Hello. "Yes, I do. Leave."
He stood there for a minute, and Bree stared him down, her heart pounding and her palms sweaty. His jaw was locked, his shoulders tense.
Finally, he said, "Okay. If that's what you want." He tried to step into his jeans and tripped over Akasha. "Damn it, this fucking cat is always under my feet."
Bree gasped and bent over to grab her cat. "Do not swear at my cat."
Ian rolled his eyes. "I wasn't swearing at the cat. I was swearing about the cat."
She bit her tongue before she said something utterly childish. Instead, she just turned and walked out the door.
"Bree!" Ian called after her. "Please, don't do this. We need to talk. We can figure this out."
Except that at the moment she just didn't want to.
Chapter 7
Bree sat in her living room in front of the fireplace the next day, her Yule log resting on the grate, red candles all around it. She felt much calmer than she had the day before. Discussing the bleak situation with Charlotte and Will had helped. The tax bill was a huge problem, there was no doubt about it. Her sister and her brother-in-law had echoed Ian's suggestions for how to handle paying the tax bill, but somehow coming from them the logic was way less irritating.
She felt bad about the way she had handled the situation with him. She was fairly certain she had overreacted, but she had just been so blindsided by the horror of potentially losing her house that she had lashed out at Ian. He had been an easy target, and she wasn't necessarily proud of that. But she didn't really know him well at all, and she had been falling for him. Hard. And that had scared her. So maybe she had found a reason to pull the plug. Which made her seriously annoyed with herself.
She was the one who always professed to believe in signs, to believe in destiny, to believe in her own empathetic ability.
Yet she had ignored all of those and reacted with fear and mistrust.
There was, or had been, something special growing between her and Ian, regardless of how short a time they'd known each other. She had been dreaming of him for a year, and she truly, genuinely enjoyed his company. When she was with him, she felt an ease and a comfort that she had never had with any other man.
Yet she'd thrown his jeans at him and tossed him out. Granted, he still had a little explaining to do as to why he hadn't tried to talk his client out of stealing her house from under her, but Bree understood that to a certain extent, Ian's hands were tied. She had reacted with pure emotion and now Ian was probably back in Chicago and she would never know the fulfillment of what they might have been together.
It sucked, basically. So Bree wanted to burn her log in solitude and ask her grandmother for guidance. She wanted to bring peace and more logic to her life in the new year. She wanted to stop acting first and thinking only later, and she needed to accept whatever was going to happen with the house. She needed to make a decision and be comfortable with it.
Closing her eyes, she visualized her desires, saw them as words and pictures in her mind. Peace. Answers. Ian.
Then she opened her eyes, lit her candles, and spoke softly, "As you burn, this spell's set free; As I will so mote it be."
An hour later, Bree stood up from her fireplace and blew out the half-burned candles. She knew what she had to do. She didn't like it, but it was the option that made the most sense, and she was at peace with it.
She was going to have to sell her house to Darius Damiano. She couldn't ask anyone to lend her that kind of money, even if they'd had it, and she couldn't afford a loan. She had to let the house go, and somehow in her meditations, she'd felt in her heart that her grandmother was telling her it was okay to do the reasonable thing. That she understood.
So Bree went to her computer, found a phone number for the heiress turned real-estate agent, Amanda Delmar Tucker, and gave her a call on her cell phone. Amanda answered right away, and Bree explained to her the situation.
"So, I need to find a place to live, Amanda. Either a rental house or if there's something decent available to buy, I'd be interested."
"No problem, Bree. We'll fix this for you. I do actually know of one property for sale that you might be interested in. It's over on Evergreen Drive, and it's a little 1920s Victorian. Sort of like a mini version of your house, and it's been empty for a while since the owner died and the kids have taken a year to decide what to do with it."
Evergreen Drive. That struck Bree as fortuitous. Evergreens symbolized eternal life since they never went completely dormant during the winter. Bree could use any sign she could get because she was still feeling a little shell-shocked from the whole situation. "So when can we see it? I don't have a lot of time. The buyer wants me out by February 1."
"We should be able to see it tomorrow since it's empty, as long as you don't mind that I'll have my monkeys, aka children, with me. Today was Piper's last day of school before Christmas break, and Logan lives on my hip since he's only six months old. I don't think Danny will be able to stay home with them on such short notice."
"I don't mind. You know I've always thought Piper was a great kid. I'll bring a book for her from the library to compensate her for having to go house hunting on her first day of break."
