“I guess.” Cindy lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe Nicole has told him but, honestly, I don’t know.”
“You should tell him.”
She studied her sister’s precise moves as she sliced up some fruit and deftly poured syrup into a small white pitcher.
“Maybe,” Cindy said, unconvinced. “But why?”
“Because…” MJ grabbed a wooden tray and set up a breakfast serving with silverware, a glass of juice, a steaming cup of coffee, that syrup, a pat of butter, and a little tiny flower in a vase. “He should know that.”
“Why?” Cindy asked again.
Lifting the waffle iron to reveal perfectly golden, fluffy waffles, she used tongs to place them at a playful angle on a plate, garnished with the sliced fruit, then tapped her powdered sugar like snow all over them.
“Because I think there’s still something there.”
Cindy choked. “Excuse me?”
“I watched him at dinner last night, and the night he got here. He looked at you, only you, then you some more.” She finished the tray and swept her hand over it like a proud magician. “I dare the Grand Stinking Hyatt to do better,” she said.
“They can’t.” Cindy stepped to the mudroom to get her jacket. “He really…looked at me?”
“Gazed, I would say. With longing and…another word that begins with L and rhymes with…glove.”
“Shut up.” Cindy slipped into the sleeves. “I’ll take breakfast to him and hope he considers it payment for his services.”
“You can always add a hug,” she said. “I don’t think he’d mind.”
Cindy rolled her eyes and reached for the tray. “This looks so good, MJ.”
Her sister leaned in, and Cindy waited for another comment about how no other hotel could rival her work.
“Ten years doesn’t erase the kind of love you two had,” she whispered, making Cindy startle at the statement. “I mean it, Cin. In its day, it was a beautiful thing. Almost as good as George and me.”
Could she be right? “Ten years and one big divorce most certainly does erase it,” she said in her most pragmatic voice, hoping to stomp out the hope that crawled up her chest.
She couldn’t fall for Jack again. She couldn’t.
“Thanks for the waffles,” she said. “And the really lame advice.”
MJ snorted a laugh and put a stainless-steel cloche on top of the waffles. “Quick, go before they get cold. He’ll want the butter to melt when he slathers it on.”
“The butter, yes,” Cindy said, walking to the door, then looking over her shoulder. “But not me.”
Her boots slida little on the snow as Cindy made the walk to Cabin One, which sat on the crest of a hill about a hundred yards from the back of the lodge. Despite being the smallest of their “studio” cabins with just a bedroom, living area and kitchenette, it had always been one of her favorites. It didn’t have the mountain view that some of the others had, but it was cozy and rustic. It had a quaint porch that was a dream in the summer and a stone fireplace that dominated the room and made for delightful winter sleeping.
This close to Christmas, the wooden railing was trimmed in garlands and lights, the planks dusted with fresh snow. As she approached, she felt her heart rate pick up.
Dang it, Cin. Why are you nervous?It was Jack, for heaven’s sake.
Yeah. That’s why she was nervous.
She knocked twice before the door creaked open.
He was barefoot in plaid sleep pants and a white T-shirt, mug in hand, hair tousled and eyes sleepy.
“Hey,” he said, voice gravelly from sleep, then his gaze dropped to the tray. “Room service? I don’t remember Snowberry offering that.”
She shrugged. “We feel sorry that you aren’t getting paid.”
