Christmas At Cupid's Hideaway

“A man. A man named Gabriel Morrison. He’s checking in. By himself.”

Maisie’s blue eyes glowed as she looked at her granddaughter.

There was nothing for Meg to feel defensive about. She knew that. Which didn’t explain why her shoulders stiffened and her stomach tensed. “So you’re telling me this because…”

“I’m telling you this because we don’t often get single men at the Hideaway. It’s a romantic spot. Our guests are usually couples. And when couples check in, they usually have their minds on—”

“What they have on their minds isn’t what I want to have on my mind,” Meg reminded Maisie. “I told you, Grandma, I’ve given up waiting for Prince Charming. Prince Charming has left the building. And I’m pretty sure he’s left the island, the state and the continent. Besides…” It didn’t look as if Maisie believed her protests any more than Meg did, so she decided to change course. “Just because this Gabriel Morrison is here by himself doesn’t mean a thing. He might be meeting someone.”

“I don’t think so. He tried for a room at the hotel near the park. They’re booked. Christmas in July, you know.” Maisie’s eyes twinkled. “If he was bringing a woman, he would’ve asked for a room for two.”

“You asked.”

“Of course I asked. It’s my duty as an innkeeper!” And as your grandmother went unsaid.

Christmas at Cupid’s Hideaway

Connie Lane

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Reader,

Welcome back to Cupid’s Hideaway, the wonderfully wacky bed-and-breakfast inn where anything romantic can—and does—happen! In Stranded at Cupid’s Hideaway, you met Laurel and Noah, two doctors who couldn’t agree about anything except that they were in love. In Christmas at Cupid’s Hideaway, a handsome guest checks in. Gabriel Morrison has his eye on Meg, the Hideaway’s sexy chef, but his mind is a thousand miles away. Gabe is a successful advertising writer with a serious case of jingle-writer’s block. But don’t worry—Cupid’s Hideaway will work a little magic on Gabe. He’s about to find out that inspiration comes from unexpected places. Just as Meg will learn that you can’t hide from love—even on an island in the middle of Lake Erie.

While Cupid’s Hideaway is a figment of my imagination, South Bass Island and the town of Put-in-Bay are real, and it’s one of my favorite vacation spots. The island is only three miles from the Ohio mainland, but as soon as I set foot on the ferry, I leave my everyday life behind. The leisurely place and friendly atmosphere are perfect for a little R and R. I love walking along the rocky beach and exploring the cottage-lined streets. My favorite thing? Driving one of the golf cars that residents and visitors alike use to cruise around the island.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned on South Bass, it’s that you can celebrate the holidays any time of the year. Because the weather’s often too harsh in December to allow for visitors, the island has a special Christmas-in-July celebration, complete with a visit from Santa in his Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirt!

Happy holidays! Enjoy this visit to Cupid’s Hideaway, and let the spirit of celebration live in your heart—all year long!

Connie Lane

P.S. Readers can reach me at connielane@earthlink.net.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Tuesday, Noon

“Gabriel? Hey, it’s me, Latoya. You haven’t checked in since you left the office last week and I’ve got a stack of messages for you. It’s just after noon here in LA and if you’re driving and heading east—well, I’m not even going to try and figure out the time zones. I only know it’s got to be sometime in the afternoon wherever you are. It’s a beautiful July day, but I’ll be eating lunch at my desk. As usual. Give me a call.”

Tuesday, Late

“Gabriel? Latoya. Haven’t heard from you. Dennis says that means you found either a car or a woman you couldn’t resist. Which is it? When you’re done—ah…whatever it is you’re doing—give me a call. There’s plenty of messages here, including a couple from the Tasty Time Burger folks in New York. They’re anxious to talk to you.”

Wednesday Morning

“Me again. Bright and early. At least it is here. That means you can call anytime.”

Wednesday Afternoon

“I know you’re picking up your messages, Gabriel. You never let an hour go by without picking up your messages. Whatever time it is where you are, I can tell you one thing—they’re still working in New York. The folks over at Tasty Time Burger world headquarters have already called three times. And that’s just in the last couple hours. I’m running out of excuses, so do me a favor, will you? Call me.”

