Their Christmas Resolution
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Kaylie Newell
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Chapter One
Ian Steele leaned back in his full grain leather chair, the one he’d just dropped three grand on, and looked out at the sparkling waters of San Francisco Bay. The light in his office this time of day was soft, golden. The sun filtered in through the blinds in warm rays, making the dust particles in the air look like stars. He’d always liked San Francisco this time of year. It was almost Christmas, but it didn’t necessarily feel Christmassy, which suited him just fine. He could almost look out the window at the sailboats bouncing over the swells and mistake it for summertime.
There was a soft knock on his door, but he didn’t take his eyes off the view below. “Come in,” he said evenly.
“Ian, there’s a call for you on line one.”
At the sound of Jill’s voice, he swiveled around to see her standing with her hands clasped in front of her stomach. She always looked apologetic these days, like she didn’t want to upset him. He could be an ass, but she was the consummate professional, which was why he’d hired her in the first place.
He smiled, trying his best to put her at ease. But truth be told, he’d probably have a better shot at swimming across the bay without being eaten by a shark. She had the distinct look of someone standing on broken glass.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Stella Clarke. Says she’s from Christmas Bay.” She frowned. “Where’s that?”
Ian stiffened. It had been years since he’d thought of his hometown. Maybe even longer since he’d heard anyone mention Christmas Bay. He’d cut that part of his life out as neatly as a surgeon. He was too busy now, too successful to spend much time dwelling on things like his childhood, which quite frankly didn’t deserve a single minute of reflection.
“Tiny little town on the Oregon Coast.” He rubbed his jaw. “What the hell does she want, anyway?”
His assistant’s eyebrows rose at this. Clearly, she was taken aback. Ian was usually smooth as scotch. Unruffled by much of anything.
Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his brand-new chair. He had the ridiculous urge to loosen his tie, but resisted out of sheer willpower. “Did she say? What she wants?”
“She has a favor to ask. She said she knows you’re busy but that it won’t take much time.”
Typical Stella. Exactly how he remembered her. He could see her standing in the living room on the day he’d arrived at the foster home, when his heart had been the heaviest, and his anger the sharpest. Wild, dark hair. Deep blue eyes. Even at fourteen years old, she’d been a force to be reckoned with. Even with all she’d probably endured. Just like him. Just like all of them. She’d been whip-smart, direct, always trying to negotiate something for her benefit.
But he couldn’t exactly talk. Now he made a living out of negotiating things for his own benefit. A very nice living, as a matter of fact. As one of the Bay Area’s top real estate developers, he’d been snatching up prime property for years, building on it and then selling it for loads of cash. He had people standing in line to do his bidding. The question was, what was this favor she was talking about? And how much time would it actually take?
He looked at his Apple Watch, the cool metal band glinting in the sunlight. Almost noon. He had a meeting across town at two thirty, and he hadn’t eaten yet. He could have Jill take her number, and he could call her back. Or not. But for some damn reason, he was curious about what she wanted. And whether he’d admit it or not, he was itching to hear her voice again. A voice that would now be seasoned by age, but would no doubt still be as soft as velvet. He hadn’t talked to her since he’d graduated from Portland State. They’d run into each other at a swanky restaurant in the city where she’d been a server. They’d awkwardly met for coffee after the place closed, and it hadn’t gone well. At all.
“Thanks, Jill,” he said. “I’ll take it. Have a good lunch.”
She smoothed her hands down the front of her cream-colored pencil skirt. “Do you want me to bring you something back?”
He smiled again. “No. Thank you, though. Why don’t you take an extra half hour? Get some time outside if you can. You’ve been working hard this morning, and the weather’s nice. Enjoy it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Go.”
She reached for the door and pulled it closed behind her.
He looked down at the blinking button on the sleek black phone and felt his heart beat in time with it.
Picking it up, he stabbed the button with his index finger.
“Ian Steele,” he said in a clipped tone.
