Winter Heat Page 16

  It’s time I do whatever it takes to have a career as a pastry chef.

  But first, I have to survive going home for the holidays.

  I hate it when the Lancrofts get mentioned.

  Why?

  Because I turn into Mariah the Stalker.

  Opening my internet browser, I type his name in the search bar.

  Miles Lancroft.

  Pages of search results.

  Hundreds of headlines.

  Small-Town Boy Becomes Millionaire

  How Miles Lancroft Built A Real Estate Empire in Five Years

  Real Estate’s Favorite Bachelor

  I cringe.

  Those aren’t the headlines I’d write about him.

  They’d be:

  Small-Town Boy Screws Over Family Friends

  How The Lancroft Family Destroyed Small Businesses

  Real Estate’s Biggest Heartbreaker’s First Victim Was His High School Sweetheart

  There aren’t many new photos or headlines about him. The most recent gossip—written six months ago—details him dating some supermodel. It didn’t make much of a story since he and Little Miss Victoria’s Secret denied the claim. Rarely has his love life made it into the media as it’s mainly speculation. About a year ago, he was offered two TV spots—one as the new bachelor, and another on some reality show starring real estate tycoons. He declined both.

  My ex had never been one to enjoy the spotlight. It was a trait I admired most about him. Our high school—population small as hell—was comprised of two types of guys: those who’d been with their girlfriends since middle school (most of them married now) and fuck boys. Miles was hot and could’ve had any girl he wanted, but he chose me and never drove me to question our relationship.

  Too bad we didn’t turn into one of those couples who wed.

  Instead, we broke each other’s hearts.

  The hardest part is why we broke up.

  It wasn’t cheating, or losing feelings for each other, or deciding we were better as friends. No, our parents are to blame.

  Correction: his parents fractured our relationship by leaving us with a hard decision.

  Our family or each other.

  I chose my family.

  He chose his.

  Do I regret it?

  I try not to think about that because nausea swirls in my stomach—scared of the answer.

  Fingers crossed Real Estate’s Favorite Bachelor stays his conniving, heartbreaking ass in New York and far away from Blue Beech, Iowa.

  Just like he has for years.

  Chapter Two

  MILES

  The drunk man next to me won’t stop bitching about his wife.

  Don’t get married, man.

  My wife spent six-thousand dollars on some damn Christmas party for people I don’t even like.

  After being busted with the nanny, she made me buy her a new diamond ring. How dare her?

  Just because you fly first class doesn’t mean you don’t get stuck with idiots around you. I search my bag for my headphones, ready to mute this jackass rather than tell him I’m finished listening to his bullshit. I’ve never been one of those guys who complain when they’re in relationships, and I sure as hell don’t have sympathy for a man who had an affair with the nanny.

  Save your pains for another sucker.

  In my new life of being around high-powered men with money, these conversations have become too familiar. At times, I feel like the odd one out when I’m not trash-talking a woman or bragging about mistresses.

  I shut my eyes as we depart.

  I’m flying home for the first time in years. For the past four years, I’d convinced my family to visit New York for the holidays. They were reluctant at first, but I bribed them with Broadway tickets, expensive meals, and took them to the circle to watch the ball drop on New Year’s. This year, though, I’m returning to the small town of Blue Beech, Iowa.

  I have news.

  Life-changing news.

  After my plane lands, I rent a car to drive home. It’s a three-hour ride to Blue Beech, and even though they would’ve, I didn’t want my family to drive six-hours round trip to pick me up. Iowa winters are cold and have their fair share of snow. The weatherman had said to be prepared for up to five inches. I also like having my own car, so I don’t have to depend on anyone for a ride.

  There are no Ubers in Blue Beech.

  Twenty-five minutes before hitting Blue Beech, I stop for gas. As I step out of the car, a woman walks out of the gas station. I halt in step, dropping my arm that’d been reaching for the gas pump, and my stomach twists.

  That hair—I’ll never forget those dark-as-midnight strands. The strands blow in the breeze, and she swats them from her face. She struts across the parking lot so casually wearing a too-thin jacket and black yoga pants. The apples of her cheeks and the tip of her nose are the tint of apples. There’s a water in one hand, a coffee in the other, and she’s heading toward her car.

  Mariah Thomas.

  She’d once been my dream girl.

  Now, she’s the woman who turned her back on me over shit I couldn’t control.

  Gritting my teeth, I debate talking to her.

  Should I yell her name?

  Sprint over to her?

  Flip her off?

  I hadn’t prepared for this because I’ve acted like she doesn’t exist. There’d been temptation to look her up a few times or ask my parents about her, but I always held back. The only information I’d been given by my parents is she moved to California. They know our history, our drama, our heartbreak.

  At times, I see the guilt on their faces.

  The remorse about the situation.

  Instead of approaching her, I bow my head and snatch the gas pump with too much aggression. I don’t start pumping until she gets in her car and leaves. She’s all I think about on the drive to my parents’. It doesn’t help that I occasionally spot her car in traffic—a confirmation that she’s headed the same place as me.

  Do I want to see her again?

  Do I want to talk to her?

