The Meaning in Mistletoe - Rachael Bloome Page 0,8
out loud, knowing they would incite questions she wasn’t ready to answer. “Thank you,” she said softly, resolving to tell Penny about their mother at another time. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me… to the shelter.”
“I’m happy to help. Truly. Let me flip the Closed sign on the front door, then we’ll head upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“I live in the apartment above the shop. The brooch is with my dad’s things.”
Recalling the portion in Penny’s letter about her father’s passing, she offered, “I was sorry to hear about your dad. Were you close?”
“Closer than close.” Penny’s eyes glimmered with warmth. “He was my best friend.”
Unexpectedly, tears welled in Kat’s eyes and she dismissed them with a sharp exhale. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to have one loving, dependable parent to speak of with such fondness. But a child didn’t get to choose that sort of thing. They simply had to play with the cards they were dealt. Or in her case, shuffle those particular cards to the bottom of the deck where they belonged.
Kat followed Penny past a thick brocade curtain into a disheveled storage room, then up a narrow staircase, her nerves mounting with each step.
Already emotionally drained from the experience, Kat couldn’t wait to secure the brooch and head back home, where she could leave the entire ordeal behind her for good.
Lost in his thoughts, Jack didn’t even notice the black smoke curling from the cast-iron skillet.
“Whoa! You’re taking charred chicken to a whole other level.” Yanking on an oven mitt, Colt quickly removed the skillet from the heat and switched off the burner.
Snapping to attention, Jack jammed on a lid before the murky cloud set off the smoke detector. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened.”
Okay, so that wasn’t technically true. He’d been daydreaming about the enigmatic stranger who’d nearly broken his arm. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Colt. He also wasn’t going to admit that he’d asked her out after a grand total of five minutes. Even if he did, his friend probably wouldn’t believe him. When it came to dating, Jack wasn’t exactly known for taking chances.
“Don’t tell me Vick and I need to start babysitting you around the stove,” Colt teased.
Jack rolled his eyes. “If anyone needs babysitting, it’s you. Every time I turn my back, you’ve whipped up a new recipe.”
“That reminds me. I wanted to talk to you about doing a special holiday menu.”
Saved by his vibrating phone, Jack eagerly slipped it out of his back pocket. “Hold that thought.” Glancing at the caller ID, he realized he’d forgotten to return his sister’s call. “Hey, Luce.” He pressed the phone to his ear as he stepped into his cramped office at the back of the kitchen. “Sorry I didn’t call back. I got sidetracked. How long ago did you leave LA?”
“About an hour ago.” Her voice crackled in her car’s Bluetooth speakers.
“Great! So I’ll see you for a late dinner. What would you like? I’ll make you anything you want. Except for sushi.” He chuckled, recalling how her tastes had evolved since she moved to Los Angeles after college to pursue her dream of designing movie sets for Hollywood.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you…” She trailed off, and Jack glanced at the phone, checking their connection when he didn’t hear anything for several seconds.
“Luce?” he prompted, reclining in his battered leather chair. He thought about pushing aside the mountain of paperwork to prop up his feet, but he stretched them under the desk instead.
She released a crestfallen sigh. “I can’t come this year.”
“What?” He bolted upright, banging his knee against the sharp corner of an open drawer. Suppressing a groan, he rubbed the sore spot. “What do you mean you can’t come?”
“I want to, but Mom got it into her head that she wants to throw a huge party on Christmas Day and needs my help to plan it.”
“You don’t say.” He couldn’t help the bitter edge that crept into his voice.
Accustomed to being in the middle of their feud, Lucy ignored his sardonic droll. “Why don’t you come to Primrose Valley for Christmas this year? It’s less than an hour away.”
“You know I can’t do that. Besides, Mom’s elaborate parties aren’t really my thing.”
“What about wassailing? The whole family is going. You used to love it when we were kids.”
Closing his eyes, Jack pressed his fingertips to his temple as memories of their family caroling tradition came rushing back. They used to borrow Victorian-era costumes from