One Enchanted Eve: A Novella (Enchanted Christmas Collection Book 2)

  One Enchanted Eve

  a novella

  Melissa Tagg

  Contents

  Books by Melissa Tagg

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Acknowledgments

  Let’s be friends

  Also by Melissa Tagg

  About the Author

  © 2016 by Melissa Tagg

  Larkspur Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, etc.—without the prior written permission of the author. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Jones House Creative

  Connect with Melissa at www.melissatagg.com and stay in touch by signing up for her always fun and never spammy e-newsletter!

  Books by Melissa Tagg

  Walker Family Series

  Three Little Words

  From the Start

  Like Never Before

  Keep Holding On

  Enchanted Christmas Collection

  One Enchanted Christmas

  One Enchanted Eve

  Where Love Begins Series

  Made to Last

  Here to Stay

  Chapter 1

  If Rylan Jefferson was lucky, after tonight she’d never have to see Colin Renwycke again.

  And if she was very lucky, he’d take his punishment like a man and this would all be over in a matter of minutes.

  Rylan perched on the stainless steel island at the front of her culinary classroom, legs dangling over the edge, the heels of her wool-lined boots knocking against its base. Arms folded, she watched as her boss, the private school’s owner, Chef Potts—stout, clad in a plaid robe, and clearly none too pleased to have been roused from sleep—rounded the kitchenette workstation where Colin had caused his latest disaster.

  Blackened stains marred the countertop. Splatters of meringue and melted ice cream dripped off its edges. Mixing bowls, a sticky frying pan, an abandoned mini blowtorch.

  And permeating the air, the scent of burnt rum.

  Oh yeah, after three months of tormenting her, Colin Renwycke—undeniably the worst, most undisciplined student baker Rylan had ever tried to teach during her two years at the Denver Culinary Institute—was about to get his comeuppance.

  It was all she could do to swallow an eager finally.

  “What a mess,” Chef Potts observed. Hands hidden in the pockets of his robe, snow-white mustache twitching, he released a yawn. Convenient, at least, that the man lived next door to the school. But how early did he go to bed? It couldn’t be later than nine now. The evening class, last one before Christmas break, had started at seven. The fire alarms had gone off around 8:30 or so. Chef Potts, looking half-asleep, had arrived at the same time as the local fire department.

  Ninety minutes from first egg cracked to complete catastrophe. True to form for Colin.

  She refused to look at Colin now, where he leaned with his back against a frost-covered window. Didn’t have to, to know what she’d see. Spattered apron, Oxford rolled up to his elbows underneath. Dark hair, light eyes. Blue. Annoyingly so. And they always seemed to be laughing at her, even when he wasn’t wearing his obnoxiously dimpled jaunty grin.

  Shouldn’t a man who must have nine, ten years on everyone else in the class turn out to be the star baker? The one with experienced focus and precision?

  The one least likely to heckle Rylan at every opportunity?

  Chef Potts, owner of the institute as well as a string of restaurants and bakeries from Denver to Colorado Springs, shook his head before turning to Rylan. “Baked Alaska gone wrong?”

  “Exactly.” At her resolute nod, her hair clip’s last hold gave way and a mess of tangled brown spilled over her shoulder. She blamed the wind, the twenty minutes standing outside the two-story brick building in the biting cold, waiting for the fire department to allow everyone back into the institute.

  At least it had been snowing. A gorgeous salting of the landscape, silver in the moonlight. Sometimes when it snowed, when the crisp, mountainous air cleansed her lungs, she could almost believe away the past few years. The lost dream. The broken heart. Almost.

  “Not exactly.” The offender himself spoke up. “Everyone else was making a classic Baked Alaska, yes, but—”

  “Because that’s what they were told to do,” Rylan interjected as she hopped off the counter. The rest of the students, all of whom had gone home by now, had followed the recipe she’d provided. Something Colin had consistently proven incapable of.

  “I’ve made a traditional Alaska a dozen times. I decided to try a variation, that’s all.” Colin shrugged, just enough remorse in his expression to potentially fool Chef Potts.

  But not her. Oh, no. “Chef Potts, this is just the latest calamity—”

  “Oh, come on, I think calamity is a bit strong.” There it was. The taunting smile.

  “He’s ruined equipment, he’s dropped I-don’t-even-know-how-many glass bowls, and he’s constantly swapping ingredients.”

  Colin moved to his workstation, planted his palms on the counter top. “Because some of us like to experiment. Unlike others who need a recipe card just to boil water.”

  The urge to chuck a tea towel at him nearly overpowered her. She took a deep breath. Another. And another. Same trick she used while waiting for a soufflé to fall. Her next words were measured, even. “He should be expelled.”

  There. She’d said it. And quite professionally too, if she did say so herself. None of the livid irritation she felt lacing her tone. Which was important considering it wasn’t only Colin’s future Chef Potts held in his hands.