  I should’ve known she’d never leave my system. No matter how much time has passed, my heart still aches with what we’d lost. These feelings—these damn heart-wrenching emotions—are why I’ve never returned home. Blue Beech is nothing but a reminder of what I’d once had.

  How can you tell someone you love them but let them go?

  When I arrive into town, nostalgia joins me. I pass the circle where I’d hung out with friends, my old elementary school, and the cemetery I was dared to sleep in one night. There are also some new developments: shops, restaurants, and a new housing addition that hadn’t been here before.

  My parents no longer live in the house I grew up in. After purchasing the company from them, they bought a new one. I lost my goal of persuading them to move to New York and get out of a town that shunned them.

  “Our home will always be Blue Beech,” they said.

  It’s where they grew up. Where their parents grew up. It’s where I grew up, and where they expected me to stay.

  I called their decision to stay stupid, but now, I’m beginning to understand. New York does have more opportunities, but it can get lonely without family. I have business partners, friends, associates, but none came from the small-town life like me—where people help people and can be trusted.

  Parking in their driveway, I gaze at the home. It’s larger, and in the wealthy neighborhood as some call it. There are Christmas lights—white and shaped as snowflakes—on the house and lit-up reindeer in the yard.

  Today is my first time seeing it in person, but my mother has provided plenty of FaceTime tours. I’m happy as hell they got their dream home—especially after some of the shit they’ve gone through. They went from being loved by everyone to gaining enemies in the snap of a finger. Some, like me, understood their actions. Others, like Mariah, didn’t.

  I step out of the car, grab my suitcase, and walk in without knocking. That’s t
he thing with small towns—people don’t even bother locking their doors. You could never do that shit in New York.

  “Look who’s finally home!” my father calls out.

  My mother rushes down the hallway to wrap me in a tight hug. “I’m so happy you’re home, sweetie. As much as I love the city, it’s nice having you here.”

  “Miles!” my little sister, Nicole, squeals, jumping up from the couch and hugging me next.

  I was an only child growing up. After I moved seven years ago, my parents had Nicole. I love my little sister and am happy they have her, but I think they had her to fill the loneliness in their lives. There was a time when my parents were somewhat isolated from the town.

  In the beginning, I was a part of that isolation. I’d been furious, blaming them for my breakup, for my friends turning their backs on me, for me no longer wanting to live in Blue Beech. I moved to New York, got involved in real estate, and my parents reached out for help with their company. I eventually turned it into a multi-million dollar empire.

  After giving me an in-person tour, my mother doesn’t hesitate to point out the bedroom is mine for as long as I want to stay. Then they give me time to get settled.

  Damn, does it feel good to be home.

  Chapter Three

  MARIAH

  When the Welcome to Blue Beech sign comes into view, I smile.

  Nothing ever feels as comfortable as home.

  It may not be my home now, but it’s the only one I’ve ever loved.

  I drive to my sister’s, where I’m staying. When I pull up to the house, Evie and Ethan, my twin niece and nephew, are playing outside in the snow. My sister’s favorite holiday is Christmas, and she goes overboard on the decorations. Christmas lights—the old-school colorful bulbs you see in the movies—are up, her yard is filled with small Christmas trees, and snowflake decorations cover every window. When I walk in, I already know there will be a mistletoe hanging at the front door, the smell of cinnamon wafting in the air, and a Christmas tree adorning every room.

  “Hey, Aunt Mariah!” Ethan yells, holding up a snowball. “Do you remember what this stuff is? They don’t have it where you live now!”

  My family never neglects to remind me what I’m missing by not living here—even the kids are in on it.

  “Nah, I’m sure she’s already forgotten about it,” Spencer, Phoebe’s husband, says, coming into view in a full snowsuit that matches Ethan’s.

  I send him the dirtiest look I can manage, and he replies by flinging a snowball in my direction. It whacks my shoulder, and Ethan follows suit—hurling his snowball at me too.

  Jesus, what’s with people throwing stuff at me?

  Do I look like a damn target?

  “Rude,” I say, brushing off the snow from my jacket before doing the same with my hair.

  Since I don’t keep winter clothes in LA due to lack of space and snow, Phoebe lets me store them in her guest bedroom. I can’t wait to get into clothes I won’t freeze to death in, especially if these hellions will be launching snowballs at me.

  “Hey!” Evie yells, coming to my rescue. “Maybe she doesn’t want her hair messed up!”

  I hug her to my side. “Exactly! And for that, you boys can carry my luggage in.”

  “Ah, man,” Ethan groans. “That’s not fair.”

  I point at Ethan and look at Spencer. “Kid has good aim. Better sign him up for baseball.”

  He chuckles. “Already have.”

  Evie and I walk inside, and the guys grab my bags before following us. Phoebe, my mom, and my dad are in the living room, awaiting my arrival. Ethan and Spencer take my luggage upstairs to the guest room while I greet everyone with hugs. My parents hate that I don’t stay with them during the holidays, but I also like spending time with Phoebe. We stay up late, drink spiked eggnog, and watch Hallmark Christmas movies. We make a game of it. Anytime something cliché happens—it snows on Christmas, the person mocking Christmas finds their Christmas joy, when we see a mistletoe, when the main characters fall in love—we take a drink.

