It Must Have Been the Mistletoe... (7 page)

Alison had been thinking about writing a book on Ettie's life. It would make the perfect summer project. And it would take her back to the mountain—Drew's mountain. The research would be difficult. There probably weren't many people alive who remembered her childhood. But Ettie deserved to be remembered, beyond the simple gravestone that marked her final resting place.

“Your recital was so lovely,” her mother said. “I hope they made a recording of it. Did they?”

“Yes. If I go to North Texas, they want me to make a CD.”

“That's wonderful!”

“It's just a small, academic label. Nothing big. I'm not going to hit the Billboard Top 100 with the music I sing. But I was thinking that Layla might want to play on it. And you and dad could sing harmonies.”

“Oh, I don't know. Your father and I don't sound as good as we used to.” Her mother wiped her hands on a towel. “Honey, go see if you can get Rita out of her room. I need her to iron the costumes for the nativity scene.”

Her two sisters had arrived home before Alison. Layla had rushed off to do last-minute shopping and Rita was locked in her room, upset about something that she refused to talk about. Alison's father was outside in the cold, trying to prop up the ramshackle stable on their front lawn for just one more year.

The nativity was a Christmas tradition with the Coles and everyone from the neighborhood came. The family dressed up as characters from the Christmas story and gave a concert, which they ended with a beautiful traditional bluegrass arrangement her father had done of “Silent Night.” Alison
and her parents sang and Layla usually played, although she didn't like it. And Rita, when she bothered to come home for Christmas, stood in the shadows.

“How many Christmases has it been?” Alison asked, reaching for a frosted sugar cookie.

“Ten,” her mother said. “This is our tenth nativity scene. It seems like just yesterday I was sewing the costumes.”

“When was the last time we were all together,” Alison asked. “I can't remember.”

“Christmas Eve? It's been a while. Rita wasn't here last Christmas or the one before.” Her mother smiled wistfully. “It's nice to have all my girls together again. Honey, I want you to sing those two songs from your recital. The ones by Ettie Lee Harper.”

“I will.” Alison's thoughts drifted back to the funeral, to the last time she'd spoken with Drew. After the service, they'd stood next to her car, silently holding each other's hands, both of them knowing that this might be the last time they'd touch each other.

She hadn't wanted to leave, but in the end had kissed him and promised to stay in touch. It was an empty promise, but it made saying goodbye a bit easier. Although, it hadn't done much to put thoughts of him out of her head.

She wondered what he was doing, where he was for the holidays. He'd mentioned that he had a sister in Nashville, but for all she knew, he was in Knoxville with his parents. Or maybe even on the mountain, tending to some emergency.

Alison reached for her bag, which was hanging from the back of her stool. She could at least call him and wish him a Merry Christmas. Rummaging through the messenger bag, she came across the small package that Drew had given her at the funeral, still wrapped in red paper and tied with twine. She set it on the counter in front of her.

“A present for me?” her mother asked.

“No,” Alison said. “It's a present for me. From a friend.”

“Are you going to open it or just sit there and look at it?”

“I—I guess I'll open it.” She slipped the twine off the gift and tore away the paper to reveal a digital recorder, much like her own. Alison pressed play and the sound of Ettie's voice filled the room.

“Hello, Alison. This is Ettie Lee Harper. Drew has given me this little recorder and he's told me I must record more of my songs for you. So that's what I've set out to do. Oh, and tell some of my stories, too. But before I begin, I want you to know how glad I am that you and Drew have found each other. He's a fine boy and you could do a lot worse.”

Alison switched off the recorder and looked up at her mother. “Who is Drew?” Amanda asked.

“Just a guy I know. Knew,” she corrected. “I met him when I met Ettie. He's her great-great-nephew. And a doctor.”

“A doctor?”

“Yes, Mom, a doctor. But he doesn't work in a big hospital and he doesn't have a fancy house and car. He works out of a clinic in the mountains a couple hours from Johnson City.”

“Sounds like a nice fellow,” she said. “Are you…dating?”

Alison shook her head. “No! We're just friends.”

The front door slammed and Layla's voice echoed through the house. “Aly! Aly, where are you?”

Alison's mother frowned. “What is she shouting about?”

“Nothing,” Alison said. “I'm in the kitchen,” she called out.