"She'd love that. And I have to say that I'm damn curious why Darius Damiano wants your house so badly that he was willing to dig through tax records. I know Darius from my clubbing days in Chicago, and he never struck me as mercenary. I'm really sorry he's doing this to you, Bree. I know what that house means to you, and your sisters, too."
Bree swore she wouldn't cry, but her eyes did tear up. "Thanks, Amanda. I'm trying to tell myself that there is a positive reason for all of this, I just can't see what it is yet."
"Sometimes things just suck, you know."
That made Bree give a watery laugh. "That's true."
"And not to change the subject—okay, I am totally changing the subject—but there is a rumor running around town that you're shagging my lawyer. Please tell me that it's true."
She should have known that the Cuttersville rumor mill would be grinding out the news about her and Ian in no time. "It's sort of true. Ian and I spent the day together yesterday, but then he told me about Damiano's 'offer,' which basically forced me to have to sell my house, and I thought he bore some culpability, so I sort of lost it on him."
"Oh, I doubt Ian had anything to do with it at all. He was just acting under the direction of his client. Ian is a really good guy under all the button-up shirts."
Somehow Bree suspected that was the truth.
"So did you sleep with him before you kicked him to the curb?"
Leave it to Amanda to just ask straight out what she was thinking. And leave it to Bree to tell the truth. "Yes. Twice."
"Ooohh, ma cherie, that is tres magnifique." Amanda sounded downright gleeful.
Bree felt the same when she thought back to the feel of Ian inside her. "But then I freaked out on him and threw his jeans in his face and kicked him out."
Amanda gave a short laugh. "Well, that's easy enough to fix, if you want to."
Bree knew she wanted to fix it. Or at least hear Ian's side of the story. "It's too late, Amanda. He went back to Chicago." She was sure of it.
Ian pulled into the driveway of the house that was for sale and parked his car to wait for the real-estate agent. He considered it a good sign that the listing agent was willing to show him the house on such short notice, and the price was unbelievably low. Ian could afford it easily and still maintain his condo in Chicago. He was very attracted to the idea of having a house in the country, one so close to Bree. Maybe if he was around town, they could fix the rift between them, and God knew, he wanted that more than he wanted any piece of property.
It had been an accident that had led him to the house. After leaving Bree's house two nights earlier, he had taken a wrong turn in the dark and wound up in a part of town he had never seen. He'd turned around in the driveway of this house and seen the for sale sign. Then he'd returned
in the light the next day and had felt an immediate kinship to the shabby Victorian. It was calling for an owner, and he was looking to put down roots.
Maybe it was a way to ease the wound of losing Bree so quickly after finding her. He didn't know. But he had looked at that house and felt like Charlie Brown with his spindly Christmas tree. They needed each other.
The agent, Marcy Hancock, had pulled in behind him. "This house needs work," she said as a way of greeting when they both stood in the driveway. "It's been empty for a year, and the mice have made it home."
Ian stuck his hands in his pockets. "I'm aware of that. But it sounds like the price reflects that, and if it's structurally sound, I don't have a problem with a little grime."
"Okay, let's take a look then. Oh, and another agent is bringing a client by to look at it. We might bump into them."
They went in through the back, into the kitchen. It needed serious updating but it had a good layout, and Ian could see it would be an easy job to replace the existing cabinets and do a remodel. Not cheap, but no walls needed to be moved either. He liked the light and the woodwork and the hardwood floors. He was feeling cautiously optimistic when they headed into the living room.
There he just stopped and stared. Holy shit. It was the room, the house, from his dream. It had the same musty smell, the same dusty floor.
The same bare and lonely Christmas tree standing in a corner.
The agent was running on and on about the previous owner and how the house had such potential, but Ian barely heard a word.
It was the house.
And the front door was opening.
He turned and there was Bree, walking into the house.
She saw him, and he felt it, just like in his dream. Her disappointment in him, her longing. The mutual ache from both their hearts.
God, he was in love with her. It was crazy, impossible, but he was.
Just looking at her standing there, snow on her boots, coat bundled up to her throat, gloves on, nose red from the cold, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.
"Ian?" she said. "What are you doing here?" She stepped into the entry hall.
He cleared his throat, which was suddenly tight. "I was thinking I might like a place in the country. I found this one by accident."
"Really?" Bree moved into the doorway of the living room, pausing between the open pocket doors. She looked around the room and gasped. "Oh, Ian." There were instant tears in her eyes. "This is the house in our dream."
"Bree," he said, moving toward her, unable to stop himself from taking her hands in his. "I'm so sorry about Darius and the house . . . I swear I had no idea what he was doing. I'll give you the money, I'll do whatever you want me to do to prove that I would never intentionally hurt you. Please understand that. I really, really . . . love you." He couldn't believe he'd said that out loud, but it was true, and he wanted her to know. Ian cupped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her forehead. "You can think I'm insane, but it's true. I know you. Does that make sense?"
