Page 10 of Meet Me at the Christmas Cottage
“I paid for this house fair and square, buddy.” Unwinding herself from the blanket nest she had settled in earlier, Bronte stood and grabbed a pillow to hold in front of her as a shield. As if a down-feather throw pillow would protect her against anything.
Pounding at the front door startled both of them.
The man looked from Bronte toward the front door. “Stay here,” he commanded.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Bronte shot back. Hugging the pillow to her chest, she followed him.
The pounding stopped as soon as her unwanted guest opened the door, revealing Martha from Martha’s on Main. Finally, a familiar face.
“Martha?” Bronte and the man said at the same time.
The man looked to Bronte and asked, “You know her?”
At the same time, Bronte looked at Martha and asked, “Who is this?”
“Oh, good.” Martha looked between them. “You’ve met.” Pushing in, Martha gave the man’s arm a pat as she passed him, shaking the snow off her coat. “I heard screaming and figured I’d come over and make sure everything was okay. And I saw Hunter leaving his engagement party. He mentioned he sent Cody to pick you up. I got the feeling you didn’t know about Bronte here. Good to see you home, Jonah. Or should I be calling you Major now?”
Bronte looked from the man, Jonah, to Martha, who had made her way to the kitchen, pots and pans banging around as she…What was she doing?
Jonah ran a hand over his face before motioning for Bronte to precede him into the kitchen. Stubble grew thick on his cheeks, and his dark hair was cut in the close-cropped military way. His long-sleeved black thermal and plain hunter-green T-shirt were untucked from his cargo pants. Black combat boots brought up the full effect.
She could tell he was the military man from the photos on the piano. He was even more striking in person.
“What is even happening right now?” Bronte muttered.
Martha, it turned out, wasn’t actually making a three-course meal. Instead, she had rummaged around until she’d found the coffee and a kettle, which she now held in the air. “Tea or coffee?” she asked in Bronte’s direction.
“Tea please.” Numbly, Bronte let herself slide onto the barstool at the farthest end of the bar. Martha was so calm. What had been her plan if she’d gotten here and found Bronte really being murdered? Had she called the police? Did this island evenhavea police department?
Bronte glanced over her shoulder at the movie that had been playing on the TV hanging on the wall opposite the couch. The end credits forThe Empire Strikes Backrolled on one half of the screen, a Christmas advertisement for a car on the other. Her computer and notebook sat forgotten on the leather ottoman in front of the yellow velvet sectional.
This had to all be some weird dream, right? A punishment for turning on a movie instead of getting to work. She should have figured out how to work the fireplace, gotten the atmosphere all moody, and set to work.
“Martha, what’s going on? Where is my family? This woman claims to have paid to stay here.” Jonah had followed Bronte into the kitchen, but thankfully, not to her retreat at the far end of the counter. He laid his hands flat on the speckled granite bar top. He must have had a stocking cap on at some point, because his hair, even with his short, cropped cut, stood every which way.
“Jonah, your family, for whatever reason, decided now would be a good time to run off on a Caribbean cruise.”
“What?” Jonah sputtered out.
“Yes, apparently they got a killer last-minute deal. Your mother was going on and on about how she’s always wanted to do a tropical Christmas. Crazy, if you ask me.” Martha pulled a mug out of the cabinet and added a tea bag before pouring hot water over it. “Anywho, Holland rented the place to Ms. Parker here until they get back.” Martha nodded in Bronte’s direction, and Bronte gave Jonah a limp wave. Martha set down the cup of hot tea—chamomile, from the smell of it—in front of Bronte before handing a cup of coffee to Jonah. “Good to have so many young people returning to the island. My Declan’s back again, you know.” She patted Jonah’s cheek as she turned back to the cabinet, pulling out another mug and filling it with coffee.
“I’m just back for the holidays.”
“You can’t stay here,” Bronte blurted.
Martha and Jonah turned their attention back to her. Jonah scratched behind his ear. “It’s my family’s house.”
“Which I rented until the twenty-eighth. And I didn’t intend to have house guests.”
Raising a brow, Martha leaned back against the counter, holding the coffee up to her face, letting the steam warm her. “Hmm. Seems you’re both in a bit of a pickle.”
Bronte ran a finger around the rim of her mug. Ugh, she couldn’t very well kick the guy out of his family’s house. “Does the island have any other place I can rent for the next couple of weeks?”
“There isn’t any other place to rent on the island.” Martha confirmed her fear. Bronte was going to have to go back home. “With all the families visiting for the holidays, even those who generally have extra space are full up at the moment.”
Bronte hated the tears pricking the backs of her eyes. She hadn’t realized how much she was looking forward to being away from normal life in order to get this book written. True, she could probably find some other destination to stay at for the next few weeks, but finding a place, booking, travel—it would all take time. Time she didn’t really have. Home would be the best choice. She grabbed her phone off the side table and swiped the screen. “I’ll work on finding another place.”
Jonah ran his hand down his face again. “No, you don’t need to do that. I can figure out somewhere else to stay. Maybe the apartment over the clinic?”
