The Christmas Bargain

Chapter One

Whoever was making that terrible racket needed to stop.

Rolling over in bed, Lila Penry buried her head underneath the pillow.

Thumps followed. Metal screeched. She groaned.

Where was that banging coming from? And why now, at the insanely early hour of—she squinted at the digital clock beside her bed—eight in the morning?

Bleary-eyed, she raised her head. It’s late-start Friday, she muttered to the drawn blinds in her bedroom. She had no classes to teach until this afternoon.

Due to her impending plus-one wedding crisis, she’d spent half the night perusing an online dating site. Agonizing for hours as she crafted a profile. Yet with her finger poised over the keypad, she’d lost her nerve and deleted it.

Something rattled. A clang resounded. Followed by a clatter.

A thundering crash jolted her out of bed.

For the love of Monet, she shouted to no one in particular.

Last night at dinner, Dad told her he’d hired someone to paint her house. But this...this overeagerness was ridiculous. It sounded like they were ripping apart the house Granny had left to her. Overhead, feet clomped across the roof.

Teeth gnashing, she raced downstairs. Spotting a ladder and a pair of blue jean-clad legs through the picture window in the living room, she unlocked the bolt and barreled outside. Her bare feet smacked across the gray-planked porch.

What are you doing? she yelled at the blue jeans. Stop!

The hammering ceased. Rung by rung, tan work boots descended. Foot by booted foot.

Revealing a long-sleeved gray Henley... A well-muscled chest...broad shoulders and finally... Sam.

First she went hot, then cold from sheer mortification.

Whenever she wasn’t around him, she believed she must misremember how absurdly handsome Sam Gibson was.

Then one glance—like now—and she knew she hadn’t come close to the physical perfection of the man standing beside the ladder.

As always, at the sight of him, her heart sped up a little.

Over six feet, he was tall compared to her five-foot-five stature. The former high school quarterback’s dark blond curls were still tousled. But the cleft in his chin was hidden by the beard scruff he’d worn since returning to North Carolina after a stint in the Navy.

Lila.

And the only reason he knew her name?

Truelove was a small town. They’d been in the same class from kindergarten through high school. Although he’d been the most popular and eligible guy on campus, Sam had been unfailingly nice to everyone.

Including klutzy, socially awkward, late bloomer, braces-wearing, frizzy-haired Lila. She’d long since grown out of the braces. The hair, however...

Her hair remained the bane of her existence.

As he stepped onto the ground, his to-die-for eyes crinkled. What’re you doing here?

Too late, she became aware of the bronze Chevy pickup with the Paint by the Numbers logo emblazoned on the side.

In the early-morning November chill, her breath fogged. I—I... Desperately, she finger-combed bed hair out of her face. I live here.

Those eyes of his followed the movement of her hand. And she became aware of an even more horrendous truth.

Part of her nightly routine was to pineapple her impossibly curly hair on top of her head before she went to bed. And despite her special satin pillowcase, after tossing and turning most of the night, her hair probably looked like a squirrel had nested there.

Of all the people in the whole wide world—

Aren’t you cold? His gaze traveled from the top of her head to her feet and to her face.

Y-yes, she rasped.

Gathering the tattered remnants of her dignity, she wrapped her arms around herself. She shifted from one foot to the other, the wooden boards cold against the soles of her feet.

Without a speck of makeup on her face, she was standing on her front steps in her favorite comfy flannel pajamas. The ones with cats all over them. Christmas cats.

From the bemused look on his devastatingly handsome features, he probably viewed her as one of those pathetic cat ladies. And was pondering how many felines were going to pour out of the open door behind her.

Would the embarrassment never end?

Sam stuck the claw of the hammer in the front pocket of his jeans. Didn’t your dad tell you I was coming?

Her father had said a painter was coming. Leaving out one small but all-important detail—that the painter was Sam Gibson.

What was it with men?

They were useless as fonts of information. Did men not talk while they golfed or met for lunch? Did they not talk while at the store or work? Did they not talk, period?

I’m sorry. Sam rested his hand on the ladder. I didn’t realize anyone lived here. I guess I woke you up.

Her cheeks felt hot. As hot as the color of a poinsettia. Color was her life. But the upside to resembling a poinsettia? Perhaps her face no longer resembled the walking dead.

She pushed several strands of hair out of her face. Although in the circumstances, if now wasn’t the time to hide behind the bane of her existence, she didn’t know what would qualify.

I promised your dad I’d start today. And when I heard on the radio this morning there’s a snowstorm in the Sierra Nevada—

Why the Sierra Nevada?

He blinked at her for a moment. And if she hadn’t known him her entire life—in an abstract, on the outside, plain girl, groupie kind of way—she would’ve believed he looked unsure of himself.

