For The Holidays (Gaming The System Book 9), Page 3

  “You finding something good to eat in there?” I called after he’d stood motionless in front of the open fridge for way too long.

  “Uh, yeah. Anna stocked this up good for us. She’s amazing, that Anna.”

  Huh. Amazing? That saucy blonde concierge had openly drooled all over my Beast since the minute she’d met us until the moment she’d left for the morning. As she’d shown us around the mansion, I’d found it necessary to hang off Jordan’s arm and be all lovey and demonstrative just so she’d get the point.

  She made her own point of checking out my left hand—and not even hiding the fact she was doing it, either. Then she was all smiles and giggles whenever he talked.

  For real, my Beast was a very tempting hunk of meat, and I couldn’t always be around to fight off the she-vultures. But I was here, now, and Anna would soon get the clue that not only was I not going anywhere, but I didn’t take kindly to others messing with what was mine. I was the lioness on the savannah defending her juicy kill from opportunistic hyenas.

  I studied him through narrowed eyes as he grabbed an apple out of the fridge, washed it and then sauntered off with it in his hand.

  Mia had grabbed her tablet and disappeared into her room, and here I was, alone.

  I stuffed my phone in my pocket, vowing to find out more about the mystery man later but deciding to concentrate on the current mystery of what was eating Jordan.

  Maybe he needed a little of my sugar to take the edge off?

  It had the bonus of keeping him sexually satisfied to the point of exhaustion so that he’d be too fatigued to even look at Anna.

  Yes, I think a mind-blowing BJ, as soon as possible, would be just what the doctor ordered. Anna was cute, but I was cuter and I got to share his bed every night. So take that, Snow Bunny Sue.

  I was not weak of heart when some hyena zeroed in on my hunk of meat. I rose to the occasion, claws out and ready to go for the jugular. Over my dead lioness body. I had mine. She’d have to go hunting in some other savannah to find hers.

  And I’d waste no time getting that point unmistakably across to her.

  Chapter 5

  Jenna

  Well, it had taken less than a full day for me to realize that the mountains really agreed with me.

  Sitting by the fire amidst the hustle and bustle of late morning just after breakfast, I thought I could spend a multitude of days here with my closest friends, my sweetie sitting beside me quietly reading a magazine he’d found on the coffee table.

  Knit two rows, purl two rows. I was in the middle of purling when I slipped up and knit one on the wrong row. With a heavy sigh, I undid the stitch and redid it correctly.

  I was a newbie knitter, so it was slow going. And though I was using homespun wool I’d bartered off one of my friends in our barony of the Medieval Reenactment Alliance, I had no intention of going near period-appropriate knitting needles. Instead, I’d picked up modern metal needles from the local craft store. Knit... no purl. I was purling this row again. The alternating knitting and purling two rows was producing a nice ribbed texture in the wool.

  I was so close to being done, but I’d been beyond silly to think I’d have this scarf done for William in time for Christmas. Overly ambitious. I’d started at Thanksgiving, thinking a month would be plenty of time... haha, no.

  Between my first year of teaching at a real job, spending time with William, and our participation in the Medieval Reenactment society, we were actually very busy. I squeezed in knitting a few rows here and there while I was waiting at appointments or watching TV—which, since Wil wasn’t the biggest fan of watching, wasn’t very often. Sometimes I’d get a few rows done in bed before falling asleep.

  It hadn’t been enough time. So on Christmas Eve, I’d had to give up and wrap it unfinished, and put it under the tree—needles, yarn and all. When he’d opened it the next day, he’d been more than a little confused. Maybe he’d thought I’d expected him to finish it. He’d probably pick it up faster than I had... He had mad skills with his hands. In every way....

  I could feel him watching me. It was a secret talent of mine—to know when I was being watched. William had been looking over the edge of that magazine, staring at my work for minutes now. I braced myself.

  “Is the magazine boring?” I asked.

