A Knights Bridge Christmas (12 page)

“Sometimes. Not always. I’m a single mother with a six-year-old son who never knew his father. I can’t not be that for five minutes. But it’s not a burden. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

Logan put an arm around her and pulled her toward him. “Clare,” he said. “Clare, Clare. I see you as brave and kind and intelligent, as a woman who loves her son. I don’t see you as weak. Not for a second.”

“Thank you.”

“I know you want to protect him. I do, too. But does protecting him mean I should walk out of here right now and not ask you to come by tomorrow to help me decorate that gigantic tree that’s on my grandmother’s front porch?”

“Owen’s counting on helping you decorate,” she said.

“And you?”

“I’m counting on it, too.”

He took curls that had strayed into her face between two of his fingers and tucked them behind her ear. He kissed her softly on the lips. “I do things fast,” he said, kissing her again, as if to confirm his words. “I know that about myself. If I’m going too fast for you, I can slow down.”

“You’re not going too fast,” she whispered.

“Good, because I already have slowed down.” He sat up straight. “If it was up to me right now, I’d be spending the night on your sofa bed instead of back at Gran’s with the ghosts.”

“Have I mentioned the six-year-old in the bathroom brushing his teeth?”

“He’s already told me I can sleep here.”

“He wasn’t thinking about where,” Clare said.

“Actually, he told me I could sleep in his room with him.”

“You’ll be better off with the ghosts. Owen’s a wiggle worm.”

Logan smiled. “Does he remind you of his father?”

“He does, definitely,” Clare said without hesitation. “Stephen was younger than I am now when he died. It took a long time to accept his death—that he wouldn’t see Owen grow up, that Owen would never know his father. I’m the same person I was when Stephen and I married but at the same time I’m not. I don’t take life for granted the way I once did. I try to remember that every day is a gift.”

“A good thing to remember this time of year.”

“Does your work affect you at all?”

“I can go too far in the opposite direction and live only for today. Take risks because—well, what the hell, right? You can obey all the rules, do everything right and a house falls on your head. I see it if not every day, a lot.”

“And how often do you think about it?”

He grinned. “Only just now.”

“Because you’ve got my sofa bed on your mind.”

“Would it hold two people?”

“I think so. It’s never had to.”

“Now there’s a thought,” he said in a rough, sexy voice as the bathroom door creaked and Owen came into the living room, wanting Logan to read him a book.

“You bet, my friend. Pick one out. If it’s too long, I’ll skip parts.”

Owen giggled, and Clare gave up the couch to the two of them and
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
. Logan smiled at her as she went over to her little Christmas tree. She knew he’d gotten her point. She was attracted to him, and she wanted to go further—but she wasn’t a one-night stand. She wasn’t going to amuse him while he dealt with his aging grandmother and her old house in small, out-of-the-way Knights Bridge.

But as Clare checked the water in the tree stand, she could still feel his lips on hers, the aftereffects of their kiss enough to make her want more. If not for her son, she wondered if she’d be another of Logan Farrell’s conquests right now, and if that would be so bad.

Not
an appropriate thought while he was reading a Christmas book to her son.

And who was she to say Logan had “conquests”?

She glanced back at him. He was confident, smart, cocky and successful, and by his own admission, he did things fast.

Old-fashioned word it might be, but it made the point.

He’d had conquests.

Eleven

“There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited...”

—Charles Dickens,
A Christmas Carol

LOGAN DID DO
things fast. He hadn’t exaggerated when he’d told Clare. He’d been truthful, if not fully open and candid about what was on his mind. He’d always known he would fall in love quickly when the time came—when the woman he was meant to be with walked into his life.

Why wouldn’t he fall fast and hard, since that was how he operated?

Turned out he was right.

He set up the tree stand in his grandmother’s living room. He’d brought in wood and lit a fire in the fireplace. The room glowed with the flames, the floor lamp and the lights he and Clare had strung on the porch. He could hear kids yelling and carrying on across the street on the skating rink on the town common. Apparently a heated hockey game was underway. He almost grabbed skates out of the back room and joined the festivities.

Even after his active day, he was restless, but it wasn’t the kind of restlessness that playing hockey with fifteen-year-olds would ease.

Clare had every right and every reason not to trust his intentions with her. He had a busy, fulfilling job in Boston, and his ties to Knights Bridge, while deep, weren’t ones that had ever made him contemplate living here. He wanted to fall in love and assumed he would one day, but he wasn’t in any big rush.