Thursday, Very Early

“Gabe? Dennis here. Dammit, Gabe, you’re making me nervous. And Latoya’s practically having apoplexy. She says you’ve never been away this long without checking in. Even that time you headed to Mexico with that what’s-her-name. You know, the one who had her own TV sitcom for a while. If you can check your messages when you’ve got a blond bombshell on your arm, you want to explain why you haven’t done it all week?”

Friday Afternoon

“Dennis again. Why do I feel like I’m talking to myself? They’ve started a pool at the office. A What-Happened-to-Gabe pool. The odds-on favorite is that you’ve been abducted by aliens. Can’t imagine why they’d want you. Stop playing games and give me a call, will you? The Tasty Time Burger folks are riding my tail. I’m running interference for you, buddy, but it’s getting tougher every day and they’re getting antsy. I’ll tell you what, let’s keep this simple. Call them directly. Hum a few bars of the new jingle. Give them some idea of the lyrics. I know, I know, you artistic types, you don’t like to be bothered while you’re working. But there’s only so much I can tell them. I explained that you’d decided to drive to New York—you know, to clear your head and give yourself plenty of alone-time to concoct the best advertising campaign in the history of greasy fast food? I assured them that you’re writing up a storm. I guaranteed them that you’re going to write the greatest jingle you’ve ever written. You are going to do that, aren’t you, Gabe? Gabe?”

Chapter One

He didn’t save the voice-mail messages. Why bother? The last thing Gabriel Morrison needed right now was the all-time roughest, toughest tag team of Dennis and Latoya. Instead, he tossed his cell phone down on the passenger seat of his Porsche, and, anxious to get his mind on anything but work and the office back in LA, he flicked on the radio.

Love my Tenders.

Love them lots.

Shaped like little steaks.

Love my Tenders.

Eat them all.

They’re not fried, they’re baked.

Gabe dropped his head against the steering wheel and groaned.

Bad enough he was stuck in a traffic jam that looked to be a couple miles long.

Worse that his air conditioner was on the fritz, he was almost out of gas and he was driving (or more specifically, idling) in the center lane between two eighteen-wheelers that dwarfed his car and cut off any chance of getting a breath of fresh air, even with the top down. Way worse when every time he checked, there were more and more messages from the office. More and more messages it was getting harder and harder to dodge.

And now he had to listen to the Love Me Tenders commercial?

Insult to injury.

Gabe clicked off the car radio and drummed his fingers against the dash that was quickly heating up from the intensity of the afternoon sun.

Funny, he’d always thought of Ohio as a cold place. If he was still in Ohio.

As if it would give him some connection to reality, Gabe craned his neck and looked around. He didn’t see a sign that gave him any hint about where he was, but up ahead, he did see a break in the traffic. Not much to go on, but it was something. And right about now, something was better than nothing.

The next time the huge truck in front of him started to crawl forward, Gabe waited for his opportunity. He let the space between the vehicles widen and while the truck on his right was still grinding into gear, he punched the accelerator and shot into the open space. It turned out to be an exit lane and once he was off the freeway, he took the opportunity to look for a gas station. Easier said than done. By the time he saw a familiar red-and-yellow sign up ahead, he was in another line of traffic. This one wasn’t moving any faster than the last.

At least there were no eighteen-wheelers around.

Gabe glanced over at the late-model minivan next to him. It was packed to the gills with luggage, and while the adults in the front seat seemed resigned to the fate of waiting in line for who-knew-what, the three pint-sized passengers in the back had obviously had enough. Too keyed up to sit still, they bounced in place and tossed a stuffed animal back and forth between them.

“Hey, dude!” The kid on the passenger side couldn’t have been older than seven. He rolled down the back window and waved a toy stuffed bulldog in Gabe’s direction.

Gabe cringed. He recognized Duke the Dog immediately. Then again, he suspected most people would. Whether they wanted to or not.