Lunacy, of course. Because she was so incapable of making the usually glib, supremely self-confident football hero feel anything.

Th-the storm is predicted to make its way across the Midwest over the course of the week. He cleared his throat. Which means once the storm crosses the Appalachian Mountains, Truelove’s forecast changes, too. He crossed his arms over his chest. Muscles rippled and bunched.

Her turn to blink.

I’ve only got this week to pressure wash, make repairs, caulk, tape and paint the house before the temperature drops.

Oh. For want of somewhere safer to land her gaze, she flicked her eyes toward the roof. I just imagined painting to be a quieter activity.

It’s nothing like the incredible landscapes you paint, but painting a house does have its more contemplative moments.

Her eyes cut to him. A smile curved the corners of his ruggedly attractive mouth.

She swallowed. You’ve seen my work?

I saw the chalk painting you did on the sidewalk in front of our rival’s school. And the mural you painted in the arts wing senior year.

High school had been a sort of social apartheid for her. Yet during her junior year, when her childhood friend Paige and her cheerleader cohorts begged Lila to lend her talents to Spirit Week, she’d been flattered. The first and only time the popular girls included her. Homecoming weekend, they’d sneaked over there in the dark of night. She’d been terrified of being caught, but exhilarated.

The mural’s still there, you know.

She did know. She and the art teacher who’d inspired her to pursue her dreams got together once in a while for coffee.

The reason it’s so noisy is that I’m removing the gutters, but I should be done later today. The rest of my crew are finishing another job but will be here later to help. Lifting his navy-blue ball cap—the name of a USS destroyer embroidered on the brim—he resettled the cap atop his mop of tousled curls. Is that okay?

Hands warming in her arms, her fingers curled in appreciation. Sure. I’ll try to stay out of your way.

Sam cocked his head. You won’t be in my way.

In unaccustomed proximity to her unrequited schoolgirl crush, she quivered. He had a debilitating effect on her nerve endings. Wh-where’s Emma Cate?

At the mention of the little girl, his face transformed. Since it’s late-start Friday for preschoolers, too, my mom’s keeping her this morning.

Two years ago when his sister and brother-in-law unexpectedly died, he’d taken Emma Cate to raise as his own without hesitation. And though he was only twenty-six, he was a good dad.

She shivered again.

He braced his hands on the ladder to climb up again. You should go inside and get warm.

She should, but it was so much nicer talking with him. You’re blessed to have Emma Cate.

Having her in my life is the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. He flashed her a smile.

Strong, even, white teeth.

A knee-buckling, ridiculously stomach-quivering smile. She felt quite faint. Yet while she would love nothing more than to stand around and stare at Sam Gibson all day, she did have other places to be.

Since her day had gotten an early start, she might as well run some errands before she met her friend AnnaBeth at the Mason Jar Diner. With effort, she unglued her feet from the floor. And closed her mouth.

Drooling was unattractive on a grown woman.

For fear of further disgracing herself, she fluttered her fingers at him and fled inside to the safety of her house.

But if her plans went forward as she hoped, by the new year, she’d be the new artist in residence in sunny California. Snow and Sam Gibson would be the stuff of distant memory.

An hour later, while perched on the ladder again, Sam watched Lila pull out of the driveway and head toward downtown.

The majority of the houses on the street were built at the turn of the last century. Located in one of the small town’s older neighborhoods, Lila’s two-story Arts and Crafts bungalow with the broad-planked porch sat adjacent to IdaLee Moore’s gingerbread Victorian. At the thought of Miss IdaLee, he grimaced.

Married, divorced or spinster, Miss was an honorary title of respect bestowed on any southern lady who was your elder. No matter if the Miss was elderly or not.

Lila’s great-aunt IdaLee and her matchmaking double-name cronies were determined to help everyone in the Blue Ridge mountain town find their happily-ever-after. Whether the recipients of their efforts wanted them to or not.

In his case, definitely not.

A few hours after his unexpected encounter with Lila, Sam got in his truck to head to the elementary school. He and Emma Cate had a standing lunch date for late-start Fridays. Once his crew arrived this afternoon, they’d make short work of removing Lila’s remaining gutters.

He found his niece waiting for him outside the cafeteria. Seeing him, she immediately disengaged from the rest of her classmates standing in line and hurled herself at him.

Emma Cate’s arms went around his legs. Daddy Sam!

Lips curving, he rested his palm on her silky blond head. Hey, baby doll.

Her teacher caught his eye and gestured to the wall plastered with art. Get Emma Cate to show you her drawings before you eat lunch. She herded her charges into the cafeteria.

Emma Cate’s little hand tucked into his, he stepped closer to examine the various renderings.

Which one is your favorite, Daddy Sam?

