Conall shifted back to human and turned to find Gizelle kneeling in defeat at the side of the pool. She raised tearful eyes to him as Conall came to comfort her.
“My letter,” she cried, holding the sodden piece of paper. The ink had run, and it was stained in a rainbow of unreadable color. “The love letter you wrote me.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Conall said, gathering her up to hug her as she sobbed. “That wasn’t a letter. That was a note for housekeeping. I was asking for more towels in case you wanted to sleep in the shower again.”
Gizelle cried harder into his shoulder and because he was touching her, he could hear Tex, behind him, saying with satisfaction, “He’ll be on the next plane out.”
The bear was slogging out of the shallow end of the pool, where Scarlet was standing with her arms crossed, safely back from the spray of salt water as the bear shook itself.
She didn’t look amused.
“Good riddance,” Conall said sharply.
Then Gizelle was pushing back from him, looking critically at the note. “Do I have to sleep in the shower?” she asked. “Your bed was very comfortable.”
“You can sleep anywhere you please,” Conall said, still holding one of her hands.
“Oh!” Gizelle said. “You could come sleep at my cottage!”
Conall imagined trying to sleep in her tiny outdoor shower and cringed. “Can I convince you that my cottage is better?” he said hopefully.
But Gizelle was already pulling away and on to her next thought. “I have to go try figgy pudding,” she remembered. “And you’re not wearing clothes. Tex is always telling me to put on clothes.”
Then she wasn’t touching him, and whatever else she said was lost to the silence that fell.
Conall turned to glance at Tex in time to catch him shrugging and saying, “I am.”
The bartender had the balls to look amused by the whole thing.
Chapter 35
Gizelle paused inside the back kitchen door, bracing herself against the noise and bustle of Chef’s domain.
Chef was Magnolia’s mate, and he was just as wonderfully large and gentle as Magnolia was, but the kitchen where he loved to be was full of sharp things, and always very noisy.
Chef was singing, of course, and the kitchen was quieter than it sometimes was; the rush of breakfast was over and things were being washed.
“How was your picnic?” Breck asked her, easing a heaping tray of dishes into the soapy water for the dishwasher.
“Awful. It was tense and the watermelon got sandy and I don’t like the beach,” Gizelle said honestly, after pausing to remember. “But the sandwiches were good!”
“And after...?” Breck said leadingly.
Gizelle blinked at him. “I ran away.”
He looked disappointed for her, but Gizelle was quick to add, “But it’s all right now. I can make him hear and he can make my whole body sing, and I beat him at backgammon.”
Breck grinned at her. “That’s my girl.”
“Gizelle!” Chef called from further within the kitchen. “They’re coming out of the oven now!”
Gizelle darted past Breck down the shiny kitchen aisles and found Chef, pulling a tray from the steaming oven. A dozen more were already cooling on the counter.
The figgy puddings did not look like the soft pudding she had expected, but like dark, dense cakes, round and ridged. They were mottled and rather unattractive, and the smell was rich and fruity and a little bit like Tex’s bar.
“When can we eat them?” Gizelle asked eagerly.
“Two weeks,” Chef said, to her horror. “On Christmas Eve.”