Her Christmas Surprise

Lydia put her hands on her ample hips. “Well, Sandra Maxwell told me she overheard Little Missy Olivia talking when she was waiting on their table at Petrino’s, and she usually tells me straight.”

“I’m sure Olivia doesn’t want to think that her son could do anything like that,” Jeannie said. “What mother would? You’d hope that you’d raised them better.”

“Well, she should wake up and smell the coffee.” Lydia shook her head so hard that her red plait of hair swung back and forth. “She’s been fooled. Everybody’s been fooled.”

Including yours truly, Keely thought. “Look, how about if I go get us some coffee and donuts?” she interrupted. If she didn’t get out, she was going to go nuts.

Lydia and Jeannie gave each other a rueful look. “We’re ranting, aren’t we?” Jeannie asked.

“Well…”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She gave Keely a hug. “He just makes me so mad, that’s all.”

“You deserve better,” Lydia said.

“Why don’t you take a break and go get us some coffee,” Jeannie suggested. “We’ve got half an hour to finish the rest of these centerpieces for Lillian Hamilton’s tea and you’ll just distract us.”

“I’ll help when I get back.”

“You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

“I relax better when I’m busy.” Keely winked and walked out onto the street she could have navigated with her eyes closed.

Christmas garland festooned the trees, every shop was decorated, emphasis on quaint. Growing up, she’d always vainly hoped that her parents would move to the city, any city, just somewhere more exciting than Chilton. After all, they’d had the money to do whatever they wanted.

At least back then.

But Staffords had lived in Connecticut for decades, centuries, all the way back to the days of British rule. They weren’t budging now.

Of course, things had changed in that time. Maybe they still lived in the big fieldstone house her great-great grandfather Clement Stafford had built in 1891, but the family money was gone, eaten away by the crash of 1987 and the subsequent bursting of the Internet bubble. Her father had many fine qualities, but stock-market savvy was not one of them. He’d ridden some big losers right down into the ground.

Oddly, he seemed happier now that the bulk of their holdings had been lost. Instead of facing a self-imposed pressure to increase the family fortune by the thirty or forty percent his predecessors had managed, he went to work every day to the shipping company that had brought him on as CEO. The company’s stock kept rising and her father thrived.

As did the florist shop that Jeannie had launched right after the crash with the last of her own trust fund, hoping to keep the creditors at bay. She’d taken the skills that had won her Garden Club awards and parlayed them into a successful business. And if some of her DAR cronies looked down on her for working, she was happier being productive. So they’d had to sell off the houses in Provence, Vail and St. Bart’s, the pied-à-terres in Paris and Milan. They were happy and they were comfortable, and that was all that mattered.

I never liked him. How had Keely missed that? She hadn’t wanted to hear it, she acknowledged. Bradley had been her perfect golden boy, her teenage crush grown up, and she hadn’t wanted to lose that illusion.

Instead, she’d lost all of them.

And now, her parents would wind up being out money on deposits for the reception and the flowers and the music, money they could ill afford to lose.

Then again, if things didn’t go Keely’s way, they might find themselves spending a whole lot more helping her pay for a lawyer.

Keely shook her head. She wouldn’t think about that now. She wouldn’t think about the fact that she’d had to notify Stockton before she’d left Manhattan. A weekend. She’d work in her mother’s shop, maybe go out for lunch with Lydia and give herself a weekend of thinking about nothing more demanding than irises and poinsettias. Come Monday, she’d tackle the whole mess and figure out how the heck she was going to reclaim her life. For now, she’d let the future take care of itself.

A few feet ahead of her, someone walked out the door of Darlene’s Bake Shop, and the scents of fresh bread and coffee that wafted out after them had her mouth watering.

Some things never changed, Keely thought with a smile as she walked into the store. The same mismatched wooden and upholstered chairs sat around the same ragtag collection of tables in the café area. The walls were faded to the color of butter, still hung with the same antique pressed-tin signs and sepia photographs. The same wooden children’s toys, knickknacks and memorabilia still sat on the blue shelves. And Darlene still stood behind the counter, a little older, maybe, a little wider, but with the same broad smile. “Keely Stafford. I heard you were back,” she said.

“You heard right. I figured I’d come spend the holidays with my parents.”

“I bet they’ll like that,” Darlene said. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles.”