Clare’s life was the exact opposite of his life. She might be new to Knights Bridge, but she belonged
here, taking its small but vibrant library into the next decades and raising her son. Her night out with Maggie Sloan and her friends was proof the locals were accepting her, welcoming her.

Logan checked the fasteners on the stand. They were in good working order.

What the hell, he thought. Might as well bring in the tree.

It would be a quick trip out to the porch. He grabbed work gloves out of the mudroom but didn’t bother with his jacket. Maybe a shot of cold night air would help him regain his sense.

When he stepped onto the porch, he noticed snowflakes in the glow of the Christmas lights. The hockey game had broken up, the kids were packing up and heading home. Logan stood still, listening. He swore he heard singing. The local drunk singing on his way home?

No.

Carolers.

A cold winter night in a quiet village, and he could hear carolers.

He couldn’t see them in the dark, but he thought they were across the common, near the Swift River Country Store.

They finished “Joy to the World” and started on “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

He’d forgotten that caroling was a tradition in the village. His grandfather would join them from time to time.
He can sing like an angel
, his grandmother had told Logan.
I never could hold a tune.

What a life his grandparents had lived here in their little town, Logan thought.

He saw the silhouette of a couple under the lights on the rink, skating arm in arm, flowing over the ice. He heard the pair laugh, and he finally recognized Dylan McCaffrey and his fiancée, Olivia Frost. Olivia, an accomplished graphic designer, had lived in Boston for several years, but she’d always wanted to move back to her hometown—at least according to Audrey, her grandmother.

Logan’s throat tightened, and he pictured himself skating with Clare. Did she know how to skate? He did, but not like ex-NHL player Dylan. A multimillionaire, Dylan was making a place for himself in Knights Bridge. That he was marrying a local woman and opening businesses in town probably helped his relationship with the locals.

Of course, Dylan didn’t have to live down a reputation as an arrogant, selfish Boston ER doctor who had neglected his grandmother.

Logan shivered. Damn, it was cold. All he needed was hypothermia. Some ER doctor.

The gloves kept the fir needles from pricking his hands, but they nailed him on his cheek as he maneuvered the tree through the door and into the front room. He was breathing hard by the time he propped it into the stand.

A hunk of melting snow he’d missed on one of the branches plopped off, straight down his back.

“Clare, Clare,” he said. “Why aren’t you here?”

Why hadn’t he brought her to the chili instead of the chili to her?

He tightened the tree into the stand, ignoring more drips and splashes of melting snow. By the time he finished, he had wet hair and a wet shirt, and his face and hands—he’d had to take off the gloves—were covered in red marks from the needles. They stung and they itched.

He lay back on the rug and laughed, imagining his grandfather getting a big kick out of his only grandson’s machinations with the balsam fir.

It felt good to miss his grandfather, and right. The rest of Knights Bridge missed him, too.

Logan sat up, heading to the kitchen for a well-earned beer. As he opened it, he looked at his reflection in the window above the sink. He wasn’t a perfect man. He could be a better man, but he would never be a perfect one.

He was falling in love with Clare Morgan.

And he was falling in love with her fast.

* * *

An unwelcome visit from Jacob Marley roused Logan early. He didn’t know if he preferred skeletal old Marley warning him to mend his ways or one of Scrooge’s spirits, but he knew he wasn’t going back to sleep. He took a shower, got dressed and walked across the common to Smith’s. He noticed a good scratch on his right hand. Must have bloodied himself hauling in the tree last night. Next up was decorating it. If he was taking another go at the six-foot fir, he needed a good breakfast.

As he sat in a two-person booth, a few Sloans entered the restaurant.

“Want some company?” Justin asked.

Logan motioned to the cushioned bench across from him. “Have a seat.”

Christopher and Eric Sloan sat at a nearby table. Their presence palpably raised the energy level in the place. Brandon joined them. Only Adam was missing—the stonemason brother, as Logan recalled.

“Looks like you had some fun,” Justin said, pointing to the scratch on Logan’s hand.

“I got in a fight with a balsam fir.”

“Nasty bastards.” Justin grinned, settling back against the booth. “Hope you cleaned your wound. Wouldn’t want it to get infected.”

“Good advice. Thanks.”

As Logan chatted with Justin over breakfast, with a few comments from the Sloans at the next table, he wondered if his beer with Brandon had helped thaw his brothers’ attitude toward him.

Heather, the youngest and the only female, joined Brandon, Christopher and Eric at their table. A fresh round of sibling teasing ensued. Logan understood that was how they communicated with each other, and Heather—dark-haired and blue-eyed like the male Sloans—gave as good as she got, clearly up to the challenge of dealing with five older brothers.

