Page 17 of Meet Me at the Christmas Cottage (Jonathon Island #6)
“Wouldn’t it have been smarter to put the socks on before you looked like the Michelin Man rolled in blue paint?”
“Har har. Of course, but I decided at the last minute that I needed a second pair, ergo, I’m the blue Michelin Man putting on socks.”
Bronte watched him for another painful thirty seconds. “Do you need some help there, G.I. Joe?”
With a heaving sigh, Jonah melted back into the chair and tossed the socks on the table.
“I’ve just decided that I’m not wearing a second pair.
” He pointed down at the pair he currently wore.
“These are wool and should be just fine. We’ll find out for sure if I have to ask you to amputate a toe or two tonight. ”
The blood rushed from Bronte’s face. “I’m not doing that.” She threw the socks back at him. “Put them on.”
“I’m just kidding. I’m not going to lose any toes,” Jonah teased. “I don’t think. Anyway. You want to go with me?”
“Sorry, I didn’t bring any gear with me.” Not that she would have, even if she’d known they would be getting this much snow. Because she was here to write a book. WRITE A BOOK. Not go tramping in the snow with a beautiful man.
“Lucky for you”—Jonah reached out and bopped Bronte on the nose—“Holland is just about your size and has all the gear you need.”
“Seriously?” Bronte felt like Jonah had just handed her a Christmas present all her own.
“Seriously. I mean”—Jonah looked her up and down, and dang it if she didn’t feel her face flush under his gaze—“it’s pink, not black. Think that’d be okay?”
“If it means getting out of here for a little bit, it’s perfectly fine.” Bronte hadn’t realized how much it felt like she had cabin fever. Maybe that’s why she was having a hard time with really getting going on the Pike family novel.
“I’d fire up the snowmobiles, but it looks like my sister might be having issues with hers. It’s on the trailer in the garage.”
Bronte remembered seeing it when they were getting Christmas boxes from the attic. “A walk will be good. I really need to work on the Pike novel, but I just can’t get started. When I’m at home and I have this problem, I generally go for a walk around the neighborhood.”
“Great. Gear is at the top of the stairs. I’ll meet you here in ten minutes, and we’ll get going.”
Bronte gave Jonah a curt nod and pushed away from the table. Abandoning her laptop, she all but ran up the stairs to where the bright-pink snow gear was waiting for her.
A voice in the back of her mind warned her that she’d need to make the walk quick so she could get back to work.
She brushed it off. She’d make up the words tonight—Lexi had said Bronte worked well under pressure.
Besides, a walk to town and back with a hot Army man was just what she needed.
No, this wasn’t going to be a romantic stroll in the snow.
This was going to be a regular stroll in the snow so they didn’t end up getting cabin fever and killing each other.
That was a thing, right? Cabin fever made a person do crazy things. Like write rom-coms instead of the literary piece of genius she was supposed to be writing.
Everything would be fine. So long as she didn’t allow herself to get sucked into the romance—writing-related or otherwise—that seemed to be calling to her more every minute.
* * *
What was he doing? He’d come here to have a conversation with his family that could potentially, if his sister was to be believed, break his father’s heart, but here he was, tromping through the snow with a beautiful woman instead of trying to figure out how to tell his dad he didn’t want to take over the clinic.
Preferably without any hearts being broken.
“I’m going to throw myself in this snowbank and wait until spring,” Bronte huffed out.
Looking over his shoulder, Jonah saw Bronte standing next to a particularly fluffy-looking pile of snow on the side of the road. “Don’t do that.”
Bronte tried to cross her arms, but with Holland’s puffy snow jacket on, her arms just bounced back to her sides. “You’re going to have to give me a pretty good reason not to.”
“Because if you throw yourself into a snowbank, I’ll have to stay too.”
Bronte’s face twisted in confusion. “Why? There’s no reason for both of us to suffer for my bad decisions.”
“My mom taught me better than to leave a woman in a snowbank on her own.” He held his hand out in Bronte’s direction.
“Well, that’s just silly,” Bronte said, not sounding like she thought it was silly at all. She considered his offered hand for a moment, and for a breath, Jonah thought she was going to opt for the snowbank.
“Fine.” She took his hand. “You win.”
Jonah leaned down closer to Bronte’s ear and whispered, “I can hear the hamburgers at Martha’s calling your name. Bronte! Bronte! Can you hear it?”
Bronte closed her eyes and took a slow breath. Jonah’s gaze flickered over her small, upturned nose and freckles that just barely kissed her cheeks, before landing on her pink lips. His breath hitched, and he pulled back before he did something rash.
