Glad Tidings: There's Something About Christmas / Here Comes Trouble

“Have a good day,” Walt said, turning to his computer and dismissing her. “Remember, I want that first article before you leave this afternoon. We’re already in the second week of December, and there’s a time factor here.” He gestured at some limp Christmas garland draped on his window.

“It’ll be on your desk,” she promised, relieved that she had the rough draft on her laptop computer.

More by instinct than knowledge, she stumbled back down to her cubicle in The Dungeon, preoccupied by the fact that she’d be flying again so soon. She’d learned that—especially with the help of drugs—she could handle being in a small plane. She didn’t like it, never would, but in all honesty, the flight hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared.

Examining her reluctance to repeat the experience, she was forced to admit something she’d rather ignore. More than the flying itself, it was Oliver Hamilton she wanted to avoid.

Chapter Seven

A fruitcake is to a chef what love is to a gigolo—an item we both desperately try to avoid.

—Michael Psilakis, executive chef

and owner of Onera, New York City

Oliver wasn’t in the best of moods. He’d made a recent and rather disturbing discovery: Emma Collins wasn’t good for his ego. Until he met her, he’d been doing just fine when it came to attracting the opposite sex. Better than fine.

His late-afternoon conversation with Walt had further eroded his ego. Apparently, upon their return from Yakima, Emma had attempted to get out of flying with him a second time. Fortunately, Walt had said no; a deal was a deal and Oliver didn’t plan to let her kill his chances of advertising his air-freight business in the local paper.

Okay, he’d admit it’d been a mistake to kiss her, a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat. If this was how Emma felt, then he could ignore her, too.

A glance at his watch told him she had five minutes to show up. If she wasn’t at the airport by seven, he was leaving without her. He would’ve kept his end of the bargain, and she’d just have to explain to her boss that she’d been late. He’d only signed this new contract a few weeks ago, flying Alaska salmon packed in dry ice to restaurants in Spokane and Portland. It was a regular job and he couldn’t afford to mess up the opportunity.

Just as he was about to board the plane, Emma hurried onto the tarmac, clutching her briefcase and a large takeout coffee.

“You’re late,” he snapped.

“I most certainly am not.” Then, perhaps to reassure herself, she stopped and checked her watch. “I’ve got five minutes to spare,” she announced with more than an edge of righteousness. “At least by my watch.”

“Well, not by mine.”

This time she wasn’t having trouble remaining upright because—or so he assumed—of some stupid pill.

Regardless, he was going to stick to his policy of ignoring her; he’d simply fly his plane.

He felt her scrutiny. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” she said in a singsong voice.

He pretended not to hear. Oscar was already in the plane, ready and waiting to take off. The terrier poked his head out the passenger door as if to ask what was taking so long.

“Listen,” Emma said, “why don’t we start over, all right?”

“Fine, whatever.”

She rolled her eyes and climbed into the plane with absolutely no complaints. He didn’t know what had happened to get her to relax. She’d probably switched drugs and had swallowed some heavy-duty, industrial-strength mood enhancer. Nothing else could explain this cheerful state of mind.

Suddenly he wondered if she’d been drinking, although she’d denied it yesterday. He studied her and sniffed on the off-chance he could smell alcohol.

She glared at him. “Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, returning to the task at hand. He walked beneath the wing, stepping in front of the engine to examine the blades.

Emma’s headphones were in place, with the small microphone positioned by her mouth, before he’d finished his preflight check.

His faithful—or should that be faithless?—companion had obviously accepted her, barely raising his head when Oliver climbed into the plane. Oscar had settled onto his dog bed in the cargo hold.

“You didn’t wear perfume this time, did you?” he asked.

“No, because I didn’t want to get sneezed on again.”

“Well, good for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why you’re in such a bad mood, but I wish you’d snap out of it.”

As if to apologize for Oliver, his terrier stood up and poked his head between the two seats. When Emma bent toward him, he licked her ear. Smiling, she stroked his face. Traitor that he was, Oscar seemed to relish her attention. Not until the engine started did the dog go back to his bed.

“Finish your coffee,” he said. “We’ll be leaving in a couple of minutes.”

“It’s not coffee. It’s latte. Eggnog-flavored.” She had to argue about everything. But she obediently drained the large cup.

Oliver taxied to the end of the runway and waited for approval to take off. It wasn’t long in coming. He was in the air before he realized that Emma’s eyes were squeezed shut. Like yesterday, she held on to the bar above the door with what could only be described as a death grip. But at least she wasn’t confessing at the top of her lungs that she’d lied about her weight. The memory produced a grin and for a moment he forgot that he was annoyed with her.

They hardly spoke the entire flight. Every now and then he felt her glance in his direction, as if to gauge his mood. An hour outside of Colville, he saw that she was squirming in her seat.

“What’s the problem now?” he asked.

Emma shifted from one side to the other. “If you must know, I have to use the, uh, facilities.”

“You should’ve gone before we left.”

“I did,” she said, not bothering to hide her indignation.

“There isn’t a toilet on the plane.”

She turned and scowled at him. “I noticed. Do you have any other suggestions?”

“You can do what I do,” he told her. Reaching behind him, he grabbed a wide-mouth red plastic container.

She looked at it as if he’d just handed her a dead rat. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

“You said you had to go.”

“You don’t honestly expect me to … go,” she said, apparently not finding a more suitable verb, “in that.”

“I use it.”

“It’s different for a man. There’s a bit more effort involved for a woman.”

“We’re a little less than an hour from Colville.”