“Ian? It’s Stella Clarke. From Christmas Bay...”
He let out an even breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He’d been right. Her voice was still soft as velvet.
“Stella.”
He waited, imagining what she might look like on the other end of the line. Wondering if that voice matched the rest of her. If she was that different than she’d been ten years ago. Because back then, the last time he’d seen her, she’d been very beautiful, and very pissed.
At least, she’d been pissed with him.
There was a long pause, and she cleared her throat. “How have you been?” she asked.
She was obviously trying to be polite, but he didn’t give a crap about that right about now. He had things to do, and opening a window into the past was definitely not one of them.
“What do you want, Stella?”
“Well, it’s nice to talk to you, too.”
“I know you didn’t call for a trip down memory lane.”
“I took a chance that you might care about what’s happening here,” she said evenly. “Even if it’s just a little.”
“Why would I care about Christmas Bay?” He had no idea if that sounded convincing or not. Because he thought there might be an edge to his voice that said he did care, just the tiniest bit. Even if it was just being curious as to why she was calling after all this time. Curiosity he could live with. Caring, he couldn’t. At least not about that Podunk little town.
“Because you have memories here, Ian.”
He shook his head. Unbelievable. Of course she’d assume his memories at Frances’s house were good ones. Worth keeping, if only in the corner of his mind.
The thing was, though, she was actually right. Not that he’d ever admit it. There were some good memories. Of course there were. Of Stella, whom he’d always gravitated toward, despite her sometimes-prickly ways. She was a survivor, and he’d admired that. She was a leader and a nurturer, and he’d admired that, too. He’d seen in her things he wished he’d seen in himself growing up. Things he’d had to teach himself as he’d gotten older, or at least fake.
And there were other memories that weren’t so terrible. Memories of Frances. Of his aunt. And snippets of things, soft things, that he’d practically let slip away over the years, because they’d been intermingled with the bad stuff, and tarnished by time.
He gripped the phone tighter, until he felt it grow slick with perspiration. Those decent memories were the only reason he hadn’t hung up on her by now. Those, and his ever-present curiosity.
“What do you want, Stella?” he repeated.
And this time, the question was sincere.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” Stella muttered under her breath.
Sinking down in her favorite chair in the sunroom, she looked over at Frances, who was wearing another one of her bedazzled Christmas sweaters. Her fat black-and-white cat was curled up on her lap, purring like someone with a snoring problem.
“Uh-oh,” Frances said, stroking Beauregard’s head. “What?”
Stella worried her bottom lip with her teeth, and gazed out the window to the Pacific Ocean. It was misty today. Cold. But still stunningly beautiful—the ocean a deep, churning blue-gray below the dramatic cliffs where the house hovered. One of the loveliest houses in Christmas Bay. But of course, she was biased.
She’d moved in when she was a preteen and brand new to the foster system. At the time, she’d thought Frances’s two-hundred-year-old Victorian was the only good thing about her unbelievably crappy situation. After all, it was rumored to be haunted, and how cool was that? But she’d also been a young girl at the time, and incredibly naive. She had no way of knowing that Frances herself would end up being the best thing about her situation. Frances and the girls who became not only her foster sisters, but her sisters of the heart. Getting to live in the house had been a bonus.
Now, as the thought of selling it crept back in, along with the thought of Frances’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, which had changed things dramatically over the last few years, Stella felt a lump rise in her throat.
Swallowing it back down again, she forced a smile. This was going to be hard enough on her foster mother without her falling apart. Selling was the right thing to do. They just had to find the right buyer, that was all. Frances’s only caveat was that a family needed to live here. A family who would love it as much as her own family had. As much as all of her foster kids had over the years.
“I asked someone for a favor,” she said. “And now I’m wishing I hadn’t.”
“Why?”
She took a deep breath. “Since Coastal Monthly is doing that Christmas article on the house, I thought it would be a great time to kill two birds with one stone. Drum up some interest from potential buyers, and get the locals to stop telling that old ghost story.”
