Page 3 of Second Chance Christmas

She failed to see any proof Gran needed her help, but they— meaning everyone but her—found Ivy to be the perfect spy as the favorite grandchild with her job description as a residential re-developer.

It didn’t help her case that her house went up in flames over Thanksgiving and she needed a place to live until she landed her job in New York City.

“Promise you’ll stop in and see us before all the commotion kicks up. I’ll be done with my shift before noon. Plus, I have a job for you. Thought of you the second your gran mentioned you were coming.”

Ivy flinched. The last thing she wanted was anything that would hold her here longer.

Ivy raised her eyes to see a big shadow looming over the opposite wall from the window and swallowed hard. “Um… Mrs. December. I might not make it. Is the sheriff there, or anyone with a badge, really?”

“Oh, why’s that, hon?”

“The ax-murdering woodchopper at my front door.”

CHAPTER TWO

Ivy peered around the edge of the stove again, hoping for a better look. Max moseyed in for a quick drink of water before taking up his guard post on a pile of folded painter’s plastic by the far wall of the kitchen.

Her phone beeped twice, signaling the inevitable.

“Mrs. December, my phone is about to die.” Just like her.

“Can you see who it is? Mr. Murdoch might have fallen into the spiked apple cider again. You know it’s that time of year.”

The town’s drunk did not look like the Hulk!

“Not him! That much I can see.”

“No? Hmm. No, now wait a second. Red plaid, you said? I could be mistaken, but it sounds like the fire chief, maybe. Bumped into him this morning on the way to cover my shift. He said he’d be by your way today. Guess he got an early start.”

What time was it? Just then tiny bells on her smartphone chimed and filled the quiet kitchen. Might as well be the bat signal shining in the night’s sky over Gotham City with how furiously it filled the entire house. “I gotta go, Mrs. December.”

Ivy refused to die. Not this close to Christmas and with her gran upstairs sleeping. You could take her house, but by the sweet Jesus in the Manger, enough was enough. She bounded to her feet and cringed at the littlejingle-jangleof her house slippers.

If by any miracle she survived this, Ivy mentally scheduled a long talk with her grandmother about the fact she wasn’t twelve anymore.

She snatched the first thing her eyes landed on and busted through the kitchen door, weapon raised.

An odd old red Chevy truck took up space beside her gran’s white Caddie. Morning hues of blue pushed out the gray and lit the sky to create a wonderful contrast to the flawless sheet of white that covered everything beyond the steps of the large wrap-around porch. Pristine all but for the messy area where the stranger stood with freshly split wood in either hand. But she didn’t have time for pretty and peaceful.

Snow crunched and she rounded the various wicker chairs between her and the railing of the porch. “Freeze right there you crazy, out-of-your-mind ax-wielding loon!” She planted her feet wide and took aim down the short handle. “I’m armed and I know how to use this. What the heck do you think you are doing?” Ivy squinted, trying to make out the face of her supposed do-gooder. Morning barely had a chance to chase away the shadows. Tucked beneath the eaves where the porch roof dipped to a smaller section, she couldn’t see anything above the shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s what crazy usually means and I bet you do. No sane woman this far north would be caught not knowing how to swing a cast iron skillet.”

She knew that voice. Didn’t she? Ivy crouched for a better look and she groaned when the little bells on her slippers tinkled again. So much for her tough kick-ass persona.

His gaze dropped to her feet. “Uhh, are those antlers on your feet? And tiny bells? Cute.”

There went that gruff voice again. This time with a hint of laughter and it cranked up the fire that burned in her veins.

“Never you mind, mister. And hey, don’t look at my feet, crazy man. The dangerous end is up here.” She wound up her batting arm and tightened her grip on the handle of her grandmother’s most prized possession beyond her bed and breakfast.

Ivy had played softball in junior high and remembered her coach’s instructions to swing from the waist and let the bat do the rest. In this case, her cast iron cookware.

“I believe you, but you’ll freeze to death if you don’t get back inside, though it’s probably not much better in there given how long the power has been out.”

As her ax-wielder stepped out from the low hanging eaves, her jaw hinged open. Dark hair paired with a set of equally dark eyes offset by a huge, soft smile greeted her. And muscle. Lord save her soul, the muscles on the man didn’t end. She bet half the female population of Dixen melted every time they looked his way.

She knew she always did.

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