Justin added milk to his fresh coffee refill. “How long are you in town this time?” he asked Logan.

“I go back to Boston later today.”

“We’re working out at the McCaffrey place for a few hours today,” Justin said. “We’re making up for taking Wednesday afternoon for our annual Christmas party.”

“I’m making eggnog from scratch,” Heather interjected from her table.

“Which no one will touch,” Eric added.

She rolled her eyes. “Anyone can make eggnog. Besides, I’ll add bourbon. Can’t go wrong.”

“You can,” her eldest brother said, grinning at her.

“I did do a dry run that didn’t go so well,” she said. “It had little threads of egg in it. Totally gross. Mom says to drain it through cheesecloth.”

Christopher grimaced. “Pour the bourbon, skip the eggnog.”

“That would be easier, too,” Heather said. She turned to Logan. “You see how this works, Dr. Farrell? All of a sudden I only have to bring Jack Daniel’s to the party.”

Before Logan could comment, her brothers jumped in and pressed their case against her cooking abilities. She took their teasing in stride, giving as good as she got. Logan decided to keep quiet.

Brandon turned in his chair. “Maggie’s stopping by to help Clare take the rest of Daisy’s old books to the library. They won’t be in the way, will they?”

Logan shook his head. “Not at all. We’re decorating the tree we cut on the farm yesterday. I hadn’t done that since I was a kid. My grandfather and I would go out together.”

“He always let us pick out a tree,” Justin said. “Good memories.”

If he meant to be critical or skeptical, it didn’t show in his voice. A welcome thaw, Logan thought, given their last breakfast together.

After breakfast, he walked across the common. If he were in Boston, he’d either be sleeping late or grabbing a latte at Starbucks on his way to the hospital.
Maybe
working out at his health club, but he usually hit the treadmill and weights after his shift, whatever time it ended. He had a nonstop schedule but it could feel random. Life in Knights Bridge felt more ordered—or at least more predictable. He doubted much had changed in town since his grandparents had been teenagers.

Clare had arrived with Owen when Logan got back to his grandmother’s house. “Good morning,” she said, rosy-cheeked from the cold weather.

Maggie pulled in behind them. “Oh, my,” she said as they all entered the house. “Look at that tree. It’s gorgeous just with the lights. I’ll have to walk by the house when it gets dark and see the lights in the window. Do you have them on a timer, so they’ll come on even when you’re in Boston?”

“I don’t, but it’s a good idea,” Logan said. “I’ll set it up before I leave this afternoon.”

“Can we decorate the tree now?” Owen asked.

“I can help,” Maggie said. “Or I can come back later—”

“No, no, stay, please,” Clare said. “You’re bound to have a good eye for decorating a Christmas tree. It won’t take long. Then we can grab the books. Logan, is it okay with you? Or did you decide you want to play Christmas music and decorate the tree by yourself?”

Logan grinned. “How did you guess?”

They decorated the tree in short order. He picked up Owen to let him hang decorations on the highest branches. Clare found a star for the top of the tree. Maggie was a whiz at plucking just the right balls and baubles from the boxes.

As they finished, Maggie got a call. Logan could tell instantly it wasn’t anything good. He glanced at Clare, who had gone slightly pale, watching her friend. When Maggie got off the phone, she turned to them. “Brandon’s uncle Pete had a bad encounter with a nail gun. Brandon says there’s blood everywhere.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Logan asked.

“Pete’s got his hand wrapped in a towel. He won’t let them call an ambulance. Says if he needs stitches, he’ll drive himself to the ER.”

Not an attitude with which Logan was unfamiliar. “How did it happen?”

“Brandon says Pete was doing fine one minute, then he spaced out and mumbled something about his left arm aching, and next thing he’d nailed his hand.”

“How far away are they?” Logan asked.

“Ten minutes. The McCaffrey place.”

“I’ve been wanting to take a look at what Dylan and Olivia are building—want to drive over there?”

Maggie nodded, looking relieved. “Pete’s a stubborn old bastard, but he’s a great guy.”

“Sounds like your typical Sloan.” Logan turned to Clare. “You and Owen can help yourself to Gran’s Dutch cocoa.”

She nodded. “We’ll be fine. If you need anything, let me know.”

Logan grabbed his jacket and followed Maggie out the front door. She had driven her van to the house. “Easier to load books in the van,” she said.

“We can take my car.”

“Logan...” She inhaled deeply. “You’re worried something more is wrong with Uncle Pete than a nail-gun accident, aren’t you?”

“I’d like to check him out.”