Frances leaned forward, eliciting a grunt from Beauregard. “What do you mean? How in the world would you do that?”
It had been a long time. Almost fifteen years. Frances might have Alzheimer’s, but her long-term memory was just fine. Stella wasn’t sure how she’d react to this next piece of information. Maybe she’d be okay with it. But maybe not.
She braced herself, hoping for the former. “I called Ian Steele...”
Her foster mother’s blue eyes widened. She sat there for minute, and Stella could hear the grandfather clock in the living room ticking off the seconds.
“Wow,” Frances finally muttered. “Just...wow.”
“I know.”
“How did you find him?”
“I googled him and he came right up. He’s this big shot real estate developer in San Francisco.”
Frances sucked in a breath. “You don’t think he’d want to buy the house, do you?”
“No way. He hates Christmas Bay, remember?” Still, Stella couldn’t shake the fact that he’d seemed to perk up when she said the property was for sale. He’d asked several specific questions, the real estate kind, until her guard had shot up, leaving her uneasy.
“It’s been a long time, honey. People change.”
She shook her head. “Not Ian.”
“Then why call him?”
“Because I thought if he gave the magazine a quick interview over the phone, it could help when the house goes on the market. You want a legitimate buyer, not some ghost hunters who will turn it into a tourist trap. You know people around here still talk about that silly story, and he’s the only one who can put it to rest.”
Frances looked skeptical. “But would he want to?”
“I’d hope so after what he put you through while he was here. Including making up that story in the first place and spreading it around. It’s been years. I’d assumed he’d matured enough to at least feel a little bad about it.”
Frances was quiet at that. She’d always defended Ian when he’d been defiant. He’d had this innate charm that seemed to sway most of the adults around him, but Stella had been able to see right through him. Maybe because she’d come from a similar background. Abuse, neglect. Nobody was going to pull the wool over her eyes, not even a boy as cute as Ian.
Suddenly looking wistful, maybe even a little regretful, Frances gazed out the window. The mist was beginning to burn off, and the sun was trying its best to poke through the steely clouds overhead. Even in the winter, Frances’s yard was beautiful. Emerald green, and surrounded by golden Scotch broom that stretched all the way to the edge of the cliffs of Cape Longing. As a girl, Stella thought it looked like something out of Wuthering Heights. As a woman, she understood how special the property really was. And how valuable.
She truly hadn’t believed Ian would be interested in the house, or she wouldn’t have called him. It wasn’t the kind of real estate he seemed to be making so much money on in the city, at least according to the internet. He and his business partner bought properties and built apartment buildings and housing developments on them, and the Cape Longing land was smaller than what they were probably used to. But after talking to him, even for just those few painful minutes, Stella knew he was more calculating than she’d given him credit for. If he smelled a good deal, even if it was in Christmas Bay, he might just follow his nose. Which was the last thing Frances needed.
“So, what did he say?” her foster mother asked. “Will he do the interview?”
“He wouldn’t say. I never should’ve called him. I could just kick myself.”
“At least you got to talk to him again.”
Stella bit her tongue. Yeah, at least.
“Did he say how he was?” Frances asked hopefully. She was so sweet. And it made Stella indignant for her all over again. She’d loved and cared for Ian like he was her own, seeing something special in him, even under all the surliness and anger. She’d told him that often, but it didn’t matter. He’d made his time with her miserable, and had ended up running away. He’d disappeared for days, worrying Frances sick, and ultimately breaking her heart when he was sent to live with a great-aunt instead, who also lived in Christmas Bay.
Stella had a hunch it was because of the love Frances had shown him, not in spite of it. If Ian sensed anyone getting close, he ran. He was a runner. She’d be willing to bet he’d run all these years, and had ended up in San Francisco, still the same old Ian. Just older. And maybe a little more jaded, if that was possible.