  “It’s not what I usually read,” he replied in his characteristic monotone. “But there are some interesting articles.”

  “Then why are you watching me knit instead of reading them?”

  He shrugged. “The articles aren’t as interesting as you are. Also, you dropped a stitch, three stitches back.”

  I sighed and checked. Of course he was right. I pulled the three complete stitches off my right needle, undid them and slipped them back onto my left needle. “I’ll get better at it.”

  “The fiber arts are difficult to master. In the middle ages, an apprentice studied for three years before becoming a journeyman. It’ll take time for you to get good.”

  I clenched my jaw. Of course, he didn’t mean for his critique to sting. Nevertheless, for some reason, it did. This had been a difficult fall. My first one teaching a pack of unruly freshmen in high school. Physical science. They didn’t care about the subject at all, and most of them zoned out in class—or worse, they acted out. I’d had to go to great lengths to learn how to entertain them. They were annoying, but teaching was fun.

  In spite of that, I came home almost every day exhausted and loaded down with papers to grade and notebooks to plan future lessons. Experiments to design, experiment supplies to order and organize, extra-curricular activities to supervise…. The work was never-ending.

  I’d even brought work with me on this trip, on the odd chance that I might have a moment to get something done. But at the moment, this scarf was my sole focus. It was already several days late. Besides, he could use this scarf to keep him warm while we were up here. As Southern Californians, we didn’t have many occasions to wear warm clothes—and thus didn’t have many thick coats and gloves for those occasions. He definitely needed this..

  Only a few dozen more rows... did it really have to be that long anyway, to wrap around his neck? I glanced up at him. My boyfriend was tall, handsome, and powerfully built. His work as our clan’s blacksmith, along with his continuing practice of sword fighting while wearing a full suit of armor, had helped him develop a very fit body. He was delicious. But his neck was rather muscular. A few more dozen more rows it was, then. A scarf that was too short would be useless.

  “I’m practicing. That’s what this is all about. Plus, losing a few stitches here or there makes it unique looking.”

  “It will also cause it to unravel,” he helpfully observed.

  I could feel my shoulders slump.

  He wandered off not too long after that, and I continued to toast my toes by the fire and work my rows. Lucas sank down next to me about an hour later with a resort brochure in his hand.

  “Are you looking forward to hitting the slopes?”

  He shrugged. “I’m on my wife’s turf, now. I just don’t want to embarrass her out there.”

  I laughed. “Well, maybe she’d take kindly to that. She could show you the ropes—if she or you don’t break your necks.”

  His mouth twisted. “Got any ideas on safer ways to say I love you?”

  My eyes zeroed in on my work as I responded. “Have you tried just telling her those three magical words?”

  He smiled. “I actually make a point of those being the last three words I say to her every night before we go to sleep.”

  My needles faltered. Awwwww. Cue my heart melting. That was so incredibly sweet.

  Who’d have thought that Lucas, until recently so well-known for his cantankerous grumpiness, could be so transformed by finding the love of his heart? It was enough to make me jealous about new love.

  I mean, I had love. I loved my sweetie dearly. And there was no man kinder, sexier, or more chivalrous than William. But when was the last time he
’d actually said the words I love you to me? Definitely not every night before bed. Not even every week.

  I frowned, now seriously considering that question. When had the last time been, anyway?

  I glanced over at him across the room. He was sitting in the window seat overlooking a gorgeous mountain vista behind him, the sun gleaming on the freshly fallen snow. His dark head was craned over his sketchbook, pencil moving a mile a minute, brow furrowed in concentration. Damn, he was hot.

  I bit my lip. Did he still love me? He never said it. Why didn’t he ever say it?

  Should I be worried?

  I pondered that question and kept on knitting.

  Chapter 6

  William

  I squint, attempting to decipher Jenna’s hasty writing on the wide index card. I normally dislike reading cursive, but her cursive is typically even and lovely. This writing is not. She copied it in a hurry, almost as a last-minute idea.