  The renowned chef and restaurateur had put the word out just last week that he was looking for a head baker for his latest investment—a trendy bakery in Denver’s up-and-coming LoHi neighborhood. She’d submitted her resumé so quickly he probably thought she’d had it ready and waiting for just such an opportunity.

  Which she had. She was only thirty-four. She had to believe it wasn’t too late to reclaim her dream of running her own kitchen rather than spending her days stuck in a classroom.

  Longing pulsed through her, heady and intense. How many times did a girl have to watch a dream die before at last discovering an open door?

  Oh, please let Potts be my open door.

  “You want to expel me?” Colin’s gasp intruded. “Wait a second—”

  “Chocolate sponge, eh?” Chef Potts cut Colin off. He was leaning over Colin’s mess of a dessert.

  Colin’s helpless gaze swung back to Potts. “Uh, yes sir. I was going for a dark chocolate orange Alaska bombe. Thus, the rum.”

  Chef Potts nodded. “You were going to flambé it.” He reached for a spoon. He was actually going to try a bite of that mess?

  “It’s December. It’s snowing. The mood of the dessert . . . it just kind of demanded it.” Colin shoved up a half-unrolled sleeve.

  That was his excuse? The mood demanded it? Rylan faced him across the workstation. “You were given instructions, Colin. You didn
’t follow them. And food doesn’t have a mood.”

  His attention hooked on her for the briefest of seconds. For once, there wasn’t a single teasing glint resting in his expression. In fact, she could swear that was pity flickering in his arctic eyes—there and gone in a moment. But it was enough to send a pang she didn’t understand on a winding path toward her heart.

  Where it found only a closed door. No room for emotion in the kitchen. No space for memories. For the long-ago whispered words of another, of one who’d once looked at her exactly as Colin had just now.

  As if she couldn’t possibly be more pathetic. And so very mistaken.

  Brent.

  Didn’t seem to matter how many times she swept away her dusty hurt. It blew in all over again at the slightest reminder.

  “Too much alcohol. That was your only misstep.”

  She blinked at Chef Potts’ declaration, the sound of his spoon clinking in the sink.

  “Your flavors are excellent. I’d take that any day over the classic rendition.”

  Had he forgotten the part about Colin completely disregarding her recipe? Did he remember the smoke alarm, the fire truck, the students all standing around on the lawn while the desserts they’d spent two class sessions working on wilted into melty piles?

  “I really am sorry for the mess, sir. I’ll clean it all up. I’ll pay to replace anything I’ve broken. There’s an extra credit course between Christmas and New Year’s, right? I could take that, if it’d help.” Colin’s glance alighted on Rylan once more. “Just don’t kick me out. It took me a long time to . . . I finally have something of a career path and . . . ” He ran his fingers down the straps of his apron. “I’d just really appreciate another chance.”

  Either Colin Renwycke was an impressive actor or, for once, he spoke from a place of sincerity.

  Chef Potts looked from Rylan to Colin back to Rylan once more. “I run a strict school. Always have. And I trust my instructors. If you choose to kick him out of your class or give him a failing grade, then he won’t be coming back next semester.”

  Oh, sweet relief. No more trying to teach while Colin cracked jokes under his breath to the other bakers. No more spending an hour after every class cleaning up after him. No more watching him butcher every one of her recipes.

  No more begrudging, silent admissions to herself that, honestly, half the time Colin’s changes to her instructions resulted in heavenly flavored, if not entirely well-baked creations. He did have intuition. He just didn’t have the discipline to hone it.

  Chef Potts went on. “However, I’ve popped in on your class enough times to know that with Mr. Renwycke here, you’ve got a natural talent on your hands. He’s creative, has good instincts. A good instructor is usually willing to put up with a few quirks in order to nurture that kind of talent.”

  A few quirks? Last week he’d spilled an entire bowl of red velvet cake batter . . . on her. And then had the gall to insist it was a good look for her.

  “Your call, Ms. Jefferson. And Mr. Renwycke?” He shot an appreciative look to Colin. “Be sure to invite me over if you ever try this variation again. Less rum next time. More care with the torch.”

  Potts started for the classroom door, but stopped halfway there. “Oh, and by the way, Ms. Jefferson, are you free on Christmas Eve?” He cinched his robe’s belt. “Before you answer that, let me tell you I received your resume, and I always start my interview process with a demonstration of some kind. I’m hosting a party on Christmas Eve and would like you to provide an original dessert—a signature recipe.”

  Rylan’s heart thumped. All at once, Colin forgotten, she could taste it—the dream. Her own bakery—well, almost her own. Her own kitchen, her own glass display cases waiting to be filled with her own creations. Sweet, tantalizing. And she wouldn’t squander it this time. Wouldn’t get distracted. Wouldn’t lose it all.

  “Absolutely, Chef Potts. Of course. Whatever you want. Whenever you want.”

  “You don’t have holiday plans that might get in the way?”

  It seemed almost a challenge. Understandable. Bakeries did some of their best business over the holidays. If she were ever to run one of Potts’ bakeries, she wouldn’t have the luxury of a Christmas break. “No.” No plans at all. Pitiable, perhaps, but it was the truth.