A few seconds later, Layla appeared in the kitchen door, her hat askew and her color high. “You have a visitor.”

“A visitor?”

“Yes! He's standing in the front yard talking to Dad. I walked past and he introduced himself. Tall? Dark? Very handsome? Goes by the name of Drew?”

“He's here? Outside with Dad?” Alison pushed off her stool and threw her arms around her sister, giving her a fierce hug.
“He's here.” She stepped back. “Do I look all right? Is my hair combed?”

“You look fine,” her mother said. “Go out and say hello. And ask him if he might want to join our nativity scene. We could always use an extra shepherd. I'm sure we have a costume for him up in the attic.”

Alison raced through the house and threw open the front door, then bounded down the porch steps. “Drew!” she called.

He turned and looked at her, his eyes lighting up with laughter. “Alison!”

She ran across the lawn and jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. “What are you doing here?”

“Right now, I'm helping your dad fix this stable.”

She pressed his face between her hands and kissed him hard. “You're the best Christmas present I could have asked for.”

“That's good. Because you can't return me.”

“How long can you stay?”

“For as long as you'll have me.” He set her back on her feet and pulled her toward the porch. “I've made some decisions, Alison. I love my work on the mountain, but I love you, too. I know we haven't known each other very long, but I think we have something very special and I don't want to let it go.”

“I don't either,” she said, dropping another kiss on his lips.

“So, I figure, I'll move to Johnson City, we'll get a place together, and I'll just make the drive every day to the clinic. And when the weather is bad, I'll spend the night. And when you're off in the summer, we'll go up to the cabin. I've already called and we're going to put in electricity and plumbing.”

Alison sighed. “That's all right for the summer. But what happens when I take the job in Texas? I'm pretty sure they're going to offer it to me.”

He pulled back. “We'll figure that out when the time comes.
We'll see how we feel and make a decision then. For now, I think we need to give each other a chance to make this work.” Drew kissed her. “Just give us a chance.”

She looked up into his eyes. She did love him, even though she'd spent the past three weeks denying her feelings. Now that he was here, right in front of her, Alison realized she didn't want to walk away again. If she really wanted to grow old with someone, now was the time to start making it happen. And she knew she'd never find another man who made her feel the way Drew did.

“I like the cabin exactly the way it is,” Alison said. “I don't want you to change a thing. And I have some plans of my own, too. I'm thinking about writing a book about Ettie. And I'm going to interview for a tenure position at East Tennessee. I might just decide against Texas. It's so much administrative work there and not enough teaching and—”

“So we're going to make this work, the two of us?”

She stared into his eyes. Alison knew in her heart this was the right choice. She didn't know exactly how it would turn out, but she knew that she and Drew belonged together. Ettie had sensed it, and now, here they were, at the beginning of their own adventure.

“We will,” she said.

Drew kissed her, his tongue softly invading her mouth, his fingers furrowing through her tangled hair. This was exactly where she belonged, Alison mused. In his arms. Geography didn't matter.

“Now that you're here, there is one more thing,” she said. “We have to find you a shepherd costume that fits. Because you could score major points with my mother if you volunteer for our nativity scene. It's a family tradition. Everyone in town comes.”

Her father laughed and they turned to look at him. “I think Drew would make a fine addition to our nativity scene. Can you sing?”

Alison grabbed Drew's hand. “I never asked. Can you sing?”

“I think I'm pretty good,” he said.

“All right, then. It's time you met the rest of the family. You're going to get a lot of Cole this Christmas.”

Rhonda Nelson

For my mom and sister, who
always
make sure I have a good Christmas. Love ya'll.

W
ITH ANY LUCK
L
AYLA
C
OLE
would have gained fifty pounds and developed a skin problem, Bryant Bishop thought as he waited on the tarmac for her plane to arrive. He watched Christmas lights glitter in the airport windows, and country superstar—and his boss—Clint Walker's cover of “Jingle Bells” drifted to him through the SUV's speakers.

As Clint's head of security, picking up a replacement mandolin player for the last two dates on a four-month tour didn't exactly fall into Bryant's job description, but for reasons he still hadn't figured out, he'd volunteered to make the airport run.

Clearly he'd gone insane.

In the first place, Layla Cole didn't like him.