  Fortunately, the concierge found the ingredients she requested. And here we are in the kitchen assembling ingredients for the medenjaci traditional winter cakes made in Bosnia and Croatia around this time of year. Honey and gingerbread. Of course, honey. When I spent a month with Jenna in her home country almost two years ago, I noticed that most of their treats were sweetened with honey. It’s a different taste. Earthy, sweet but full-bodied, unlike cakes sweetened with sugar. I’m looking forward to tasting these, even though Jenna has never made them before.

  My job, she has said, is to convert the metric measurements into the American system. However, since we’re in Canada, we’ve discovered that the available baking implements are also in metric. No conversion necessary. How lucky, she says. I remark that I don’t believe luck had anything to do with it.

  She gives me one of those looks. I’ve learned what they mean. She’s not quite exasperated. Maybe a little frustrated. She’s putting a lot of pressure on herself to get these cookies right. Since she’s the only Bosnian here, only she will know if she got them wrong.

  “I’ve never baked these by myself before. I’ve always had Mama to help.”

  “I don’t doubt they will taste delicious. And since you don’t need me to convert ingredients, I can go—”

  “No!” she says, reaching for my hand and squeezing it. “I need you here.”

  “For what purpose? I’m not experienced with baking. I have nothing to contribute to this process.”

  “For moral support, Wil. Company. Someone to talk to while I’m baking.”

  I raise my brows. “Will that help them taste better?”

  She sighs and there’s a strange smile on her face. I’m not sure if it’s ironic or if she truly is happy. “It will make me happy if you stay.”

  I frown, ready to formulate my rebuttal but... I have none, to be honest. How can I argue with what makes her happy and what doesn’t? After all, she’s the best judge of that. And I’ve been getting better at it, studying her a lot, her reactions to things I do for her. I repeat the ones that get the most obvious reaction. Cleaning the kitchen and doing the dishes is a big one. So perhaps that’s why she needs me here. I’ll clean up after her as she bakes.

  “You should have just taken a picture of the recipe in the book so I could read the ingredients to you.”

  She raises her brows at me. “You can’t read my writing? It is a little sloppy because I was writing fast. I had the idea to make the cookies for everyone at the very last minute. But Mama wrote the recipe in Bosnian in the email, and it wasn’t printing. I had to copy and translate it at the same time. All while you were howling at me that we were going to be late for our pickup.”

  “I wasn’t howling. I was—”

  She holds up her hand. “It was a joke. But you were being a time tyrant.”

  A joke. I’m getting better at detecting them, especially from her. “Fine. You may address me as Emperor Expeditious.”

  “How about punctual pundit?” Her grin widens, and she stirs the wet ingredients more vigorously.

  “Punctuality pundit is actually much more accurate than time tyrant.”

  She smiles again and nods while continuing to stir the batter, rechecking the recipe and occasionally tasting. She’s so beautiful. I never get tired of looking at her. And watching her bake is by no means boring. But... I’m itching to get back to my project. I fold my arms and tuck my hands under them to keep them still. I’ll force myself not to think about it. There’s still plenty of time to get it done.

  “I need a few more ingredients. Nutmeg, ginger, and salt. Wanna grab those for me?”

  “I can measure out the salt. How many milliliters?”

  “Uh...” she squints at the card and her own writing. I refrain from commenting because I know it will get me another look. “She said a pinch of salt and a couple grates of nutmeg.”

  “What? That’s not milliliters.”

  She shrugs. “Mama makes this recipe a lot. She just... you know... feels it.”

  I blink at her, horrified. “Feels it? A recipe is a chemical formula. How do you feel it?”

  “Mama has done all the baking, every holiday since before I was born. She taught Maja and I, but of course, I was very little. At least she has Maja now to help her. But I remember the flavors so vividly, and I’ve missed these things.... When I told Kat I was going to make these, she volunteered to make some Canadian dessert called a Nanaimo bar. So I want these to turn out good.”