After just six weeks on the air, the Love Me Tenders dog-food commercial had become a cultural icon of sorts that had taken on a life, and a cult following, all its own. A lovable, cuddly Duke, star of the commercial, was available full-size in toy stores everywhere. A miniature variety was being given away in record numbers along with the kids’ meals at a popular fast-food chain.

The kids in the minivan had the Cadillac version: an almost-life-sized Duke, complete with sequined jumpsuit and black ducktail wig, the outfit he wore in the commercial as he crooned the now-famous words to a tune that was just catchy enough to have the country singing along. And just different enough from the original to avoid any nasty lawsuits.

“Hey, dude! Look!” The little boy wagged Duke in Gabe’s direction. “It’s the Love Me Tenders dog. Isn’t he cute?”

“Love Me Tenders! Love Me Tenders!” his little sisters sang next to him.

And Gabe was sure that somewhere between LA and wherever he was sitting now, he must have died. Died and gone to hell.

Not ready to accept his fate—or maybe just to get away from his own past and his own thoughts—he pulled onto the shoulder and shot past the waiting traffic. He took the first turn-off he came to and drove as fast as the state (and he knew for sure it was Ohio now because he saw a State Trooper) allowed.

A few minutes later, he found himself at the entrance to a ferry dock.

“Islands? In Ohio?” It was news to Gabe but he didn’t stop to question it. He didn’t hesitate, either. It looked like the ferry was just getting ready to leave the dock and he joined the last of the cars waiting to get on.

At this point, he didn’t much care where he was headed. Anywhere was better than nowhere.

And for the last week, he’d been headed nowhere fast.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, a new guest?” Meg Burton pulled open the oven door and drew out a tray of cookies sprinkled with red-and-green sugar. She set them on the rack she’d left on the counter in the Cupid’s Hideaway kitchen before she turned back to her grandmother. “You can’t have a new guest checking in. You’re completely booked. It’s Christmas in July week, and the tourists are everywhere. You’ve been booked for months.”

Maisie Templeton breathed in the aroma and gave the cookies an approving smile. “I was booked,” she said. “The Crawfords.” Maisie was the least inhibited person Meg had ever known. Her grandmother was over seventy, but that didn’t stop her from pursuing her life’s passion: Cupid’s Hideaway, an island bed-and-breakfast inn known for its unique decor, its loyal clientele and the fact that the fluffy little old lady who owned it didn’t just encourage romance, she aided and abetted it.

But at the mention of the Crawfords, even Maisie’s cheeks went a little dusky under the coating of pink blusher she wore. “You remember them. They visited last summer, around this time. They were the ones who—”

“The ones we had to call the police about!” Meg rolled her eyes. She remembered the Crawfords, all right. So did everyone else on South Bass Island. The Crawfords and their exploits were already legendary in the annals of island gossip. Medium-aged. Mediumsized. Medium-temperament people. Bland as TV dinners. Or at least that was what Meg had thought when she’d seen them arrive.

Who would’ve guessed that a little game they’d been playing with a pair of furry handcuffs and a bottle of peppermint-flavored massage oil—which they’d purchased from the Cupid’s Hideaway gift store—would result in not one but both Crawfords getting stuck in the closet of the Love Me Tender room?

Meg stifled a laugh, but only because she remembered how upset Maisie had been by the whole incident. Not that she was embarrassed. It would take a whole lot more than Mary and Glenn Crawford’s wild imaginations to embarrass Maisie. No, her grandmother had been honestly distressed. After all, she believed that as innkeeper, it was her duty to make sure her guests enjoyed their stay at Cupid’s Hideaway. And the very idea that they’d had to call not only the island police but half the volunteer fire department just to get the Crawfords unstuck….

Meg hid a half smile by turning back to her cookies. She tested the temperature with one finger and carefully lifted each one off the cookie sheet with a spatula. “What, they got arrested somewhere for something they were up to?”

“No. No. Not arrested.” Behind her, she heard Maisie pour a cup of coffee. “They had to cancel. Something about appearing on a TV show. ‘Life’s Most Embarrassing Moments.’”