  “One recipe. Something with personality. Dazzle me.” Then, with a swift nod, he was out the door.

  And she couldn’t help it—like a child in the snow—the squeal, the clapped hands, the twirl and—

  She froze. Colin. Watching her with a mix of interest and trepidation. “Right. You.”

  “Right. Me. You aren’t actually going to kick me out me, are you?”

  She grabbed her coat from over a stool. “Why wouldn’t I? You’ve made teaching miserable for three months. If it was just the baking mishaps, it’d be one thing, but the constant heckling?”

  He fidgeted with the knot of his apron. “I’m sorry, but I just . . . you just . . . you get your back up against the wall so easily. You get flustered the second someone dares to play around with your recipe. It’s entertaining.”

  She buttoned her coat up to her chin. “Well, I’m not here to be your entertainment, Colin Renwycke. I’ll make a decision this weekend and let you know by Monday.”

  With that, she turned from the room, glided down the first floor hallway, and pushed through the exit into the December night. Moonlight traced the craggy edges of the Rockies in the distance, and winter’s frosty breathing brushed over her face. She felt the pitter-patter of snowflakes landing in her hair, on her cheeks.

  And something else. Something she hadn’t dared to feel in so long. Hope.

  Chapter 2

  She’d never say yes.

  Colin stood outside the townhouse with the burgundy door and the number 22 in gold letters. Pale brick matched the downy layer of snow blanketing the lawn. Just enough sun peeked through an icy sky to cast the barest glint of color over the residential street.

  Sugar Lane. Of course Rylan Jefferson lived on Sugar Lane. It fit her profession, if not her personality.

  She’ll never say yes.

  It was a ridiculous idea, showing up on her doorstep early on a Saturday morning, ready to beg his case. Make an impromptu offer she’d most assuredly refuse. But he was out of options. And out of patience—with his going-nowhere existence, with the never-ending string of failures that was his life.

  With himself.

  Thirty-one and nothing to show for it. When he’d been offered late acceptance into the Denver Culinary Institute this past summer, he’d thought finally—finally—he might be on his way to some kind of productive life. An actual career.

  Never mind that he was ten years older than everyone else in the class. He was a late bloomer, that’s all. For months he’d been imagining the faces of his family members when he showed up at Christmas and announced how well he was doing.

  And now he was about to lose out on their long-awaited approval solely because a surly instructor had decided to dislike him from the moment he singed his first piecrust. A biting wind scraped over his cheeks, blustering a curl of snow from the sloping roof of Rylan’s narrow home.

  She has to say yes.

  Resolute, he lifted his fist and knocked.

  Nothing.

  He burrowed his chin into the lifted collar of his coat, then brushed the snow off the doorbell and pressed his finger to the button. Once, twice.

  No answer.

  Instead, from inside the townhouse came a muffled shriek, followed by what sounded like furniture overturning. What the . . .? Another squeal, more banging around.

  Either Rylan had found a mouse in her pantry and was chasing it around or she’d thrown an all-night rager that was still in progress. Didn’t seem like the partying type, though. Not with those dark eyebrows of hers always in such a slant of disapproval.

  But at the third muted yelp, his first tinge of worry rose to the surface. What if there was an intruder in there? So
meone could’ve come in back. Or maybe she had a crazy roommate. What if . . .?

  The crash of splintered glass propelled him into action. He knocked again. “Ms. Jefferson? You in there?” He gave a futile try at the doorknob, knowing he’d find it locked. He looked under the welcome mat, ran his fingers over the doorframe. No hidden key.

  His attention snagged on a jumbo ceramic flowerpot. Bingo. He found the key underneath and wedged it into the lock. “Rylan? I’m coming in.” He twisted the doorknob and gave it a push. “Don’t worry, I—”

  A screech whizzed past him, along with something black and furry. A cat?

  He stopped just inside Rylan’s entryway, stunned gaze taking in the sight in front of him. A coffee table tipped to its side. A shattered mirror that looked to have fallen from the wall. Claw marks on an ottoman.

  And Rylan herself, standing in the middle of the living room—bedraggled and wide-eyed. Chestnut hair spilled from a lopsided ponytail and the sleeves of her oversized flannel pajamas—white with little candy canes all over them—draped past her hands.

  “You . . . what are you . . . why . . . ?” Her words came in sputtered little gasps.

  Do not smile. Do not smile.

  He didn’t smile.

  He laughed. A boisterous, impossible-to-contain laugh. Just like so many times in class, except this time there was more nonsensical relief than amusement flooding through him. “I thought you were in here fending off a burglar or something. All that noise was a cat?”

  She huffed a piece of hair out of her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I was saving you, but clearly—” He gestured to her torn-apart room. “You have everything under control.”

  “You broke into my house!”

  She was attempting to point at him, at the open door behind him, but with her too-long sleeve shaking around her finger, it only made him laugh more. So not the way to win her over, but he couldn’t help it.