It was a simple comment, casually uttered. How was it that it had her eyelids prickling? “Thank you,” Keely said, blinking. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I’m sure it will be. They’ll figure out soon enough you weren’t involved,” Darlene said comfortably. “You just be patient. Now, what can I get you?”

“Got anything fresh out of the oven?”

Back in the kitchen, a timer peeped. “You must be a mind reader,” Darlene said. “Give me just a minute.”

As she bustled into the kitchen, the front door jingled. Automatically, Keely glanced over to see who had come in.

It was a man, dark and unshaven, rumpled-looking in jeans and a black leather jacket. His build was rangy, his stride careless as he headed to the counter. His dark hair ran thick and undisciplined down to his collar, as though he didn’t much care about what it did. When he got closer, she saw the lighter streaks of brown on the top. Sun, maybe? It would go with the tanned skin. Who had a tan in New England in December?

It was his eyes, though, that caught her attention, an almost unnatural green, smudged now with fatigue. There was something disturbing in those eyes, that direct gaze, something that gave her a little shiver deep down.

“’Morning,” he said, coming to a stop beside her. “Can a guy get a decent cup of coffee here?”

Keely nodded. “You’ve come to the right place.” He definitely didn’t look like he belonged in Chilton. Just passing through, she was guessing. Or casing the joint. There was something about him, something unpolished and just a bit raffish that started a little buzz inside her. He reminded her of someone, an actor, maybe, with those cheekbones. That was probably why she kept finding herself sneaking looks at him.

He stared into the glass baked-goods case at the neat pyramids of croissants, scones, cherry Danish and doughnuts. “So what looks good here?”

You.

The thought came unbidden, just as he glanced up and caught her gaze on him. For a breathless instant, they looked at each other and she felt a sudden, surprising stir of heat. Her cheeks warmed. She would have known she was blushing even if she hadn’t seen the slow smile spread over his face. Fortunately, Darlene came bustling back out of the kitchen to rescue her.

“Here we go, a fresh pan of corn muffins,” she said. “I’ve also got carrot and blueberry and—” Her mouth fell open as she stared at the newcomer. “Trey? Trey Alexander? As I live and breathe. Just look at you!”

And recognition hit Keely with the force of a blow. Of course. Trey Alexander, Bradley’s older brother, the one who’d been disowned. The one Bradley always joked had been voted most likely to in high school—most likely to be arrested, that was. With his faint flavor of lawlessness, Trey had always made her uneasy when she was younger. Granted, she hadn’t seen him since she was fourteen, but still, she should have recognized him.

Darlene bustled out from behind the counter to hug Trey. “Look at you. You haven’t been eating enough,” she fussed. “Look how thin he is,” she said to Keely.

Not thin, exactly. You could see the muscle and strength at a glance. It was more that he was stripped down, as though something had worn away the inessential parts, paring him down to nothing but muscle and bone. The cleft in his chin ran deep, his face all lines and planes and angles, with the sharpness of cheekbones pressing against the skin. It was the face of a hard man who lived in a hard world. A smuggler, Bradley had said, and he looked it. Only his mouth held any softness. Maybe that was why it kept drawing her gaze. It was a mouth that could fascinate, a mouth that could make a woman forget her better judgment.

At least until one corner of that mouth tugged up into the sardonic smile she remembered so well.

She knew that smirk, oh, she knew that smirk. It was the same one he’d given her when she’d seen him at the country-club tennis courts or around town, that hint of disdain, the curve of his mouth as though he were enjoying some private joke at everyone else’s expense. Who was he to look down on her, anyway? What had he done that was so great, besides being disowned?

And now, here he was, popping up at the worst possible moment. She was already neck-deep in trouble, coping with the mess Bradley had made of her life. The last, absolutely last thing she needed was to deal with another Alexander. The last thing she needed was to deal with that smirk. Next, she’d walk out the door to run into Bradley’s mother, Olivia, and her misery would be complete.

“A coffee, two lattes and three crullers,” she said to Darlene. “To go.”

“What’s your hurry?” Lex asked, studying her.

Blond, slender, almost luminous, there was about her a bit of that smooth elegance the women in Chilton always had, the result of salon pampering, expensive cosmetics, luxurious clothing. Amazing what money could buy.

“I’ve got to get back.”