  While there’s no eggnog yet, my mom made her delicious caramel apple cider. I go upstairs, change my clothes, and help with dinner while sipping on cider.

  “Mariah has some good news,” Phoebe announces at dinner.

  I kick her underneath the table, wearing a stern expression on my face.

  She shrugs with a mischievous smile.

  My mother gracefully balances her fork on the edge of her plate. “What’s the good news?”

  Phoebe glances at me. “You want to tell them?”

  “Why wait for me?” I gesture to the table. “You’ve already started the darn conversation.”

  “She got fired.” Phoebe practically squeals.

  Phoebe is three years older than me, but we were inseparable growing up. Devastation hit her when I moved to California, and she has continuously begged me to return.

  “How is that good news?” my father asks, pushing his thin-framed glasses up before glancing from Phoebe to me. “And why were you fired?”

  “I, uh …” My cheeks turn heated. I hate it when I’m put on the spot. “I threw a customer’s shoe across the room.”

  Spencer snorts, pressing his hand against his mouth to conceal his laughter.

  “Awesome,” Ethan says.

  “You what?” my mother gasps.

  My parents are old-school and all about respect. As a previous business owner, my mother also has a strong sense of the customer is always right. It’s not that I don’t appreciate people’s business. Anytime anyone had a receipt or a product that hadn’t been worn, I gladly returned it. Whenever customers had a problem, a legit problem, I fixed it. I’m always pro-customer, but I also believe people shouldn’t take advantage.

  “She threw a shoe at me for not giving her a refund for shoes in terrible condition,” I reply. “So I threw it back.” It may sound childish, but I was over it.

  Over that job.

  Over not working a career I loved.

  “Aunt Mariah is so cool,” Ethan adds. “She’s a bad A-double-S.”

  Damn straight, I am.

  Unfortunately, my boss didn’t think so.

  Phoebe’s attention shoots to Ethan. “Excuse me? Where did you learn that?”

  “Everyone says it, Mom,” Evie says.

  Ethan nods in agreement. “All my friends do.”

  Phoebe gestures back and forth between her kids. “You two are officially on the naughty list.”

  “I’m still waiting for Phoebe to tell us why Mariah getting fired is good news,” my dad says.

  “Nothing is holding her back from coming home now.” Phoebe winks before taking a sip of her spiked cider.

  My mother perks up in her chair. “Oh, that’s great, honey.” Hope and excitement trickle along her face. “You haven’t found a job in California, so you have no reason to stay. I have plenty of connections and can help you find something around here.”

  It wasn’t her intention, but my mother’s comment, her truth, upsets my stomach. I didn’t go to LA looking for fame or a music contract. I went to the best pastry school there in hopes of becoming a pastry chef in a five-star restaurant or owning an upscale shop where celebrities bought their birthday party sweets. After graduating, I searched high and low for jobs, but nearly every place wanted you to have experience.

  How the hell do you gain experience without opportunity?

  I scored a few jobs, but none of them worked out. One bakery went bankrupt, and another was bought out. I started working retail forty-plus hours a week to make ends meet, making it hard to find time to job hunt.

  I play with the napkin in my lap. “I’m not sure what my plan is yet.”

  My father wipes the side of his mouth. “It’s time you came home. Whenever we talked to you there, you were working yourself to death to afford rent in a place that’s hardly as big as our living room.”

  My father scoffs at the real estate prices there. My rent is the same as their mon
thly mortgage, and the small size of my apartment meant they had nowhere to sleep and had to stay in a hotel when they visited.

  I take a sip of my spiked cider. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  Have you ever had a spiked eggnog hangover?

  Zero out of five stars.

  Don’t recommend it.

  Struggling to wake up, I yawn and stretch out in my bed—complete with a snowman comforter and a thousand throw pillows with reindeer.

  Where does she find all this shit?

  When my parents left after dinner, Phoebe brought out the eggnog. As much as I’d love to stay in bed all day, I’m in desperate need of a caffeine fix. I slide out of bed, shower, and jump down the stairs to the kitchen, where I find Phoebe making waffles.

  She’s dressed, her makeup done, and her hair—the same color as mine but shorter—is curled to perfection. Unlike me, she bears no evidence of staying up too late drinking.

  “Lava Java?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I’m on a caffeine break. I was becoming too dependent.”

  “Quitter.”

  She laughs.

  “Be back in five. Text me your order if you change your mind.”

  I slip on my snow boots, carefully walk along the shoveled driveway, and find Spencer shoveling the sidewalk. Like Phoebe, he declines a coffee.

  Sliding into my car, I wish I’d warmed it before leaving. Mother Nature granted us more snow last night, and even though I grew up with this weather, it’s been a while. I drive ten under the speed limit—don’t judge me—and luckily, I find a parking spot open in front of the coffee shop.

  Lava Java has the best coffee and even gives Starbucks a run for its money. If Lava Java didn’t exist in this town, there’s no way I’d move back. A girl has to have her caffeine to live. I walk in, noticing the bright red and green décor, and inhale the rich coffee bean smell.