The pictures drawn by Emma Cate are my favorite.

She shook her head, setting her pale blond braids in motion. Which one do you like the best?

He scanned the drawings taped to the wall. This one is nice. He motioned to her amazingly lifelike depiction of a horse.

She’d seen the horse a few weeks ago when her class took an excursion to the FieldStone Dude Ranch. And judging from the other childlike illustrations, he might be biased, but he believed she possessed art skills far in advance of the other four-year-olds.

He tapped his finger to the tip of her nose. We better go inside and eat before lunch is over.

Squeezing his hand, she pulled him into the cafeteria. First, we got to get de tray, Daddy Sam.

They’d done lunch every Friday since she went to school in September. But he allowed the little girl to take him through the now-familiar ritual of cafeteria protocol. Plucking utensils from the plastic caddy. Yanking napkins out of the holder. Sliding the tray along the metal rails.

She ordered for them both. Always the same—a slice of cheese pizza, a cup of steamed broccoli (his compromise to the pizza) and a small carton of milk.

Leaving the lunch lady at the register, he carried the tray to the table where Emma Cate directed him. After he plopped down on the small stool, the little girl regaled him with her morning adventures since he’d seen her last. About four hours ago.

She talked. He listened. He let her do most of the eating.

Not old enough for kindergarten, she was enrolled in the Head Start program at the elementary school. Juggling single parenting and starting his paint contracting business, the program was a godsend for him.

But that first day, going into the school building, she’d seemed so small. Leaving her in the classroom had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

Hard for him, but not for her. She loved going to school with her friends. And he was glad she was happy.

Yet the program was designed for disadvantaged children. When he was a boy, he and his sister had practically been the poster children for at-risk families. Now he was determined to make his business a success.

With a con man and swindler for a father, he was out to remake the Gibson name into something Emma Cate could be proud to claim. He would do everything in his power to reverse the bitter Gibson legacy he’d inherited and ensure she had a loving, stable life, full of opportunities.

His cell pinged. He fished it out of his jeans and read the text from Lila’s father, requesting a meeting. Forehead creased, he typed a response. He hoped Mr. Penry wasn’t unhappy with the work he’d done so far. He needed this job.

Looks like I have to go, baby doll.

A line etched the space between her perfect little brows. But I didn’t show you my favorite picture, Daddy Sam.

He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes were left in her lunch period. If he hurried, he’d still have plenty of time to meet Cliff Penry. Let’s do it now.

They quickly deposited their trash into the proper receptacles.

In the hallway once more, she drew his attention to another of her sketches. Dis one’s my favorite, Daddy Sam.

Recognizing the image of their humble mobile home, his heart sank. He wanted so much more than he could provide for her in their present circumstances. But he’d put in a bid to paint a high-end phased development in nearby Asheville last week. The contract would give his crew steady work for the next three years. And he could look for a better place to live.

Dat’s you. In an effort to be helpful, she pointed to the tallest figure in the drawing. Dere’s me and dere’s...

He squinted at the medium-height figure. Shoulder-length red curls. Big gray-blue eyes. The woman had to be—

—Miss Penry. Emma Cate smiled.

Art was her favorite subject. Other than Sam and her grandparents, art teacher Miss Lila Penry was her favorite person.

Each night, Emma Cate gave him a blow-by-blow account of what the delightfully fabulous Miss Penry had worn that day. The child was a big fan of the art teacher’s accessories. Apparently, Lila Penry had as many scarves as there were days in the year.

He reckoned he knew as much about Lila’s wardrobe as she did. But he appreciated the interest she’d taken in his niece. He’d known her since they were both Emma Cate’s age.

A free spirit with her fluttery skirts and handcrafted jewelry, she’d marched to the beat of a different drummer. Her head always in the clouds, Lila hadn’t been like the other teenage girls. Quirky and slightly eccentric, she hadn’t gotten involved in the usual high school drama.

Even then, he’d recognized she was wildly talented. Unlike him, she was also comfortable in her own skin, and he admired that about her. Her silvery eyes had often held a faraway look. As if imagining more exciting worlds.

Living with the shame of his father’s misdeeds and grappling with his mother’s illness, a world which he wouldn’t have minded escaping to. Perhaps that was why he’d joined the US Navy after graduation.

A bell rang.

Sam kissed his niece’s sweet little hand. Lunch is over.

Her teacher gathered the students together. At the end of the line, he and Emma Cate trooped down the hall with the others. Outside their classroom, the teacher directed the children to go inside and take their seats.

Sam turned to leave. I’ll see you after work.

Her hold tightened on his hand.

Your teacher’s waiting, baby doll. He frowned. I’ve got an appointment.

Her lower lip wobbled.

Sam crouched