In the second place—as if the first wasn't enough—Bryant was too intrigued with her by half, and the idea that she was going to be spending three days with them on the road had given him a sense of anticipation, outright excitement and expectation that he'd never experienced before.

As if Christmas had come early and she was the ultimate present.

Oh, yeah,
Bryant thought.
He'd lost it.

No doubt Layla Cole was going to be someone's Christmas
present—the idea made his gut tense with uncomfortable dread—but she sure as hell wouldn't be his. Long story short, he'd rebuffed her little sister's advances and little sister had evidently cried foul, because the next time he'd seen Layla—another party, another friend—she'd been quite cool. Strange how they kept bumping into each other over the years, Bryant thought. They'd never really traveled in the same circles, but the spheres definitely overlapped enough to be jarring.

Or at least jarring to him. And the great pity in all of this? He thought he'd caught a glimpse of mutual interest in her covert gaze prior to the issue with her little sister. Thought he'd recognized a kindred soul. He'd been drawn to her, had loved merely hearing the sound of her voice, had found himself circling closer and closer to where she stood. Compelled, for lack of a better description.

Which made her all the more dangerous and him all the more stupid.

It was a cocktail for disaster, and the hell of it? He was more than ready to drink up.

 

C
OUNTRY MUSIC STARS SURE
knew how to travel in style, Layla Cole thought as she settled against the king-size leather recliner on Clint Walker's private jet. She nursed a shot of whiskey—Jack Daniel's, of course—from a cut-glass tumbler and hoped that the alcohol would relax her enough to get her through this first performance.

There was a reason she didn't play in front of a live audience—it terrified her. It always had.

Born into a musical family who'd followed the state fair circuit in a converted school bus for the majority of her formative and teen years, Layla had more experience with live crowds than she'd ever wanted. Contrary to her parents' insistence that she would eventually “get comfortable” with being onstage, she never had. In truth, her stage fright had only gotten worse, and she couldn't have been happier when
her family finally settled in Ponder Hill, Tennessee, a sweet little town right outside Nashville with a single caution light and a small square.

Her father had gone to work teaching music at the local high school and her mother had started giving piano lessons. Layla and her sisters Rita and Alison had taken their respective places in public education for the first time in their lives, and while the family still occasionally sang at various festivals, fairs and Fourth of July picnics, their parents had finally surrendered their name-in-neon-lights dreams and bought a house. Her father still kept the bus in prime working order though, and had even built a special garage to house the damned thing. The thought made her smile.

“We'll be landing in five minutes, Ms. Cole,” the pilot announced for her benefit.

Nerves attacked her again, making her wince as her belly tightened. She closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten, imagining the twenty wooded acres she'd be able to finish paying off from the proceeds of this venture.

Two performances in front of
thousands
of people, that was all.

She could do it.

She would
make
herself do it.

Honestly, if anyone had told her she'd be flying to Atlanta the week before Christmas to play her mandolin for Clint Walker, who had called her himself to ask for her services, she would have never believed it. But Clint's work ethic and talent were legendary on Music Row and he'd asked with just enough praise and charm to make her momentarily forget why she didn't work onstage. Besides, she'd actually laid the tracks in the studio so it only made sense that he'd ask her to fill in. Then he'd casually mentioned what he was willing to pay her, throwing in a sizable bonus because of the time of year. She'd immediately imagined being able to break ground on her house after Christmas, and any thought of saying no
had simply disappeared. She could say goodbye to apartment living.

True, she was terrified to perform in front of an audience. But she wanted her house more, a personal sanctuary, her own little piece of earth. She wanted to plant dogwood trees and wisteria and sip her tea on her front porch while she listened to the little creek burble in the distance. She wanted a cutting garden, herbs and tomatoes, lush ground covers and fruit trees. She wanted an arbor of climbing roses and bird feeders and hanging baskets loaded with blooms dripping from the eaves. And if a cartooned bluebird landed upon her shoulder and she was suddenly hit with the urge to break into song, then so be it. This was her dream, her fantasy, and if it had taken a few liberties with Walt Disney's imagination, well…

Layla smiled and resisted the urge to pull her scrapbook from her carry-on bag. She'd been clipping pages from magazines for years, carefully filling in the white space with her dream home. She winced.