"Yes." Her hands wrapped around his wrists, and she kissed the inside of his palm. "I know you had no part in Damiano's offer. I'm sorry I overreacted. I was hurt and overwhelmed, and I always react with emotion."
"I understand."
Bree looked up at him, saw the love he had for her shining in his dark eyes and she felt the peace, the happiness she had asked for. This was the man she wanted, whether it made sense or not, whether it was too soon or not. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and she knew that Ian was, quite literally, the man of her dreams. "I love you," she said. "And this is our house, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is." Ian smiled down at her. "Let's take the rest of the tour together."
"Yeesh, it takes forever to wrestle this car seat out of the car."
Bree turned to see Amanda Delmar Tucker stumbling in the front door in her jeans, a trench coat, and boots with two-inch heels, massive handbag over one arm and a baby carrier over the other. Amanda's son was nothing but a round bald head surrounded by fleece in his car seat. Her daughter, Piper, was standing behind Amanda, holding a diaper bag and peering curiously into the house.
Amanda stuck her sunglasses on her head and took a deep breath. "I feel like a pack mule." Then she seemed to finally realize what she was looking at. "Ian. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I'm buying this house, Amanda."
Amanda set the carrier down and slammed the front door shut. She came toward them, hand out. "No, you're not. Bree is. You've already let your client screw her out of one house, you're not screwing her personally out of another."
Bree thought it was awesome that Amanda was willing to go to the mat for her. But in this case, she didn't actually need to. Bree snuggled closer to Ian. "Actually, it's okay for Ian to screw me personally in this case."
Ian laughed. It took Amanda a second, but then she just said, "Hello. Not in front of my kids, okay? But what do you mean? What's really going on here?"
Ian said, "I think that Bree and I have decided to buy this house together, fifty-fifty. Am I right?" He looked to her for confirmation.
She had never been more sure of anything. "Absolutely."
"I'm confused," the real-estate agent who had been with Ian said.
"Hey, look," Piper said. The little girl had dumped the diaper bag on the floor and was wandering around the room. "There's still an ornament on this tree. It's a cat."
Of course it was.
Chapter 8
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Charlotte asked Bree for about the nineteenth time in the last two days. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm absolutely one hundred percent sure." Bree held a potted plant in her hand in the hallway of Granny's house. She was almost done moving all of her stuff to the house on Evergreen.
Abby pushed her hair out of her eyes and sat on the chair she had been carrying. "Not everyone needs to know someone for eight hundred years like you and Will did. Most people figure it out a little sooner."
Charlotte stuck her tongue out at Abby. "It was more like eight years, not eight hundred."
"Bad enough. Bree can't wait eight years. She'll be old by then."
Bree smacked Abby's arm. "Thanks. But no, I'm not waiting. Ian and I are starting our life together now."
"I just want you to be happy."
Bree smiled. "I am."
"I can't believe someone else owns this house now," Abby said, her expression sad as she glanced around the empty front rooms.
Bree reached out and squeezed Abby's shoulder. "I know. Me either." It was the only sad spot in a bright future. She was going to miss the house, miss the memories that could be found around every corner. But somehow she knew this was her grandmother's way of telling her that it was time for a new phase in her life.
"Hey, look, Akasha left that mistletoe bunch on the floor." Charlotte pointed to the corner of the living room, by the fireplace. "We should probably grab that."
Bree stared at the mistletoe and smiled. "Nah. I think we should leave that for Darius Damiano. It sounds like he could use a little love in his life."
Abby scoffed. "Or someone smacking him upside the head."
"You're not talking about me, are you?" Ian appeared in the doorway, Will behind him.
Bree smiled. "No, we're just insulting Darius Damiano."
"Fair enough," Ian said.
"What else needs to go out?" Will asked, ever the efficient and brawny cop.
"This chair," Abby said, still sitting on it.
"Well, I guess you need to get out of it then, Squirt."
Bree would have expected Abby to make a smart-ass remark back to Will, but instead she just stared into the parlor. Then she said, "I'm going to live in this house, Bree. I just saw it. I'm older, and I live here. With a dude."
Bree wanted to dismiss it as Abby's melancholy over losing the house, but she remembered Abby's prediction about Ian, and she had to trust it. Or at least that it was a possibi
lity. "I can see that, Abby."
Ian came over and whispered in her ear, "I love you. And I can't wait to debauch you in our new, freshly painted, remodeled house."
