably, Mrs. Grant had protests.

“Yes, Mrs. Grant,” Scarlet said calmly. “I realize that you meant Conall Wright the classical guitarist. I cannot—”

She listened a little longer, gambling that she wasn’t missing anything critical