Page 42 of Love, Lies and Mistletoe
Maybe she was smiling because she liked mashed potatoes. The anticipation was making her giddy.
Yes, that had to be it.
What a relief she’d figured it out.
Chapter Nineteen
Bag in hand, Brant walked the length of the boardwalk, from the front door of Copper Creek Home to the door of the adjacent apartment. He hoped it was the right door. There weren’t too many other choices.
He knocked.
Now was not the time to second-guess himself. Maybe a little heads-up text would have been the polite way to go about things. Some people didn’t do well with surprises. He sure didn’t.
On the other side of the door, footsteps approached. The door swung open.
“Brant? What—I just talked to you. Like, a half hour ago.”
Layla’s incredulous look along with that melt-the-heart smile reassured him that making the trip wasn’t a mistake.
“What are you doing here?”
He lifted the bag. “Turkey dinner without a proper corn casserole is a second-rate one.”
“You must have left right after we finished talking.”
“I did. The party was winding down anyway.”
“Come in. Marybelle will want to meet you.”
He followed her through the house, listening to her strategy of getting Marybelle to comply with the doctor’s orders to stay in bed.
“We don’t have a nightstand large enough to hold all the food. So I took one of the table leaves out and laid it across the bed.”
He smiled at Layla’s enthusiasm for finding a solution. Maybe it was the smell of a newly baked pie hanging in the air too.
“That’s pretty ingenious.”
“Marybelle, we have a visitor,” Layla called. They walked down a short hallway toward the lit room at the end. A candle cast shadows on the wall.
“I hope it’s not anyone who’ll be put off by an old lady in her nighties and bare legs showing.” Her gruff voice held a hint of humor. That was a positive, considering a stranger was about to walk into the middle of her Thanksgiving celebration.
“Cover your legs, Marybelle. We’re coming in.” Layla smiled at him over her shoulder. “She couldn’t care less what you think of her. Marybelle lives to be contrary.”
“I get it.”
Layla stopped inside the room, reaching out for him.
“Marybelle, this is Brant Johnsson.”
He froze. He looked stupidly at her extended hand like he’d never seen one before in his life. She was focused on Marybelle, but then looked back at him with a curious expression. The smile faded from her face when she saw his hesitation. The moment took but a second, but it seemed the look passing between them stopped the clock.
“Are you the one whose face is plastered all over the Twin Cities? I might have even seen you on one of those buses zipping past the last time I went to town.” Marybelle’s voice cut through the room.
Layla blinked and dropped her hand.
“Yes, that’s me.” He shifted the bag of food to his other arm.
“Brant brought us some things for dinner.”