Bree turned slightly and kissed his cheek. "I love you, too. And I love the debauching in case you hadn't noticed."
"Oh, I've noticed."
Bree was wondering if they could get rid of everyone else for one last romp in the house, when her brother-in-law called over to them.
"Hey, Ian, give me a hand. Let's get the show on the road." Will was bent over, hands under the seat of the chair Abby was sitting in.
Ian went over and together they lifted the chair and carried a squealing Abby toward the front door. Charlotte hooked her arm through Bree's. "You okay?"
"I'm great." She had her sisters, her brother-in-law, a man she loved, a new house.
It was wonderful. It was magick.
Chapter 1
There were a dozen houses on Holland Court, and each household was represented at the annual Christmas party, which was, as usual, held on the afternoon of the second Sunday in December. Ruby had been tempted to skip the affair, to pretend to be sick or busy or antisocial, but weaseling out of anything Hester Livingston was in charge of was usually more trouble than it was worth.
Besides, she'd drawn a name, as had everyone else on the cul-de-sac. This year she was Secret Santa to Zane Benedict, the studly and standoffish professor who lived across the street from the house Aunt Mildred had left to Ruby in her will. Mildred had died more than six months ago, and the grief was still very sharp. When Ruby had buried her aunt, she'd buried all that remained of her blood kin, and the holidays only made her more aware of that fact.
"Did you lose a bet?"
Ruby glanced up from her seat in a chair against the wall to see that the professor himself stood before her, the box of cookies she'd made grasped in his hands. Large hands, she noted, with long, well-shaped fingers. She'd seen him from a distance more than a time or two, but never so close. She couldn't help but take a moment to study the details. His black hair was too long, curling just a little on his neck, but she suspected the style was a result of neglect, not design. His brown eyes were amazingly dark and deep. He needed a shave, this late in the day, and his clothes were the norm, for him. Jeans. Boots. A dark gray long-sleeved T-shirt. How tall was he, anyway? Six-three, she'd guess, but then she was sitting and he was standing.
Benedict hadn't been here for last year's Christmas party. He'd moved into his house shortly afterward—in February, if she remembered correctly. He'd skipped the early-summer picnic and made only a brief appearance at Aunt Mildred's funeral. She was actually surprised that he was here today. He didn't seem to be the neighborhood-party type. Mildred had loved these neighborhood affairs.
"What?" Why would he ask if she'd lost a bet? She blinked twice, fast, and pushed away the threatening tears that had crept up on her.
"The sweater." He gestured with the box.
Ruby glanced down at the holiday sweater Aunt Mildred had given her last year. Yes, it was gaudy and busy and too bright, but it was also festive, and she was trying very hard to feel festive. "It's Snoopy," she said. "You don't like Snoopy?"
"It's not becoming," the professor said. "The garment is too big for you and the design is garish."
"You came over here to tell me you don't like my sweater?"
Like her, Benedict was quiet in a crowd. He hadn't exactly been the life of the party thus far. Ruby wondered what Hester had threatened to get him here.
"No, not really." He offered the box of cookies to her. "I don't eat white sugar or white flour."
Ruby had thought nothing could take her mind off of her aunt today. This was Mildred's neighborhood, Mildred's friends, and it was impossible to be here and not be reminded that Mildred was no longer among the living. And yet somehow this odd man had turned Ruby's morose thoughts around. "I'm very sorry for you," she said, perhaps more coolly than was necessary.
"I'm not allergic," he responded, missing her subtle sarcasm. "I simply thought you'd like to give these to someone who will actually eat them. It would be a waste to throw them away. I'm sure those who eat this sort of thing will find them enjoyable."
Talk about ungracious! "The gifts are from Secret Santas," she said. "What makes you think I gave you those cookies?"
He tilted the box so that she could see the name of her business there, ruby's sweet shop was emblazoned on white in bright, crisp crimson. "You're not particularly good at being deceptive, I would deduce."
Someone else could've bought them at her shop, but the professor was right, of course. "In that box there is an assortment of my best-selling cookies. Macadamia white chocolate chip, oatmeal cranberry, peanut buttet chocolate chip, and orange-walnut. I understand eating healthy, I really do, but every man should indulge on occasion. Would it kill you to eat a cookie now and then?"
"Probably not," he responded seriously. "But refined sugars . . ."
"I don't want to hear it." Ruby snatched the offered box from his hands.
Instead of walking away from her, as he should have, the professor sat next to Ruby and asked, "What did you get?"
He couldn't have simply walked away once he'd returned her gift. No, he had to stick ar