  I read over the card again while she offers me a taste of the batter. I shake my head no because I’d rather taste the finished product.

  “I don’t understand this recipe. Are you sure you’re reading it right?”

  She nods and continues on as if she hasn’t actually heard me. “I think next we’ll do the walnut cakes. Mama also emailed that one to me, but it’s still in Bosnian. I’ll have to look up some words because I don’t remember them.”

  I frown. “Is that recipe as imprecise as this one? How can your mother possibly repeat her creations, much less pass them on to her daughters, if she can’t come up with specific measurements for her food?”

  Jenna rolls her eyes and sighs heavily. I know that look too. Exasperation. “It’s just guidelines.”

  “You mean like the Pirate Code is just guidelines? Don’t get me started on that movie because—”

  “William!” she says, folding her arms across her chest and standing stiffly. She never calls me by my full name. It’s either Wil or sweetie. I like both of those much better coming from her. I don’t care for her exasperation, though.

  “You’ve been a great help, but you can go now. I just have to start popping these in the oven. I think I’m good,” she says with a long sigh.

  I straighten. “Leave the dishes for me to clean.”

  And then I happily turn to leave the kitchen while she scoops dough onto a cookie sheet. Good. I need to get back to that project. The more time I can spend on it, the better it will turn out. I have to grab every minute I can to work on it. We’re due to leave for dinner in Whistler Village in just over an hour. Fortunately, it’s at a casual diner and I won’t have to take time to get dressed up for it.

  Before leaving, I turn back. “I’m here to help taste them when they are done.”

  “Of course you are,” she replies as I leave.

  Chapter 7

  Katya

  It was winter in my beautiful former home of British Columbia, and I had the rare opportunity to enjoy Whistler like a one-percenter. All because my BFF and her hubby were actual, generous one-percenters who liked to share with their friends. I was nothing but over-the-top impressed by our beautiful mansion. And the food! The caterer had already made us several meals to die for.

  So what the hell were we doing in this little après-ski diner for dinner tonight?

  Apparently, it was so everyone could try poutine and mock me about it. What else was new?

  “If I lived in Canada, I’d have a pet moose just so I could name him Bullwinkle,” Jordan snorted. Ha ha.
A moose joke. Never heard anything like that before. Eye roll.

  The waiter arrived with several orders of poutine. Plates overflowing with heaps of fries piled high on a plate covered with white chunks of cheese curd and a rich, flavorful gravy. It wasn’t even something that western Canadians had regularly enjoyed until very recently. Poutine was a product of Quebec, and this western Canadian was not a fan.

  “Here we go! I’ve been dying to try this.”

  Mia stared at the plate as if trying to figure out what the hell it was. “That’s poutine?”

  “It’s not a food.” Jordan’s snide voice cut in. “It’s the culinary equivalent of having unprotected sex with a prostitute in a truck stop.”

  I raised my brows. “Speaking from experience, Jordan?”

  Adam had already helped himself to several bites of the gooey fries. “Damn, this stuff tastes way better than it looks.”

  “That’s good, because it looks like someone had intestinal problems all over that plate,” Heath cut in.

  “Gross!” whined April.

  “What’s not to like?” Adam gestured to the plate. “French fries? Goood. Cheese? Goooood! Gravy? Gooooood. Put it all together and you have poutine.” He turned to his wife. “C’mon, girl. Time to try the food of your best friend’s people, eh?”

  Mia pointed straight at me. “She doesn’t even like it. Why would I like it? My lipoprotein panel would be off the charts if I ate that.” Mia shook her head vehemently. “I’m definitely going to run it on you if you keep eating it.”

  “Sounds kinky.” Heath smirked and waggled his brows. “Oh, what the hell… Might as well get my Letterkenny on.” He leaned forward and stuffed a clump of fries into his mouth. Traitor.

  Adam wasn’t done taunting Mia, waving a lone, gravy-soaked fry in front of her face. “Sometimes you need to walk on the wild side.”