Stuck On You (A Christmas Novella) Page 2

  “Mr. Foster!” The call came from the teenager at the register.

  Morgan took Sheila’s elbow and propelled her toward the door.

  “I think she wants your attention,” Sheila said as she looked over her shoulder.

  He sighed. “I know.”

  The girl maneuvered around several displays. “Thank you for coming. Everyone seemed to have a good time. Do you think you’ll be coming back soon?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I’m not sure. Please have your manager call if she wants me to.”

  She looked from Sheila to him. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on his hand on Sheila’s elbow, and she answered, “Sure.”

  Morgan hurried them out the door. When he was sure they were safely away from the store, he slowed down. “I was thinking we’d get something at the Golden Corral. They serve a wonderful steak and are right across the street from the mall.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Half an hour later, they sat waiting for their order to arrive. Sheila knew it was time to tell Mr. Foster what she wanted to do with his Woodland collectibles. She just couldn’t figure out how to begin. She was thankful he broke the silence.

  “So you’re an author?”

  “Yes. I write Christian children’s stories.” She took a sip from her water glass.

  He leaned forward and gave her his full attention. “And you want to use my characters to write new stories?”

  She stared into his intense blue eyes. “Your characters? My father started giving me Woodland characters back when I was twenty.” She paused and studied his handsome face. Not a wrinkle marred his smooth skin. “I thought you’d be older.”

  “I’m thirty. You know that’s twice today I’ve told beautiful ladies my age.” A momentary look of shock crossed his face.

  Sheila felt the heat of embarrassment fill her cheeks.

  Morgan reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Sometimes my mouth speaks before my brain thinks. I truly am sorry.”

  She pulled her hand away and tried to pretend his words hadn’t affected her. “I know what you mean. It’s one of the disadvantages of working alone.”

  A smile touched his lips. “I’ve never thought of it that way, but I guess you’re right. Let’s start over.”

  She nodded, grateful that moment had passed.

  “You’re asking permission to use my characters in your books. Is that right?”

  “Yes. My editor requires I receive a written agreement from you since you hold the copyright on your collectibles.”

  He nodded. “Okay, but answer me this: Why do you want to use the Woodland collectible line?”

  A smile broke across her face. “That’s an easy one. Your ornaments stir up the creative juices in me, and my mind races with each one’s story. Just this morning, I hung up the squirrel that was decorating a small Christmas tree.” She paused and tried to remember the name of that piece, but it failed to come to mind. “I can’t remember the name of it, but I could envision what his house must look like. A toasty fire and hot mug of chocolate were waiting for him inside beside his favorite chair. I could see other Woodland animals coming and singing around the tree and snow softly falling about them.” She stopped talking. Her mind had entered an imaginary world, and for a few moments, Sheila had forgotten she was sitting at dinner with a handsome man.

  He grinned across at her as the waiter placed a hot plate of food in front of him. “Please go on and tell me more,” Morgan prompted after the waiter left the table.

  “Well, each story will be based on a Bible story or something from the Bible that parents would want their kids to learn, such as not to lie, steal, talk back to your parents—that kind of thing.” Sheila watched him lean forward with both hands face up on the table.

  “Sounds good.” He wiggled his fingers.

  Sheila wasn’t quite sure what he wanted her to do or say. She simply stared at him.

  “Take my hands,” he offered after several seconds.

  “Why?”

  Again his warm laughter washed over her. “In my family, we hold hands when we say grace.”

  “Oh.” Sheila did as he asked. While he blessed their meal, she thought of all the ways he’d made her feel out of sorts. He’d called her beautiful, listened to her ramblings as if they really interested him, and now was holding her hands. Most men found her mousy looking; their eyes glazed over when she started talking about her books or ideas for books, and none of them had ever offered to pray over their food.

  “Amen.”

  Sheila raised her head.

  “Are you sure a salad is all you want?” he asked, cutting into a thick steak.

  “After Thanksgiving. . .yes.” She dipped her fork into the ranch salad dressing she’d requested on the side.

  “Are you only going to focus on my characters? Or will you be creating other characters to go with mine?” Morgan asked.

  Sheila finished chewing and swallowed. “I hope to add a few characters of my own. Each ornament whispers its own story; I’m going to tell that story. It may take just the one character or several. I’m not sure yet. Why? Will that be a problem?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Chapter 3

  Morgan watched her closely. He liked the way her eyes danced as she thought about her stories. Her face cloned that of a youthful teenager filled with joy. Her excitement matched his when she created her stories. He’d never met a woman like her and didn’t like the idea of her walking out of his life once he signed over the copyright to her.

  “What kind of problems do you see?” she asked.

  He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. “The idea of someone else creating characters like mine doesn’t set well with me.”

  “What?” Disbelief filled her voice. “Anyone can create characters like yours.”

  “Really? I thought you’d already talked to your editor about this. If so, will he or she allow you to write characters that so closely resemble mine? Without my permission?” He crossed his arms and set his jaw in a stubborn line. For all appearances, he knew he resembled a stubborn man. His mother had told him so, many times after he’d given her this stance.