Lamentably, there was no man in any of the pictures at the moment—according to her sisters, she was too picky—but her floor plans called for his-and-her walk-in closets and she'd bought a king-size bed. She was willing to make room in her life for the right guy, but would be lying if she denied her faith in his existence was waning. Layla wanted a guy with an artist's soul and a farmer's attachment to the land, to a home and family.

Tall order.

In fact, she wasn't altogether certain that the artist's soul could inhabit the farmer's body, in which case she might as well settle for one or the other, but was unwilling to do that either.

Picky? No. More like…
particular
.

She'd rather be alone than fill that slot with a man who would ultimately make her miserable. There wasn't much point in putting in all this hard work and planning to build her
dream home only to have it turn into the armpit of hell with a guy who didn't fulfill her. Someone who didn't want the same things she did. She'd spent the bulk of her childhood wandering. She wanted to
settle
. She wanted a fancy mailbox with her name on it and a yearly bill from the county courthouse for her property taxes.

She also wanted sex, but didn't see that happening anytime in the near future. It had been more than a year since she'd broken up with her last boyfriend—nicknamed Bitter Disappointment #3—and while she was perfectly willing to consider the idea of a little casual sex, she hadn't met a single guy in the interim who'd inspired her to do so.

Inspiration was important.

She felt the plane jolt as the wheels hit the ground and her fingers tightened around the armrests. Going up never bothered her. Coming down, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish.

As the plane taxied to a stop, Layla mentally girded her loins for the coming evening and gathered her things. She didn't have much. Just an oversize overnight bag, a tote that housed her small purse and her mandolin, of course. Though she could play almost any stringed instrument, this was the one that owned her. True, you could get a more sustained sound from a guitar or violin, but there was something about the sound
this
particular instrument made that simply spoke to her soul. The mandolin was finicky, required a fast touch and being able to wind its melody through the other instruments gave her a high that no chemical could ever induce.

She loved it.

She took a deep, bracing breath and stepped off the plane.

And it was a good thing she'd just inhaled all that oxygen, because the ability to put air into her lungs promptly vanished when she saw the man standing on the tarmac.

Bryant Bishop.
Ultimate inspiration. The inspiration to end all inspiration.

It had been years since she'd seen him. At least two, if not three. But she'd recognize the shape of those shoulders anywhere, and the head that rested upon them wasn't too damned bad either.

He was the
only
man she'd ever dreamed about, and in those dreams, he was alternately rocking above her, gloriously naked, or parked in a chair beside her, rocking on her front porch.

Only an idiot would misinterpret the significance and Layla was no idiot.

Despite the freezing temperatures, her body felt as if it had suddenly landed in the Sahara. There wasn't a molecule inside of her that wasn't keenly aware of him, and her joints—particularly her knees—were undergoing some sort of chemical change that rendered them almost useless. Fire licked through her veins, concentrating in her nipples, and an inferno burned low in her belly. The sensation was so startling that it jolted the breath out of her lungs, making her gasp like a floundering fish. Gallingly, her cheeks blazed right along with the rest of her.

He smiled, almost knowingly, and her mortification was complete.

Bryant had a face that was more interesting than handsome, a series of planes and angles that held character rather than beauty. High cheekbones provided the perfect structure for the lean slope of his face and smooth angle of his jaw. An intriguing cleft bisected his chin and there was something overtly carnal about his mouth. His eyes were the color of smooth butterscotch and held a heavy-lidded quality that gave the illusion of either boredom or sleepiness, whichever he preferred.

Right now he looked bored.

Excellent.

The lightning bolt to her libido and alarming dreams aside, she couldn't say she was overjoyed to see him either. According to her little sister, Rita, he'd once made a play for her and hadn't reacted kindly when she'd rebuffed him. Layla had been disappointed on two counts, the first being that he'd preferred her sister, and the second that he'd behaved like a boor. Honestly, the latter was actually more of a letdown. Rita was pretty. Layla wasn't surprised that he'd liked her. But she'd never taken him for an arrogant ass.

What was he doing here? she wondered. What did he have to do with Clint Walker's operation? Better still, how much time was she going to have to spend with him over the next few days?

Because every second put her that much closer to self-combustion, and the longing that suddenly welled inside of her made her desperately want to turn her dreams into reality.

Particularly the gloriously naked ones.

Desire was a pain in the ass.