A Snowbound Scandal Read online

  Or worse, the one who’d emailed and called him after she’d come home to Montana. She’d been so weak back then, but Chase had always maintained his strength.

  “Clean break,” he’d told her, and he’d meant it.

  Meanwhile, she’d continued to declare her love for him and had reiterated her claim that they were meant to be. Never had she been so wrong before or since.

  Chase’s mother, Eleanor, had seen Miriam not as a lifelong mate for her son, but a preoccupation he couldn’t afford. Miriam knew because the only phone call answered from Chase’s cell phone happened to be answered by Eleanor herself.

  On Thanksgiving.

  Miriam blinked in shock. She’d completely forgotten that fact.

  But yes, it’d been Thanksgiving. She remembered excusing herself from the room while her siblings and parents were unboxing a new board game. Then she’d shut herself in Kristine’s bedroom and called Chase. She’d been thinking then about how she was the only one of them at the table not coupled off.

  The more things changed...

  She heard those words in her late father’s voice, her heart squeezing as she remembered his big laugh and bigger presence. He’d been comforting, but notably frustrated while she nursed her broken heart that winter. He’d been exactly what a father should be.

  She turned into the lakeside neighborhood where the wealthiest residents of Bigfork lived, rolled by the snowy, pricey new builds with their lack of trees and yard space, and toward the older part of the neighborhood. The houses closer to the lake sat on high hills, were spread much farther apart and had exponentially higher price tags.

  Ten minutes of slow-crawling her way toward Pinecone Drive, and she was navigating through dark trees and an abandoned road piled deep with snow.

  This is a bad idea.

  Not braving the storm—she was confident in her driving abilities and her trusty Ford to get her both in and out of this mess—but confronting Chase. That phone call from ten years ago replayed in her mind and her gloved hands gripped the steering wheel, her shoulders wilting.

  Chase Ferguson’s phone. Who is this?

  The woman who’d answered had been older. An air of sophistication outlined every word she spoke. Miriam had recognized Eleanor’s voice instantly, but she refused to let the woman bully her. Her future with Chase involved only them—or so she’d believed.

  Listen, darling. I appreciate that you have an affinity for my son, however I can’t allow this to continue. He has aspirations for a political seat. He has a future involving Ferguson Oil. Can you honestly tell me that you wouldn’t be a hindrance to those goals? If you love him, truly, you’ll support him by letting him live his life here in Dallas without you.

  Miriam never found out if Chase had asked his mother to handle his dirty work for him, or if Eleanor had taken the call and kept her son in the dark. In the end, Miriam guessed it didn’t matter.

  She’d reached out. He’d stayed hidden.

  Dumb. Dumb of her to come tonight.

  At the base of the gargantuan property, she waited for the wipers to swipe the gathering snow from the windshield to assess the situation. The property was nestled in the trees, the clearing blocked by a gate with a keypad she’d have to drive up to. Her truck would make it, of that she was sure. And even if she wasn’t, she wasn’t risking using the last of her fuel to turn back. She could only hope that Chase had a few gallons of gasoline to fill her tank up so that she could drive home, or else...

  No. She wasn’t entertaining that thought.

  She climbed the steep, snowy hill, her tires sliding enough that her heart hammered against her throat. Thankfully, the driveway evened out at the gate so she didn’t slide backwards in the snow. She pressed a button on a callbox to request to be let in. A camera lens attached to the device stared at her from its unblinking mechanical eye. Miriam grabbed the container of sweet potato pie from the passenger seat.

  While she waited, snow covered her windshield and drifted inside. He might not be here, she thought miserably. Or maybe he’d been caught in the storm while gathering supplies and was holed up in a hotel somewhere—

  “Mimi.” Chase’s low timbre sailed out of the speaker, at once surprised and scolding.

  “Hi.” She waggled the container. “Pie delivery. I won’t stay long.” There was a significant pause, but no response. She swore she could feel his laser-like glare through the camera. A buzz sounded as the iron gates swung aside through the gathering snow.

  The white stuff on the driveway was untouched by tires or boot prints. After debating leaving her truck running, she shut it off to save fuel and climbed out. The walkway to the front door had been shoveled at some point, but since then a few inches of snow had filled in the gaps.

  She shuddered as icy wind sliced through her hair, the temperature colder coming off the frigid lake below. A porch light snapped on and Chase appeared outside wearing a sweater and jeans and sneakers that didn’t appear weather resistant.

  “Running shoes in this weather. Are you crazy?” She pulled three containers filled with his dinner and dessert from the passenger seat and then shut the door.

  “You’re calling me crazy? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I told you I won’t be long.” She shoved the pie container into his hand and his scowl deepened. Her teeth chattered, partially from nerves. This was the moment she’d been waiting for—to set Chase Ferguson straight. On her terms. She glanced around at the pale moonlit mounds of snow. Okay, not exactly her terms, but it was too late to back out now.

  “Get inside,” he commanded, his breath visible in the cold. Out of habit she locked her truck and it beeped briefly, letting her know. Chase glared over her shoulder at the sound, but she refused to let him scare her off from what she came here to say. She was going to set him straight, then turn this big bastard around and drive straight home.

  Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

  She’d really miss playing games with her family tonight. A dart of regret shocked her ribcage. And then a dart of something else when Chase cupped her elbow and started toward the house.

  “Watch your step,” his low voice rumbled as he gestured to the nearly invisible porch steps. “You’d better have a good reason for being here other than bringing me pie.”

  Oh, no worries, Mayor McCheese. I have one.

  Five

  Chase had known Miriam was headstrong, but driving through a snowstorm to bring him dinner was a touch more than headstrong. It was dangerous. Miriam being in danger wasn’t acceptable—especially when he was the cause.

  Inside, he shut the door behind them as she checked out the interior of the house. He looked with her, admiring the rich warm-colored woods and the tall, beamed ceilings. Every inch of this place had been polished to dustless perfection, and it should’ve been, given what he paid his housekeepers.

  Logs were stacked in the fireplace, the matches sitting next to a newspaper pages he’d twisted for kindling. He’d left his task when the buzzer to the gate rang. He’d had groceries for the week delivered that morning and a cord of firewood had been delivered after that. The weatherman had predicted the storm with its massive amounts of snow to miss Bigfork, but Chase wasn’t taking the risk. Luckily, he’d heeded the warnings and overprepared...which was less than he could say for his gorgeous houseguest.

  “Would you mind directing me to the ‘wing’ where you keep your kitchen, Daddy Warbucks?” Mimi asked with a snide smile.

  Nice to see her sharp wit was intact.

  “What are you doing here?” It was the most obvious question and the answer she should have offered upon showing up unannounced at his doorstep.

  “You said if I needed anything...” She craned her chin to look up at him since he’d already ascended the three steps leading to the kitchen. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her ch
eeks had lost some of their fullness allowing rose-colored cheekbones to angle across her model-like features. The thinness of her face made her lips appear even more plump—and far more kissable than they ought to.

  He took the remaining containers from her and gestured to the entryway closet with his head. “Hang up your coat.”

  “I’m not staying that long. The storm is worsening and—”

  “And you’re going to wait it out here.” Over his dead body she’d navigate through this blizzard tonight.

  “No. I will not be doing that.” Her eyebrows climbed her forehead. “But I will accept a gallon or two of gas for the short drive home from here. I don’t want to get—”

  “Coat, Mimi.” He came down the stairs to hover over her, his nostrils flared. “Then walk past the living room, take a right and you’ll see the kitchen.”

  “I’ll follow you,” she snapped, but slipped her coat off and draped it over her arm.

  He could do without the attitude, but at least she’d met him halfway.

  He settled the containers—one with the sweet potato pie she’d showed him at the gate and the other two overflowing with Thanksgiving dinner.

  A long would you get a load of this whistle of appreciation came from behind him.

  “Wow. Every inch of this place is more amazing than the last.”

  She turned a one-eighty as she inventoried the kitchen: the wide island in the center, the floor-to-ceiling cabinets, six-burner gas stove, and a shiny, double-doored fridge. She tossed her coat over one of the stools at the island. Slim jeans accentuated her mile-long legs and a cranberry sweater with a scoop neck revealed creamy, pale skin. No cleavage—a fact she’d bemoaned plenty when they were together a decade ago. He couldn’t have cared less. The sight of her in a string bikini, and the way the chilly lake water caused her nipples to point from behind the bright blue top, had been more than enough to pique his interest.

  “Yeah, so turkey, stuffing, green beans. All the basics.” She folded her fingers together while she talked. “Sweet potato pie is for dessert, though, I suppose you’re grown-up and could spoil your dinner if you wanted. Did you eat?”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Mimi?” he repeated.

  At his tone, she narrowed eyes as brown as the forest floor. Deep mulch in color and blasting him with an accusation she hadn’t spoken yet.

  “I’m here—” she pointed at the ground, seeming to gather her courage “—to show you that I’m no longer the besotted twenty-three-year-old you left on an airfield in Dallas. You may be a billionaire oil tycoon politician with a mansion the size of your hometown, but I became someone, too.”

  “Is that so?” He came out from behind the island in the center of the kitchen and Mimi took a hesitant step back. He wouldn’t allow her to make him out to be some billionaire asshole without an argument in his own defense. “Tell me, then, how you’re the next incarnation of Mother Teresa.”

  She snapped her mouth shut then opened it to let out a little tut of surprise. “I didn’t say I was Mother Teresa.”

  “No, but you implied I’m the devil incarnate, so I assumed...”

  “You have no idea what I implied. You don’t know me. You knew me.”

  “Likewise.” He scanned her from chestnut hair to the toes of her knee-high boots. She dressed differently than she used to and not just because the season had changed. There was something more formal about her. Less playful than he remembered. “You grew up. I grew up. It happens.”

  “Unlike you, I don’t sit around counting the zeroes in my bank account. I actually help people.”

  “So do I. Are you going to cut the crap and tell me why you’re here?” It was the last time he was going to ask.

  “I just did! You weren’t listening on the phone, so I had to come here in person to—”

  “Bullshit. You made a twenty-minute drive—”

  “That took over an hour.”