  Sheila pushed back her salad. She stood slowly to her feet.

  “Well, then, Mr. Foster, I would say this business dinner is over.” She picked up her purse and turned to leave.

  “If you say so, but I had hoped we could discuss it further.” Morgan watched her turn slowly to face him.

  “What is there to discuss? I will have to create other characters to go into the stories. Without your permission, that can’t happen.” She straightened her spine and crossed her arms.

  He took a sip from his iced tea. Over the rim of his glass, he watched her fidget. The desire to write her stories battled with her desire to leave the restaurant. “True. Maybe we can work something out that will satisfy both of us.” Morgan motioned for her to return to her seat. Other diners stared in their direction as she sat down.

  Sheila hugged her purse. “What do you have in mind?”

  Morgan studied the hard set of her lips. She didn’t like this one bit, and unshed tears filled her eyes. He hadn’t realized how much she’d set her heart on doing this series of books.

  “Well, for starters I want to be included in the writing.”

  “How so?”

  “I expect to meet once a week to go over your new characters and what you’ve written.”

  “What!”

  Once more the other diners turned their attention to them. Color flooded her cheeks, and she ducked her head in embarrassment.

  He ignored her outburst. “And I want a byline.”

  Sheila leaned across the table. “But you aren’t writing the book. I am.” Indignation dripped from her voice.

  Morgan dug in his wallet and pulled out a business card.

  “Without my characters, you have no book. Here.” He passed the card across the table
to her. “Take this and think about what I’ve offered. If I don’t hear from you in a couple of days, I’ll take that as a no to my suggestion.”

  She grabbed the card and stood.

  As she started to walk away, he said, “Who knows? Maybe

  I’ll try my hand at writing if you decide not to do them.”

  “Can you believe the gall of that man?” Sheila fumed into her cell phone.

  “Calm down, Sheila. I’ll come over. We’ll watch a movie, eat a little popcorn, and drink hot chocolate. Then when you’re all settled, we can discuss your Foster problem. Deal?” Samantha asked.

  Sheila pulled into her driveway. “Sure. Come on over.”

  “I’ll be there in a jiffy.” Samantha hung up.

  Sheila gathered her purse and headed inside. Going through the door off the garage, she entered her cozy kitchen. She fought the growing anger as she put water into the teakettle and set it on the stove to heat. Then she took a deep breath and bowed her head to pray.

  Peace poured over her as she talked to the Lord. She admitted her love for the writing project she’d set her heart on and then told Him how frustrated she’d become over Morgan Foster’s demands. By the time she said, “Amen,” Sheila felt better.

  Samantha arrived a few minutes later. Sheila offered her popcorn and hot cocoa.

  “So what are you going to do?” Samantha asked, licking the salt off her fingers from the buttery treat.

  Sheila leaned her hip against the counter and sipped at her hot chocolate. “Well, since he is discontinuing the ornaments, I think I’ll go to the mall in the morning and buy all the ones

  I don’t have.”

  “I meant about the books.”

  Sheila pushed away from the counter and sat down at the table. “I’m not sure. I want to do this project but hate the idea of every word being scrutinized.”

  Samantha studied her sister for several moments. “What about his wanting a byline? Are you going to allow that?” She munched on her bowl of popcorn.

  “I’m still not too pleased with it, but Morgan is right. They were his characters first so that won’t be a big deal.” She picked up the movie Samantha had brought over. A chick flick. A big black dog sat between the couple on the cover.

  Samantha grinned over her hot-chocolate mug. “I Googled your Mr. Foster before I came over.”

  Sheila inwardly groaned. “And?”

  “He’s easy on the eyes. I really don’t understand why you’d protest spending time with him.” Samantha stood, took the movie, and headed for the living room.

  Well, Samantha did have the part about his being handsome right. Sheila called to her sister as she gathered up cookies and popcorn and put them on a platter. “Don’t even think about it, sis. I’m not interested in Morgan that way. I like him for his collectibles.”

  A laugh sounded from the other room. “Yeah, and that’s why you call him Morgan and not Mr. Foster.”

  Morgan sighed as he turned off the news and headed for his workshop. He’d had a restless night. His thoughts had returned over and over again to Sheila Fisher. Maybe he’d pushed too hard. Sheila hadn’t liked any of his suggestions of working together on her book idea. Why had he offered them anyway? Sure, she was cute and creative, but that didn’t mean he should get involved with her romantically. Right?

  Walking down the hall to his office, Morgan shook his head. He determined to put Sheila out of his thoughts and get to work on his latest project. As he walked past his desk, he picked up his sketch pad and pencil. The idea he’d been working on the night before was taking shape. Morgan sank into his favorite chair and began working on a little turtle that stood on the edge of a pond. He fashioned its legs so they appeared bowlegged. Next he placed a small snail on the turtle’s back.

  For the next hour, he worked. Finally he held up the drawing and admired the completed work. The turtle stood on the edge of the pond with one foot in the water, a small snail rested on its back, and a tiny ladybug perched on the shell of the snail.