Stella liked to think that despite their similar background, one that had helped her understand him better than most people might, she’d turned out softer, more approachable. And she credited Frances for that. Maybe if Ian had stayed put, he might’ve had his rough edges smoothed out some, too.
She smiled at her foster mother, determined not to say what she was thinking. Determined to show some grace, at least for the time being. “We didn’t get that far,” she said. “I guess he had a meeting or something.”
Frances nodded. “So, he’s done well for himself?”
If his website was any indication, he was doing more than well.
“He seems to be.”
“I wish things had turned out differently,” Frances said. “I wish I could’ve reached him.”
“It wasn’t because you didn’t try, Frances. We all did.”
“But maybe if we’d tried harder...”
Frowning, Stella leaned forward and put a hand over Frances’s. Her foster mother smelled good this morning. Like perfume and sugar cookies. She was in her early sixties, and was a beautiful, vital woman. Nobody would ever guess that she struggled with her memory as much as she did. So much so that her three foster daughters had moved back home to help her navigate this next chapter of her life.
In the corner of the sunroom, one of the house’s two Christmas trees glittered. The decorations were ocean themed, of course. The blue lights glowed through the room like a lighthouse beacon. Christmas cards from previous foster children, now long grown, were strung around one of the double-paned windows. The old Victorian came alive over the holidays, and its warmth and coziness was one of the reasons Stella loved it so much. She knew it would be heartbreaking to sell it. Frances was right to want a family living here. Somehow, it softened the blow.
“You were the best thing to happen to us,” Stella said quietly. “I’m just sorry he couldn’t see that.”
Frances smiled, but it looked like she was far away. Lost in her memories.
Stella scratched Beauregard behind his ears, before leaning back again with a sigh. Lost in some of hers.
Ian shifted the Porsche into second. This was the first time he’d driven it in the mountains, and not surprisingly, it hugged the hairpin turns like a dream. If he was in the mood, he’d be driving faster. After all, why own a German-engineered sports car if you weren’t going to break the speed limit every now and then? But he wasn’t in the mood. And getting to Christmas Bay any faster wasn’t exactly tempting.
Gritting his teeth, he glanced out the window to the ocean on his left. Then at the GPS to his right. He’d be there in less than half an hour. Plenty of time to wonder about this decision. Yeah, the Cape Longing property might be the deal of a lifetime—if he could convince Frances to sell to him—but was it worth stepping foot back inside the little town he’d left so long ago? He wasn’t so sure.
Which brought him back to Frances again. And to Stella. Ian could smooth-talk anyone. Anyone having second thoughts, or experiencing cold feet, was putty in his hands after about five minutes. Less, over drinks. But true to form, Stella had been immune to everything he’d thrown at her over the phone. The conversation had turned stilted in less than five minutes, which he wasn’t used to.
Thinking about it now, he bristled. She’d always been different than the rest of the kids he’d known in the system. Foster kids were usually wise, but she was wiser. They were tough, but she was tougher. They had walls, but Stella had barricades. He’d never been able to scale them, and then he’d just stopped trying. He didn’t need anyone, anyway. Not Frances O’Hara, not Kyla or Marley, and sure as hell not Stella. So, he’d done anything and everything in his power to test them. He’d stolen, lied, smoked, drank. You name it, he’d done it. And for the cherry on the crapcake, he’d come up with that dumbass story about the ghost, knowing what a headache it would be for Frances. Knowing how it would get around and eventually stick in a town that was known for every kind of story sticking. Especially the bad kind.
But now, he had a chance to rectify it. That’s what Stella had said. Rectify. Like he owed them something by talking to Coastal Monthly for their fluffy Christmas piece. It’s not like it matters, he’d said evenly. These days, a story like that only helps sell houses.
And that’s when she’d told him that Frances wanted a family living there. Someone who would love it as much as she did.
When he’d hung up, he’d gotten an idea. Why not do the interview?
