Page 4 of Take Me Home for Christmas

“Rumor has it he is writing his autobiography.”

“I thought he already wrote that. They’re serializing it inVantagemagazine.” He frowned. “He doesn’t paint the military in a very good light.”

Xander grimaced. “I know. Apparently he hasn’t finished writing his tell-all. Word is he is staying at the inn through the end of the year. I really hope Elle keeps him on task. I’d rather he didn’t get a chance to spread his sour grapes all over town. He’s a Debbie Downer who couldn’t care less about ruining everyone else’s holiday.”

Hayden stumbled ever so slightly. “Elle?”

The red-headed, whirling dervish with cloud-gray eyes he’d been trying to convince himself he could live without had come home for Thanksgiving after all?

“Yep. Sheriff said she’s in charge of keeping him on task.”

Another stumble. “Elle will be in Chances Inlet through Christmas?”

“Could be through New Year’s if West doesn’t finish before then.” He moved off in the direction of his office. “I’ll come get you in twenty.”

Hayden barely heard him.

Elle McAlister is in Chances Inlet. Right now. And for weeks to come.

He let out a long-suffering groan. Simone jumped on the treadmill next to him. He didn’t dare glance over at her, but he could feel her gaze boring into him. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he looked her way. Her eyes were practically dancing out of their sockets.

“Ruh roh. The plot thickens,” she said before disappearing into the women’s locker room, a maniacal laugh trailing behind her.

Ruh roh was right.

ChapterTwo

It turnedout that Everett West, the veteran war reporter everyone adored, was an asshole. And a cantankerous one, to boot. She’d only known the man for seven hours, and Elle was already questioning whether the lifestyles columnist job was worth it. He’d shown up at the airport five minutes before they were supposed to board, looking like he was channeling Ernest Hemingway, dressed in a khaki fishing vest, a flannel shirt, and thick-soled Timberland boots. The ridiculous boots let out a shrill squeak whenever he crossed the tigerwood floors of her mother’s inn.

Any attempts by Elle at conversation were rebuffed throughout the flight. Mr. West was more concerned with keeping the ice fresh in his glass of Scotch—when he wasn’t dozing off. Elle had to work to contain her pique that he didn’t bother to work on his manuscript while they were en route. The first-class seats courtesy ofVantagecertainly afforded him enough elbow room to type.

“Thank you for including me at dinner this evening,” he said to Elle’s mother.

It was the longest sentence she’d heard the man utter all day.

“The pleasure is all ours,” her mom replied. “Tomorrow, Elle will show you around town, and you can choose from any number of restaurants for dinner. Of course, you’re welcome to use the kitchen whenever you’d like. I’m sure eating out for every meal can get tedious.”

Elle opened her mouth to say that Mr. West wouldn’t be dining out. She fully intended to act as his personal Uber Eats for the next five weeks. Anything to keep him on track to finish his book.

Except he was a regular chatterbox now. “You’d be surprised at the meals I’ve had to endure while out in the field, Mrs. Hollister.”

It was still weird for Elle to hear her mother called by a different last name. Donald McAlister, Elle’s father, died suddenly four years ago, rocking the McAlister family—and Chances Inlet—to its core. A year later, Lamar Hollister arrived to serve as the town’s new sheriff. He claimed it was love at first sight for him. Elle’s mom took a bit more persuading—the man was five years younger, after all. In the end, Lamar prevailed and the two had just celebrated their first anniversary as husband and wife.

Elle’s mom stood to clear the dinner plates. “Oh, please, call me Patricia. I hope you saved room for dessert. My daughter-in-law sent over a wonderful lemon cake. It’s one of the most popular recipes from her new cookbook.”

“I’ve endured a few of those MREs in my day, West,” Lamar tossed out.

The hint of challenge in his voice surprised Elle. The sheriff was normally very diplomatic and careful with his words. Mr. West leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the arms and steepling his fingers above his chest as he seemed to size up Lamar.

Elle’s eyes darted back and forth between them. It was a bit uncanny how alike they looked. Both were about the same height—just over six feet if she had to guess—with the same well-maintained physiques. They were lucky to still have full heads of thick hair, graying attractively at the temples. Where Lamar’s hazel eyes were curious and welcoming, however, Mr. West’s green ones were wary and forbidding. And his nose looked as though it had seen the business end of more than one fist.

“You served.” The words came out of Mr. West’s mouth more as a proclamation than a question.

Lamar held up three fingers. “Three tours.”

“Afghanistan?”

The sheriff nodded. A pained expression passed over Mr. West’s face so quickly, Elle would have missed it if she wasn’t so intent on tracking the obvious posturing between the two men. There was a subtext here that she was having trouble decoding. She knew from her many conversations with her best friend that the scars veterans brought home weren’t always physical ones. Was Mr. West dealing with some sort of internal trauma left over from his time embedded with combat troops?

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