Lakeshore Christmas. Сьюзен Виггс
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“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, you did.”
“I didn’t see you,” he repeated.
Of course he hadn’t. And it wouldn’t be the first time. “You should’ve been watching.”
“I was, I—” He raked a hand through his long, wheat-colored hair. “Christ, you scared the shit out of me.”
“There’s no need to take the Lord’s name in vain,” she said, then cringed at her own words. When had she turned into such a marm?
“It wasn’t in vain,” he replied. “I totally meant it.”
She sniffed, filling her senses with winter cold, tinged with exhaust. “It’s just so…unimaginative. Not to mention disrespectful.”
“And self-righteous to boot,” he said with a grin, handsome as a prom king. “It’s been real, but I gotta bounce.” He nodded in the direction of the bakery. “I’m meeting someone.”
A soft burble of sound came from…it seemed to be coming from his jeans. He dug in his pocket and extracted a cell phone.
Maureen glanced down at her own phone’s screen to see that it said Message Sent.
Then she looked back at Eddie Haven. Despite his easy dismissal of polite speech, there was no denying the man had presence. Although he was almost inhumanly good-looking, the strange appeal went deeper than looks alone. He had some kind of aura, a powerful magnetism that seemed to suck all the light and energy toward him. And he wasn’t even doing anything, just standing there checking his messages.
I am in such trouble, she thought.
With a bemused expression, he touched a button. A second later her phone rang. Startled, she dropped it on the ground.
He bent and scooped it up, holding it out to her. “Maureen, right? Maureen Davenport.”
“That’s me.” She turned her ringer off and slipped the phone into her pocket.
“What, you’re hanging up on me already?” he said.
“I suppose that would be a first for you. A woman, hanging up on you.”
“Shit, no, are you kidding?”
She winced. “Don’t tell me you’re going to talk like that the whole time.”
“Great,” he said, “so you’re one of those holier-than-thou types.”
“I’ll bet a convicted felon would be holier than you are,” she retorted.
“I’ve met quite a few felons who were holier than me. Wait a minute, I am a convicted felon.” He touched the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Does that mean I’m holier than me? Jesus, lady, way to mess with a guy’s head.”
“I’m sure I don’t mean to mess with your head or any other part of you,” she said.
He started walking toward the bakery. “So…Maureen Davenport.” He pronounced her name as though tasting it. “From the library.”
“That’s me.” She couldn’t tell if he was surprised, disappointed or just resigned.
He paused, frowned at her. “Have we met before?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “It’s weird that our paths haven’t crossed, in a town like this. I guess we just move in different circles, eh?”
She considered telling him their paths had crossed, but he simply hadn’t deigned to notice her. Instead, she simply nodded. “I guess.”
“This is going to be fun,” he said, clapping his hands together, then blowing on his fingers. “And fun is good, right?”
She didn’t think he expected an answer to his question.
“I’m Eddie Haven,” he said.
“I know who you are,” she said. Good grief, who didn’t know who Eddie Haven was? Especially now, with his anniversary DVD topping the charts. She knew it topped the charts because the library currently owned a dozen copies, and each of those had more than a hundred patron holds. She wondered what it was like for him to see his own flickering image on the small screen, year in and year out, all hours of the night and day.
She’d have plenty of opportunities to ask him, because this holiday season, she was stuck with him. The two of them had been charged with codirecting the annual Christmas pageant for the town of Avalon. She had taken on the job because it was something she’d always wanted to do, and she was well-qualified for the task. Eddie was her partner in the endeavor thanks to a mandate from a judge ordering him to perform community service. For better or worse, they were stuck with each other.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said easily. “I texted you.”
“I…sent you a text message, as well.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to use texted as a verb. “And after I hit Send,” she added, “I saw your message.”
In the bakery, several people greeted him by name, welcoming him back to town. Several more—mostly women, she noted—checked him out. A group of tourists looked up from studying their area maps and brochures to lean over and whisper about him, likely speculating about whether or not he was who they thought he was. With the publicity surrounding his movie, he was definitely back in vogue.
“Our table’s over here,” she said, leading the way, on fire with self-consciousness. There was no reason to feel self-conscious, but she did. She couldn’t help herself.
“Why do I get the impression you’ve already decided not to like me?” he asked, shrugging out of his jacket.
Was it that obvious? “I have no idea whether I’m going to like you or not,” she felt compelled to say. “Not a fan of the language, though. Seriously.”
“What, English? It’s standard English, swear to God.”
“Right.” She hung up her coat over the back of her chair and took a seat. She didn’t want to play games with this guy.
“You mean the swearing,” he said.
“Brilliant deduction.”
“Fine. I won’t do it anymore. No more taking the Lord’s name in vain or even in earnest.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” she conceded.
“They’re just words.”
“Words are powerful.”
“Right. You want to know what’s obscene?” he asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Violence is obscene. Injustice—that’s obscene, too. Poverty and intolerance. Those are obscenities. Words are just that—words.”
“A lot of hot air,” she suggested.
“That’s right.”
“Now that we’ve established you’re full of hot air, we should get to work.”
He chuckled. “Touché. Hang on a sec. I need to get a coffee.” He dug in his back pocket and took out a well-worn billfold. It flopped onto the floor, and he stooped to pick it up. “Sh—” he paused. “How about shit? Can I say shit?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Jesus—er, gee whiz. What the hell do you say when you drop something?”
“There are many ways to express dismay,” she pointed out. “I imagine you know plenty.”
“I’m asking you. What do you say when you get pissed off?”
“I don’t get pissed off.” She forced herself to use words she’d rather not.
He stood stock-still, as if he’d been planted in the middle of the bakery.