He’d tracked down the lady writing the article, and she’d practically begged him to come up to Christmas Bay so she could take pictures. And if he got a good look at the property in person, through the eyes of a real estate developer, well, then... What could it hurt? Other than shocking the hell out of Stella, who’d asked him to talk to the magazine but definitely would not expect him to do it in person. No way would she have wanted to open up that can of worms. She’d suspect a deeper motivation, and she’d be right.
In the beginning, money had been the driving force. Of course it had. But as he made his way up Highway 101, his Porsche winding along the cliffs overlooking the ocean, he had to admit there was another reason he was doing this. For once, it had nothing to do with money and everything to do with wanting to see Stella again. Just so she could see what he’d become. Just so he could flaunt it in her pretty face.
He downshifted again and glanced over at the water. It sparkled nearly as far as the eye could see. It was deep blue today, turquoise where the waves met the beach. The evergreens only added to the incredible palate of colors, standing tall and noble against the bluebird sky.
It had been so long since Ian had been up this way that he’d almost forgotten how beautiful it was. Easy, because the Bay Area was beautiful, too. But in a different way. There were so many people down there that sometimes it was hard to look past all the buildings and cars to see the nature beyond. On the Oregon Coast, the people were sparse. So sparse that it wasn’t unusual to go to the beach and not see anyone at all. The weather had something to do with that—it was usually cold. But the scenery? The scenery was some of the most spectacular in the world, and Ian had been to a lot of places.
Swallowing hard, he passed a sign on his right. Christmas Bay, Ten Miles. Ten miles, and he’d be back in the town where he’d been the most miserable, the loneliest and most confused of his entire life. But also, where he’d caught a glimpse of what love could look like if he’d only let it in. But he hadn’t let it in. In the end, he hadn’t known how. And he’d been too pissed at the world to try, anyway.
There was absolutely no other reason, other than maybe a little spite, that he wanted to come back here again. No reason at all.
That’s what he kept telling himself as the trees opened up, and Christmas Bay finally came into view.
Stella opened up the front door to see a woman in trendy glasses standing on the stoop. She looked the part of a journalist. Her hair was in a messy bun, and she had a camera bag slung over one shoulder. It was a beautiful day, perfect for pictures, but it was cold, and she was dressed appropriately for a December day on the Oregon Coast—rain boots and a thick cardigan.
When she saw Stella, she smiled wide. But her gaze immediately settled on the entryway behind her. It was obvious she couldn’t wait to get a look inside.
“Hi, there,” she said, holding out a hand. “Gwen Todd. And you must be Stella?”
Stella shook it. “I’m so glad the weather cooperated.”
“Oh, I know. I thought it was going to pour. We got lucky.”
“Please come in,” Stella said. “Frances has some coffee brewing.”
Gwen stepped past her and into the foyer. Before Stella could turn around, she heard the other woman gasp. She couldn’t blame her. The house was incredible. Three stories of stunning Victorian charm. Gleaming hardwood floors, antique lamps that cast a warm, yellow glow throughout. A winding staircase that you immediately wanted to climb, just to see what treasures waited at the top. A widow’s walk on the third floor that looked out over the cliffs, where Ian said he’d seen a ghost all those years ago. A coastal cliché that the entire town had latched onto, but that her family would finally shake free of today. At least, Stella hoped they would. It was just an article—it wasn’t going to go viral or anything. But for the locals, for someone most likely to buy this house and live happily in it, it would be a start.
Gwen Todd ran her hand along the staircase’s glossy banister. “Oh, it’s just lovely. I’ve always wanted to see inside.”
Stella had heard that more times than she could count. From certain places in town, you could see the house, perched high above Cape Longing, its distinctive yellow paint peeking like the sun through the gaps in the trees. It had been built when Christmas Bay was just a tiny logging settlement, and Frances’s grandparents had had to get their supplies by boat, because the mountain roads were impassible by wagon in the winter and spring. As the town had grown, the house had become a fixture, near and far. It even had its own display in the local maritime museum—the fuzzy, black-and-white pictures taking people back to a time when the West was still fairly wild.
