Page 28 of The Clause in Christmas
“All right, DeeDee,” Luke said firmly as he elevated her swollen ankle. “Tell me the whole story.”
Dolores sighed. “Not much to tell. It had started snowing pretty hard, and I wanted to move my potted azalea inside. In my haste, I must have slipped on a patch of ice.”
Luke cringed, imagining how painful it must have been for Dolores to get back inside all on her own. “Sit tight. I’m going to call Doc Parker to come have a look at it.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” Dolores waved her hand dismissively. “All I need is a little rest.”
“Maybe so,” Luke said, striding toward the kitchen where Dolores kept her old rotary phone. “But I’m still calling Doc.”
With each step he took, Luke’s boots felt harder to lift off the floor. How could he have not come to check on Dolores when the snowfall first began? Guilt tore at his insides as the truth pummeled him.
He’d gone to check on Cassie instead.
Luke’s heart constricted as if a C-clamp had been placed around it, tightening with each second it took for him to come to the inevitable conclusion.
He had to put all thoughts of pursuing Cassie aside.
Too many people counted on him.
Chapter 10
Cassie stared blankly at the Christmas Calendar, barely even registering the day’s entry. Not that it made much sense, anyway.
December 6: Attend Pajama Christmas.
What on earth was Pajama Christmas? To be honest, Cassie didn’t really care. Derek’s words from the day before echoed in her mind, leaving little room for anything else.
I want to hire you, Cass. I want this coffee shop to be ours.He couldn’t be serious, could he? Oh, she believed he bought a coffee shop. Money wasn’t an issue for Derek Price. But working together? That would be impossible. Especially if he would be her boss.
Cassie poured the last of the Colombian beans into the hand grinder, her heart sinking as she gazed into the empty bag. An image of Frank Barrie spinning the metal drum, aromatic smoke swirling into the murky winter sky, sprang to mind.
After crumpling the craft bag and tossing it in the trash, Cassie grabbed her keys off the counter and strode purposefully toward the door.
When it came to coffee, Cassie Hayward didn’t give up easily.
* * *
Up close, the neglected farmhouse appeared to be in even more disrepair. Several of the knotted pine planks were missing from the porch, and most of the shutters seemed held in place by hope and prayer. The single rocking chair creaking softly in the bitter breeze stirred a deep-rooted emptiness in Cassie’s heart she’d spent a lifetime trying to suppress.
Tentatively, she knocked on the front door.
No answer.
Maybe Frank wasn’t home? There wasn’t a car or truck in sight, although Cassie didn’t recall seeing one on her first visit, either.
Disappointment akin to defeat settled in Cassie’s stomach as she turned to leave.
Then a loud crash rang out from somewhere inside the house.
A surge of adrenaline propelled Cassie’s fist to make contact with the front door, shaking loose flecks of once-white paint that floated to the ground like sullied snowflakes. “Frank? Are you okay?” When she received no answer, she tried the doorknob. It turned easily.
“Hello? Frank?” Poking her head inside, Cassie glanced around before inching across the threshold.
Her heartbeat hammered in her ears as she crept down the shadowy hallway. “Please don’t be hurt,” Cassie whispered, apprehension prickling her skin.
To her surprise, the inside of the house looked nothing like the outside. Though sparse and decidedly masculine, the interior was clean and functional. Maybe even pleasant. But there wasn’t any sign of Frank—injured or otherwise.
After searching several rooms, Cassie found herself in Frank’s study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls filling the modest space with the delectable scent of aged leather and yellowed pages. The third wall comprised almost entirely of a stunning picture window that overlooked the neighboring forest of mature pines, while the fourth was home to a feather-soft chenille recliner, reading lamp, and mahogany writing desk.