  “—in this weather carting cold Thanksgiving dinner and my favorite pie. Don’t tell me you came all this way to put me in my place.”

  Her pink tongue touched lips painted cranberry red to match her sweater. He knew too well that unlike the tart fruit, she tasted as sweet as honey.

  “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

  “I do. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  She shrugged with one dark eyebrow and tightened plush lips he’d kissed more times than he could recall. He’d made every attempt to kiss the sunshine off her skin that summer. Back then he could’ve buried his nose in her coconut-scented hair and never come up for air.

  Until reality had intruded.

  “I tried to invite you to dinner at my family’s house so you wouldn’t have to eat alone,” she huffed.

  “So I’m the equivalent of a stray dog in need of a bone.” He spread his arms to indicate the expansive room in which he was standing. “Do I look like I can’t fend for myself?”

  “You said no!” she practically shouted.

  “As was my prerogative.”

  What was she up to? He kept his voice even, his tone neutral. He’d been yelled at by a great number of people in his career, and it was his second nature to tamp down any emotions that didn’t lead to an effective solution.

  The line of her mouth softened. Her eyebrows lowered. Naked vulnerability bled into her expression.

  Then he figured it out. It slapped him upside the head, jarring his brain.

  I’m an idiot.

  “I hurt your feelings,” he stated. Could he have been more obtuse? “That’s why you’re here.”

  She made a pfft sound but he was right. He could tell by the way she shifted her weight onto one boot—almost squirming in his presence. Some things about Mimi had changed in the last ten years, but some things hadn’t. She was the same stubborn, beautiful, hopeful woman he’d made love to back then, but with an even sturdier backbone and harder head. She brought him Thanksgiving dinner tonight not because he was a charity case but because—

  “It bothered you to picture me eating alone,” he told her.

  “Why would I care about a pompous, overblown—”

  “Admit it.”

  He heard a deep sucking sound as she pulled in a lungful of oxygen.

  “Fine,” she blew out on an exhale. “I was sitting in front of a dressed turkey thinking that if you weren’t such a stubborn jackass, you would’ve been there enjoying the spoils of a home-cooked meal. Rare in your case, as I recall.”

  It was true. Eleanor Ferguson didn’t cook. She catered.

  “I took it upon myself to deliver both dinner and a message, planning to turn and drive straight back to my family’s house knowing that you were both fed and informed.” A crease appeared between her brows. “Only now I’ll be heading to my apartment instead of back for dessert with my family.”

  He could see and feel the regret coming off her. The expression didn’t erase the elegance of her features, and accentuated the firmer, straighter line of her backbone. She was a confusing whirlwind of attributes, but Chase saw through her air of confidence. She couldn’t hide behind the one quality she’d never possessed: ambivalence.

  Mimi had never been ambivalent or calloused to the needs of others. No matter how badly they’d treated her in the past.

  “Tell me more about what you do,” he said, turning to lift the lids of the containers.

  “What I do?”

  “Yes.” Even cool, the food was an inviting array of holiday fragrances. Thyme and sage and butter.

  “Um. Okay. I’m the director of student affairs for the Montana Conservation Society. I work mostly with teenagers, but I’ve also spearheaded a recent and very important recycling campaign with a local apartment complex.”

  He punched the buttons on the microwave—first removing a small plastic container of cranberry
sauce thoughtfully included “on the side.”

  “One of many,” Mimi added.

  “You’re as passionate as I remember.” He pulled two forks from a drawer and laid them on the island.

  “Is that a nice way of saying I’m misguided?”

  “Not at all. The world needs more advocates like you.”

  Her mouth was frozen in a half gape, like she was shocked he’d paid her a compliment. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They stood on opposite sides of the island—what a metaphor for how they’d left things—in silence as the remainder of the seconds ticked down on the microwave before it beeped. He set the containers between him and Mimi, grabbed an open bottle of wine and two glasses and poured himself one.

  She placed a finger on the neck of the bottle when he tipped it toward her glass. “I’m leaving.”

  “I can’t let you do that.” He poured the wine anyway and set the glass in front of her. She frowned. He offered her a fork. She shook her head.

  “I ate already. This is for you.”

  Chase locked eyes with the woman who used to love him, with the woman he’d nearly loved more than his own common sense. “Thank you.”

  He dug in, scooping a bite of turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing, dunking the fork into the cranberry sauce before closing his eyes and savoring the flavors of a slow-cooked, took-all-day-to-make meal. Before he meant to, he moaned his approval.

  Without another glance in her direction, he unapologetically took another big bite.

  Six

  Watching Chase eat bordered on pornographic.

  Or maybe Miriam didn’t get out much. She rested her top teeth on her bottom lip and watched as he moaned around another bite. Her mouth watered, not for the food, but for him. Hearing those familiar moans reminded her of the time they’d spent together. Naked. No holds barred.

  Not why you came here, she reminded herself sternly.

  Yet here she stood, a woman who’d been literally naked before him, and was at this moment metaphorically naked before him. He’d figured out—before she’d admitted it to herself—that she’d come here not only to give him a piece of her mind but also to give herself the comfort of knowing he’d had a home-cooked meal on Thanksgiving.