And Gwen Todd was clearly a fan. Shaking her head, she looked around, enthralled.
Stella smiled. She understood how Gwen felt, because that was exactly how she’d felt as a girl, walking through the doors of this place for the first time. In absolute wonder and awe. For a kid who’d gone from surviving on ramen noodles in a broken-down trailer on the outskirts of town, to this? It had been almost too good to be true. For the first six months of her new life with Frances, Stella had expected someone to come and take her away at any moment. Or worse, for her mother to get her back. She’d had nightmares about being deposited back into that cruelty and filth. Into that never-ending cycle of neglect and abuse. It wasn’t until after the first full year that she’d begun to trust her good fortune. That she’d been able to start opening her heart again. Cautiously, and just a little at a time.
Now, standing here, those days seemed so far away, they were just as fuzzy as the pictures in the museum down the road. But other times, they were clear as a bell, and those were the days that tended to hit her the hardest. When the pain and memories were too sharp to take a full breath. Thank God for Frances. Otherwise, there was no telling where she would’ve ended up. Or how she would’ve ended up. She hadn’t spoken to her biological parents in years. She simply had nothing to say to them.
Gwen looked at her watch, just as Frances walked in holding out a reindeer mug full of steaming coffee. This time of year, Frances served all her drinks in Christmas mugs. She was proud of her collection.
“Oh, thanks so much,” Gwen said. “This will help wake me up before Mr. Steele gets here.”
Stella froze. Frances froze, too.
“I’m sorry,” Stella managed. “What?”
“Mr. Steele. He’s supposed to be here at eleven, but I think he might be running late...”
Stella stared at Frances, who sank down in a chair by the staircase. She looked pale.
“Oh...” Gwen set her coffee cup down. “Oh, no. I thought I mentioned that he’d be coming?”
“I don’t think so,” Stella said. There was no way she’d mentioned that. Stella would’ve remembered.
“There were so many calls back and forth, I must’ve totally spaced it. I’m so sorry. Will it be a problem?”
Gwen looked genuinely concerned, but if she’d known exactly how Ian had left things all those years ago, Stella knew she’d be downright horrified. He hadn’t stepped foot inside this house since he’d left with his social worker at sixteen. Frances had been crying. She’d stood at the window watching them pull out of the driveway with tears streaming down her face. She’d felt like she’d failed him. Which was ridiculous, but that’s how she’d felt, which made Stella furious with him all over again.
She forced a smile to ease Gwen’s mind. And maybe her own, too. There was always the chance he’d show up and apologize to Frances for how he’d treated her back then. Or that he’d acknowledge that what he’d said at that coffee date years ago had been horribly untrue—suggesting their sweet and loving foster mother had only taken them in for the money. A disgusting comment that had brought up every single insecurity that Stella had ever had about finding a genuine home. But she doubted he’d do either of those things. She also doubted that he was coming back to Christmas Bay simply to do this interview and help Frances sell her house. No way. He had other motives in mind. Probably like getting a good look at her property, since, like an idiot, Stella had practically waved it in his face.
“It’s okay,” she said. “We just haven’t seen him in a long time. He was one of Frances’s foster kids, and he left...suddenly.”
Gwen frowned, glancing at Frances, and then back at Stella again. “Are you sure? I feel terrible about this. I wouldn’t want it to be awkward for you.”
Too late.
Frances shook her head. “No, honey. Don’t worry. He’s come all this way to do the interview, so that says a lot. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.”
As if on cue, there was the roar of a car coming up the drive. All three of them moved over to the bay window and looked out, like they were waiting for Santa Claus or something. Stella crossed her arms over her chest, annoyed by her own curiosity. She didn’t care that she’d be seeing Ian again. She couldn’t stand him and his giant ego. And she managed to believe that. Mostly.