“More power to them.” Meg finished with the cookies and wiped her hands on the apron she was wearing. She leaned against the counter, accepting the china mug of coffee Maisie offered. “So how many more for breakfast tomorrow?” she asked.

“Just one.” Maisie poured a mug of coffee for herself. Using sterling silver sugar tongs, she added three lumps, then enough cream to make an ordinary person’s cholesterol jump at least a dozen points. But if there was one thing Meg knew about Maisie, it was that she was far from ordinary. As if she needed further proof, Maisie grinned at Meg over the rim of her cup.

Meg had seen that look before. All twinkles and smiles. All sweetness and light. She knew it meant Maisie was up to no good.

“A man,” Maisie said. Her blue eyes glowed. “A man named Gabriel Morrison. He’s checking in. By himself.”

There was nothing for Meg to get defensive about. She knew that. Which didn’t explain why her shoulders stiffened and her stomach tensed. “So?” She sounded defensive, too, and she gave herself a mental kick in the pants. “So you’re telling me this because…”

“I’m telling you this because it isn’t often we get single men here at the Hideaway. It’s a honeymoon spot, a romantic spot. Our guests are usually couples. And when couples check in here, they usually have their minds on—”

“I know exactly what they have their minds on.” The exact same thing Meg had been trying not to have her mind on since she’d returned to the island after trying life on the mainland. Rather than explain it to Maisie, as she’d tried to explain it so many times before, she headed to the refrigerator. She counted the eggs, made sure there was enough butter, did a quick survey of the pecans, raisins and cream she’d bought to make a batch of her famous sticky breakfast rolls. Satisfied that she was all set, she closed the refrigerator and turned around.

Of course, Maisie didn’t back down an inch. She was stationed next to the marble-topped table where Meg made bread, and she had the nerve to look as innocent as the baby goldfinches that chirped their heads off in the nest right outside the kitchen window.

“What they have on their minds isn’t what I want to have on my mind,” she reminded Maisie. “I told you, Grandma, I’ve given up waiting for Prince Charming. Prince Charming has left the building. And I’m pretty sure he’s left the island, the state and the continent. Besides…” Because it didn’t look as if Maisie believed her protests any more than Meg did, she decided to change course. “Just because this Gabriel Morrison is coming here by himself doesn’t mean a thing. He might be meeting someone.”

“I don’t think so. He tried for a room at the hotel over near the park. They’re booked. Christmas in July, you know.”

“And that means he’s not meeting someone because…”

“Because he would’ve asked for a room for two. And when Janice from the hotel called to see if we had any rooms available—”

“You asked.”

“Of course I asked.” Maisie pulled herself up to her full five-foot, one-inch height and threw back shoulders that were just this side of scrawny. “It’s my duty. As innkeeper. I have to know who’s staying here. And if a man’s bringing a woman, it’s my duty—as innkeeper—to remind him that we have a wide selection of products in the Love Shack designed to please them both.”

“Yeah.” This time, Meg couldn’t help herself. She had to laugh. “Like they pleased the Crawfords?”

“They were smiling when they left here.” Maisie’s eyes twinkled. “But that hardly matters. The Crawfords were the exception to the rule.” Her grandmother glanced from Meg’s brightly painted toenails peeking out of her sandals to the curly red hair she’d wound into a long braid. “Kind of like a beautiful woman who refuses to get out and try to meet a man.”

“Grandma, I told you. I’m just not ready. Not yet. Someday maybe I will be. Someday, when I find someone different.” Although it was ancient—and best forgotten history—Meg felt the familiar pang of emptiness. “Someone who isn’t Ben.”

Before Maisie could respond and remind her, as she always did, that the past was past and the future was what mattered, the little brass bell inside the front door rang, announcing their guest. How she’d timed it so perfectly, Meg couldn’t imagine, but Maisie chose that exact moment to hurry into the wide pantry on the far side of the kitchen. She waved Meg toward the front of the inn. “Get that for me, will you?” she called.