Like kiss her.
He couldn’t kiss Bronte. They had just met. He found her captivating, funny, smart, and gorgeous. But he couldn’t kiss her.
He cleared his throat. He needed to stay focused.
Bronte blinked her eyes open. “I think you’re delusional. I don’t hear anything. Oh my goodness, aren’t delusions a sign of hypothermia? I’m pretty sure I read that once in research for one of my books.”
“I’m not delusional, just hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“Come on.” Jonah tugged Bronte toward the restaurant. “We need to hurry in case everyone else gets the same idea and they run out of food.” Taking big steps, they half stomped, half slid the rest of the way down the street.
The glow from the window in front of Martha’s and the stack of cross-country skis and snowshoes at the door told Jonah that they hadn’t been the only ones with the idea to get out of the house today. Two snowmobiles sat parked in front, taking up most of the road.
“I’m beginning to think it would have been better if we’d been able to ride one of those things,” Bronte huffed, jutting her chin in the direction of the snowmobiles. “Remind me to inform Holland of the pros of being prepared at all times.”
Jonah leaned over to remove his snowshoes. “Will do, but you have to admit the walk did us good.”
“Did you good, maybe,” Bronte mumbled as Jonah reached around her to open the door.
Before Jonah could point out she needed to remove her snowshoes, Bronte stumbled into the restaurant.
Scents of burgers and craft beer, scents of coming home, overwhelmed Jonah. If he broke his father’s heart, would he be able to come back? Once again, he entertained the idea of not saying anything and sticking with the plan. But just thinking it caused anxiety to rise beneath the surface.
“Bronte! Jonah!” Martha, frown securely in place, called out in greeting. “Glad to see you’re both still alive.”
Cries of Jonah’s name went up around the room as people pushed out of booths and away from tables to crowd him and welcome him back.
Jonah tried to keep Bronte tucked to his side, but she’d been pushed out of the way.
He looked over everyone’s heads to see if he could find her and discovered her sliding onto one of the green-topped stools at the bar top, snowshoes leaning upon the dark wood bar next to her.
He might not have been home in two and a half years, but little about the restaurant had changed.
“It’s good to have you home, Major!” James Sullivan exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder.
“How was the trip back?” Frank Kelley cut in, his forever scowl still carved into his face.
“What have they been feeding you?” Henrietta Hudson, the retired baker, patted his cheek. “You’re too skinny.”
Jonah tried to keep up with all the questions thrown his way.
Vera Graves, ever in her black Martha’s on Main T-shirt and with her dark, gray-streaked hair pulled back, elbowed her way through the crowd and grabbed Jonah’s arm. “All right, everyone, back to your seats!”
Arnie Chamberlin, the pastor of the small island church, stood at one of the tables, Bible open in front of him, and it looked as if everyone had been sitting around him, hanging on his every word.
“Isn’t it Friday?” Jonah asked Vera as he added his coat to the already overstuffed rack by the door.
“Last time I checked.” Vera glanced at her watch.
“Is Pastor Arnie holding a church service? In Martha’s?” Jonah nodded to the Check your guns, politics, and religion at the door sign that hung over the door.
“Naaah. Everyone has been feeling a little cabin feverish. Pastor Arnie came in to work on his sermon for Sunday, and one thing led to another, and I think now they’re all discussing the woman at the well story.
” Vera led Jonah over to the bar next to Bronte.
“It’s a good day with Jesus and deep conversation, I always say. ”
“Very true,” Jonah agreed, sliding onto the stool next to Bronte.
“I didn’t realize how famous you were.” Bronte bumped his shoulder with her own, a grin playing at her lips.
“Oh, I’m not fa?—”
“So, Major, how’s Germany been? You have to tell me all about it.” Pastor Arnie’s daughter, Jordi Chamberlain, brunette hair pulled into a low pony, slid onto the stool next to him with a mock salute, already talking a mile a minute. Not much had changed with Jordi since his last visit.
Jordi thrust a hand across Jonah in Bronte’s direction. “Hi, I’m Jordi. You must be Bronte, the author who’s staying at Holland’s house. Nice to meet you.”
Bronte returned the shake, nodding a quiet hello. Not that Jordi noticed Bronte’s quietness. She went right on with updating Jonah on her life, life on Jonathon Island, and asked him no less than fifteen questions.
“Jordi, would you leave Jonah and Bronte alone? I think Declan is needing a refill.” Vera put a glass of iced tea in front of Jonah with a wink.