Outside, a beautiful silver sports car pulled into view, mud from the long dirt driveway spattered on its glossy paint job. Stella’s heart beat heavily inside her chest as she saw the silhouette of a man through the tinted windows. Short black hair, straight nose and strong jaw. Sunglasses that concealed eyes that she remembered all too well. Blue, like Caribbean water. But not nearly as warm.
Letting out a low breath, she watched as the door opened, and he stepped out. Tall, broad shouldered and dressed impeccably in a crisp, white-collared shirt and khaki slacks. Like the car, the clothes looked expensive. Tailored to his lean body in a way that she’d really only seen in magazines. So, this was how Ian had turned out. Probably with an even bigger ego than she’d remembered.
Frances looked over at her. “I can’t believe how handsome he is. He looks so different.”
There were differences. But there were also similarities, and those were what made Stella’s chest tighten as she watched him swipe his dark sunglasses off and walk toward the front door with that same old confidence. That same old arrogance that had driven her bananas as a kid. That had driven them all bananas.
But there was no doubt he’d grown into that confidence. As a woman, she could imagine feeling safe and secure in his presence. And at that, she recoiled. Nothing about Ian Steele should make her feel safe. He was a piranha, only here for a meal. She’d bet her life on it.
Beside them, Gwen cleared her throat and touched her hair. Probably taken with his looks—something that made Stella want to snap her fingers in front of her face. Snap out of it, Gwen!
Instead, she walked over to the front door and opened it with her features perfectly schooled.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, gazing down at her like she was some acquaintance he was meeting for lunch. Instead of a girl he’d shared a home with, a family with, for two tumultuous years.
He smiled, and his straight white teeth flashed against his tanned skin. Two long dimples cut into each cheek. Good God, he’s grown into a good-looking man. The kind of man who stopped traffic. Or at least a heart or two.
Stella stood there, stoic. Reminding herself that it didn’t matter how he looked. It only mattered that he gave this interview and went on his merry way again. Got back in his sports car and got the heck out of Christmas Bay.
“Stella,” he said, that Caribbean gaze sweeping her entire body. He didn’t bother trying to hide it. “It’s been a long time.”
She stiffened. If he was trying to unnerve her, it wasn’t going to work. He might be trying to brush those two years underneath the rug, but she sure wasn’t going to. He’d made their lives miserable, and had left a lasting scar on Frances’s heart. Something she refused to minimize or forgive. And that slippery smile said he wasn’t the least bit sorry about what he’d said over that fateful coffee date. Whether he’d meant it or not, he’d definitely wanted to wound her, probably since she’d stayed and found happiness in Christmas Bay, and he hadn’t. No, he wasn’t sorry. Not by a longshot.
“Ian,” she said. “Exactly the same, I see.”
His smile only widened at that. “Now, how can you say that? It’s been years.”
“Oh, I can tell.” She glanced over her shoulder into the living room. Frances and Gwen were talking in low tones, obviously waiting for her to bring him inside. She looked back at him and narrowed her eyes. “I know exactly why you’re here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the crap, Ian. Frances wouldn’t sell to you if you were the last man on earth.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, he seemed to contemplate that. “Oh, you mean because the house is coming up on the market, and I’m a real estate developer, you just assumed I’m here to schmooze...”
“I know you’re here to schmooze,” she whisper-yelled. “But it’s not going to work. You’re not going to just waltz in here after all this time and get what you want. Life doesn’t work that way.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. It does, in fact, work that way.” He leaned back in his expensive Italian loafers and looked down his nose at her. “Are you going to invite me in, or are we going to stand here and argue all day? I mean, don’t get me wrong, the sexual tension is nice, but there’s a time and place for it.”
She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “Give me a break.”
He smiled again, his eyes twinkling. She wanted to murder him. But that wouldn’t be good for the sale of the house, either, so she stepped stiffly aside as he walked past, trying not to breathe in his subtle, musky cologne that smelled like money.