Meg sighed and slipped her apron over her head. She knew a losing battle when she saw one. She ought to; she’d been fighting—and losing—battles with Maisie all her life. She didn’t exactly hold Maisie’s persistence against her. She couldn’t. Though Maisie could be meddlesome, she was well-intentioned. There were only three things she put more energy into than Cupid’s Hideaway: Doc Ross, the retired family practitioner she spent most of her free time with, and—now that Maisie’s only daughter and son-in-law were retired and living in Florida—her two granddaughters. Laurel, Meg’s older sister, was married now and expecting her first baby in a couple of months. She was deliriously happy with her husband Noah, and while Maisie glowed at the prospect of becoming a great-grand-other and the satisfaction of having been instrumental in bringing Laurel and Noah together, not having a romantic project to keep her occupied made the old lady chafe.

It also left her with a lot of time on her hands—a lot of time to decide that Meg’s love life wasn’t what it should be.

“No news flash there,” Meg mumbled to herself, and because she refused to think about her lack of a love life—just like she’d been refusing to think about it since Ben Lucarelli had cut her heart into little pieces as only an experienced sous chef could—she thought about the Crawfords. And thinking about the Crawfords made her think about the Love Me Tender room. And thinking about Love Me Tender naturally made the commercial she’d heard earlier that morning pop into her head.

Whenever Meg thought of a song, she couldn’t resist. She couldn’t keep the words inside.

“Love my Tenders. Love them lots. Shaped like little steaks.” Meg walked into the lobby, singing the now-familiar-to-everyone-and-his-brother words with all the enthusiasm of the comical dog in the commercial. “Love my Tenders. Eat them all. They’re not fried, they’re—”

When she saw that the guy standing at the desk—the guy who must be Gabriel Morrison—was staring at her as if she’d just strolled in stark naked, she jerked to a stop in front of the ten-foot tall Christmas tree near the front desk and stared right back at him.

And the thought that she wouldn’t mind seeing him stark naked sent little sparks of electricity tingling along her spine.

Meg cringed at the realization, but even realizations and the cringes they brought along with them weren’t enough to erase the impressions that flashed through her head.

Gabe Morrison was gorgeous enough to be a man-of-the-month: tall, broad-shouldered, hair the color of the chocolate pudding in her soon-to-be-famous (she hoped) pie and eyes that reminded her of brandy, the secret ingredient in her spinach-salad dressing.

He had the kind of face that couldn’t fail to make a woman’s heart flutter. Not as craggy as it was chiseled. Not weathered but tanned, and not a store-bought tan, either. He obviously spent a lot of time outdoors in the wind and the sun, and for the nano-second Meg needed to take it all in, she wondered if he might be a sailor. If the expensive luggage he held in each hand hadn’t set her straight on that notion, the Porsche she saw through the front window did. Most sailors, even the wealthy ones who vacationed on the island, left their expensive sports cars at home.

Good-looking or not, there was no mistaking that Gabe Morrison was worn to a frazzle. His shoulders were slumped inside a green golf shirt with some expensive designer logo over the heart. There were dark shadows almost the same color as his faded jeans under his eyes, and a crease in the middle of his forehead that told her he frowned far too hard and too often. In spite of his expensive haircut, the left side of his hair stood up on end, as if he’d been tugging at it. His jaw was square and covered with a shadow of dark stubble. As he stared at her, it went a little slack.

For the second time in just a few minutes, Meg found herself on the defensive. It was a feeling she didn’t like, one she’d never been prone to feeling back in the days before her life had been whipped out from under her like the tablecloth in the old magician-pulls-the-cloth-away-and-leaves-the-dishes-on-the-table trick. Feeling it only made her more defensive. So did the barely controlled animosity on Gabe’s face.

“What?” Eyes narrowed, Meg closed the gap between them. “Something wrong with my singing?”

She knew the answer to her own question. Fact of the matter was, Meg Burton had a terrible singing voice. She’s been banned from the high-school choir and asked (politely) not to participate in the caroling either at the island’s real Christmas bash or at all the parties planned for this week. But though she might’ve been ready to hear a critique of her dubious talents from the people she’d known all her life, she’d be damned if she was going to put up with it from a perfect stranger. Even if perfect was the operative word.