he resented this woman for bringing Hardwick Beaumont’s ghost with her. Yes, the anger felt good. He was going to hold on to that anger for as long as he could. She might be prettier in real life, and that softness about her might call to him, but he was furious at her and that was that.
He walked back into the guest room and stripped the blankets and pillows off the bed. “Here,” he said, shoving them at her. Then he went to his own room and did the same. There. Now they didn’t have a reason to come back upstairs for the next several days.
Wordlessly, he led the way back downstairs to the living room. The fire had taken and the room was bathed in a warm, crackling glow.
He dropped his bedding on the couch and went to work rearranging the room. The coffee table went to the far side under the windows, where it would be darkest and coldest. He pulled the couch forward so it faced the fire and then dragged the recliners over so they boxed in the heat on each side. He laid a blanket over the coffee table so that drafts wouldn’t come in underneath it. And then he made a pallet on the floor. “You can take the couch.”
Her eyes widened and CJ knew she understood him perfectly. He would sleep on the floor, directly in front of her, to keep her from sneaking off in the night and snooping.
She hesitated. “You’ve done this before.”
He wasn’t sure how he was going to talk to her without revealing things. Well, the trick was to reveal as little as possible. “I have. This is not my first blizzard. But I’m gathering that it’s your first time.” The moment the words left his mouth, he winced. That was an unfortunate double entendre.
But, gracefully, she ignored his poor choice of words. She fluffed her pillows and shot him a sheepish grin. “I suppose that was obvious. It’s different in Denver.” She folded her blankets, making a sort of sleeping bag on top of the couch. Then she straightened, her hands on her hips. He got the feeling she was judging her work—and finding it lacking. “I didn’t plan this,” she said softly. “I’m not... I’m not always a good person. But I want you to know that I didn’t come out here with the intent of making you rescue me.” She didn’t look at him as she said this. Instead, she kept her head down.
If that were the truth—and that was a big if—he wondered how much the admission cost her. “Might as well make the best of it. I prefer not to spend the next few days being miserable. It’s the Christmas season—good will toward all men and women.”
She glanced at him, but quickly dropped her eyes again. Her mouth curved down in a way that CJ recognized—it was the kind of smile his mother made when she was trying not to cry.
He didn’t want Natalie Baker to cry. She hadn’t cried when she’d been half-frozen. Why would she do so now? Finally, after several painful seconds, she whispered, “Peace on earth?”
That was the truce. “Can’t promise you a silent night, though—that wind’s not going to stop.” Her smile was more real this time and somehow it made him feel better. What was wrong with him? It was enough that he had saved her from freezing to death. It was not his responsibility to make her happy. End of discussion.
However, that didn’t stop him from adding “Dinner should be ready. We can fill our plates and sit in front of the fire.”
She followed him into the kitchen. The house had always had a gas stove and this was exactly the reason why. CJ got a burner lit and put the kettle on.
“We have some instant coffee and a lot of tea.” He left out the part about how his mom vastly preferred tea to anything else. Those were the kinds of details he had to keep to himself. He went on, “There’s a roast in the slow cooker and potatoes and apple pie in the oven.” He lifted the lid and the smell of pot roast filled the air.
“Oh, my God—that smells heavenly,” Natalie said. She stepped up next to him and inhaled the fragrant steam.
They worked in silence, assembling the meal. He got down two big bowls and showed her where the tea and the instant coffee were located. He carved the roast and filled their bowls with meat, vegetables and gravy. The kettle whistled and she moved to turn it off.
He was not going to think about how effortlessly she moved around his kitchen. She did not belong here and the fact that he was having to remind himself of this fact approximately once every two-point-four seconds was yet another bad sign. At this point, he wasn’t sure he’d recognize a good sign if it bit him on the butt.
It was only when he settled onto the couch with his feet stretched toward the fire that she spoke again. “This is wonderful,” she said as she gracefully folded herself into a cross-legged posture on the couch—a solid four feet away from where he sat.
He appreciated that she wasn’t starting with another line of questioning—even if she was just trying to soften him up, he was glad there was no full-on assault. That didn’t mean he was going to not ask his own questions, however. “How come you don’t have anyone waiting for you?”
She didn’t answer for a long time—which was understandable, because she was devouring the pot roast. CJ did the same. They ate in silence until she set her bowl to the side. “I could ask the same of you—you’re here all alone and Christmas is coming. You don’t even have any Christmas decorations up.” She looked around his living room. It seemed more barren than normal, with all the pictures gone. “But I won’t ask,” she said quickly before CJ could remind her of the rules.
He didn’t miss the way she avoided answering his question. He glanced up—no ring on her finger. He didn’t think she ever wore one—but it was entirely possible that, if she had a ring, she just didn’t wear it while she was on TV.
She tucked her hands under her legs. “So, what are we supposed to talk about? I’m not allowed to ask you questions about yourself and so far, I haven’t felt comfortable answering any of your questions.”
He shrugged. “We don’t have to talk about anything. I don’t have a problem with silence.”
“Oh.” Her chin dipped and her shoulders rounded. But then she straightened. “Okay.”
He gritted his teeth. At any point, she could stop looking vulnerable and that would be just fine by him. “I don’t want to be your lead story. I would rather not talk than have everything I say be twisted around and rebroadcast for mass consumption.”
She sighed in resignation, but she didn’t drop her gaze this time. “I think it’s pretty safe to say that I’m off the clock. Anything we talk about would be off the record.”
Like he was going to take her word for that. “Patrick Wesley is my father. That’s the end of this discussion. I will not allow my personal life to be monetized for someone else’s gain.”
Besides, outside his parents and apparently Hardwick Beaumont, there was only one other person who knew that Patrick Wesley was not his birth father. CJ had been in love in college—or he thought he had. Really, he had been young and stupid and full of lust and he’d confused all of that with love. But he thought he’d had what his parents had found so he’d told his girlfriend about Hardwick Beaumont being a sperm donor because if he were going to propose to a woman, he wanted her to know the truth about him. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life hiding behind the Wesley name.
He had never forgotten the look on Cindy’s face when he’d told her that actually, he was sort of related to the Beaumonts. Her eyes had gone wide and her cheeks had flushed as he’d