When Frances saw him, she took a noticeable breath. Then she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. He was so tall, she had to stand on her tiptoes to do it. But he bent down obligingly, even though Stella could tell his body was unyielding. Ian had always had trouble with giving and receiving affection.
Stella couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for him. He’d had plenty of opportunities to be loved. Frances had tried, but he’d only pushed her away. It was what it was.
Still, she couldn’t help but notice how his jaw was clenched, the muscles bunching and relaxing methodically. How his gaze was fixed on the wall behind Frances, stony and cold. Like he just wanted to retreat. And before she could help it, there was a flutter of compassion for him, after all. Because she could remember feeling the same way a long time ago.
After a second, he pulled away and looked down at her with a careful smile on his face. Not the almost-playful one he’d given Stella a minute before. This one was more structured. Like he’d been practicing it awhile. Like fifteen years, maybe.
“Hi, Frances,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
Stella could see that she was having a hard time with a reply. Her eyes were definitely misty. Poor Frances. She’d just wanted the kids who’d passed through her doors to leave happy. She’d wanted to give them a home, whether it was for a few months, or the rest of their childhoods. The fact that she hadn’t been able to give Ian any of those things still bothered her. Probably because, despite that carefully crafted smile, his pain was clearly visible. It had been brought right to the surface by this visit. Stella had to wonder if he’d been prepared for that when he’d hatched this asinine plan.
“Ian,” Frances said. “You grew up.”
“Probably all those vitamins you made me take.”
“Well, they worked. Just look at you.”
Gwen stepped forward and fluttered her lashes. She actually fluttered her lashes. Stella wanted to groan.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Frances said. “Gwen, this is Ian Steele. Ian, this is Gwen Todd, from Coastal Monthly.”
Ian took her hand, appearing just short of kissing it. Gwen didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her cheeks flushed pink.
“Gwen, it’s a pleasure.”
“Thank you so much for making the drive up,” she said. “I know it’s a long one, but I’m so glad you did.”
Stella eyed him, waiting for him to admit to wanting to take a look at the house, even in passing. Otherwise, why not do the interview over the phone? But he didn’t. He just smiled down at Gwen innocently. Who me? I just want to help with the article, that’s all...
Frances took all this in with interest. If she was worried about Ian’s true intentions, she didn’t let on. She just seemed happy to see him again. Which, in Stella’s opinion, he didn’t deserve. But that was Frances for you. Kind to the core.
Clapping her hands together, Gwen smiled. “Are we ready? I thought maybe we could start with some pictures of the upstairs, Frances. Maybe the widow’s walk?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Me, too,” Ian said.
Stella stepped forward, narrowly missing Ian’s toe. All of a sudden, Frances’s spacious living room seemed as big as a postage stamp. She stepped back again, putting some distance between them, but not before catching his smirk. Of course he was enjoying this. Of course he was.
“The widow’s walk is where Ian said he saw the ghost,” Stella said tightly. “Are you sure you want to put that in the article, Frances? Maybe we shouldn’t focus on that part?”
Frances frowned. “That’s true...”
“Well, that’s no problem,” Gwen said, fishing her camera out of the bag. “We’ll just start with a few by the Christmas tree, and then we can go outside to the garden. The sun is coming out. The light should be perfect.”
Stella smiled, relieved. As long as things went smoothly, this article might actually end up painting the house in the light it deserved, which was what she’d hoped for in the beginning. And maybe she was just being paranoid as far as Ian was concerned. Maybe after he got a look at the place, he’d dismiss it like he probably dismissed so many other things in his life. After all, this was Christmas Bay, and what she’d told Frances was true. He hated Christmas Bay.
He stepped up to the bay window and looked out toward the ocean. The muscles in his jaw were bunching again, his blue eyes narrowing in the sunlight.
“My God, I’d almost forgotten that view,” he said under his breath. Almost too softly for anyone else to hear.
But Stella heard. And even though it had been years since she’d seen Ian Steele, or that look in his eyes, she recognized it immediately.
This was something he wanted. And he intended to get it.