  Each character wore a smile and a determined look on its face.

  A smile touched his lips as he wrote in big letters above the drawing, “Need a Lift?”

  The smile faded as thoughts of Sheila haunted him once more. Had he dashed her dreams by asking her to include him in the process of creating the book? If he were honest with himself, he’d admit he hadn’t asked at all. As a matter of fact, he’d come close to threatening her. Well, maybe not her personally, but by telling her he’d think about writing the stories himself, he’d threatened her.

  Morgan stood and stretched. What had he been thinking?

  He made his way to the kitchen. Maybe another hot cup of coffee would make him feel better. Then again, maybe not. Morgan poured the hot beverage into his favorite mug. The need to talk to Sheila bubbled within him. Since that wasn’t possible, he went to the Lord in prayer.

  “Lord, why is this woman affecting me so?” he prayed out loud. “You know a number of women have come across my path through the years, and I didn’t give them a second thought. Now this one comes along, and she’s in my thoughts constantly. After what I said to her yesterday, she probably hates my guts.” He sighed and went for his running shoes. Maybe a brisk run in the falling snow would make him feel better.

  A half hour later as he rounded the corner to reach his house, Morgan puffed out white clouds of air. The cold felt invigorating on his flesh. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. His feet were freezing, his nose running, and still

  Sheila Fisher continued to come forward in his mind. He liked the way her nose turned up on the end and her eyes sparkled. But he hated the last look she’d thrown over her shoulder at him. It had been a mixture of anger and disappointment.

  Climbing the stairs to his back door zapped what remained of his energy. He dug in his pants pocket for the key. A whine drew his attention, and he turned toward the sound. A large basket rested on his porch, with a dark brown blanket tucked inside.

  Then he saw something wiggling underneath the blanket.

  Morgan looked around his neighborhood; not a person or thing moved. Snow continued to fall softly to the ground.

  The whine from the basket turned into a full-blown howl.

  He whipped his head back around in time to see a big, sleek head pop out from under the covers. The color took him by surprise. It was silvery blue. Morgan smiled. The most soulful eyes he’d ever seen stared back at him.

  “Now how did you get on my porch?” he asked, looking over his shoulder again. The sound of the basket tipping over and spilling the puppy out onto the cold concrete porch pulled his attention back.

  The pup looked as surprised as Morgan felt. It wasn’t what he considered a normal-size puppy. Large feet, long spindly looking legs, and a massive head told him this puppy was going to grow into a big dog.

  Morgan knelt and offered his hand for the pup to smell. It came forward and licked his gloved fingers. “Come on. Let’s get inside so I can decide what to do with you.” He moved to the basket and scooped it up. The puppy followed him as he opened the door and went inside.

  He pulled off his running shoes and set them beside the door. Morgan moved through the washroom and into the kitchen. The sound of the puppy’s nails hitting the floor alerted him to the fact that it had followed. He set the basket on the table and dug around inside.

  Not seeing anything, Morgan pulled the blanket out and shook it. A white envelope fluttered to the floor. The puppy was on it in a second. He—or she—took off running and sliding, trying to toss the envelope into the air, but it fell flat.

  Morgan scooped up the envelope and was rewarded with the puppy jumping on his legs. “Down,” he ordered in a firm voice.

  The puppy sat on his stocking feet.

  “So now you’re a foot warmer?” Morgan asked, pulling a Christmas card from the soggy envelope.

  In answer the dog lay down on his feet.

  A Christmas tree with gifts under it adorned
the front of the card. Morgan opened it and read aloud. May the season of giving continue throughout the year. Merry Christmas. I hope you enjoy Noel. She will make a perfect companion. Love, A fan.

  At the mention of her name, Noel sat up and whined.

  “So your name is Noel. That’s very pretty, and it also indicates you’re a girl.” Morgan bent down and rubbed her ears. He couldn’t decide what breed of dog Noel was. She looked to be part Labrador, Great Dane, or Saint Bernard—or maybe a mixture of all three. Since he’d never owned a dog before and usually thought of them as big dogs or little dogs, this one could be any breed.

  He wondered which of his “fans” had given him the animal. What was he going to do with such a big dog? Morgan stood, put the blanket back inside the basket, then pulled Noel’s basket from the table.

  He carried it into the laundry room and set it down beside the washer. Noel followed. “Well, for now you’re staying in here.”

  Noel clumsily climbed into it and looked up at him with questioning eyes. She tilted her head from side to side.

  “Good girl.” Morgan shut the door and headed to his bedroom. If he was going to keep the puppy, he’d have to make another trip to the mall for doggy supplies.

  Chapter 4

  Sheila juggled the packages she’d picked up at the mall. She’d stepped out of Deck the Hall, laden with more bags than she’d expected. Her credit card bill was going to be big, but she couldn’t pass up the ornaments. Still, her mind was soaring with story ideas for her new purchases.

  “Did you buy out the store?”

  Sheila froze. She knew that voice. She raised her head and looked into the face of Morgan Foster. “It looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does. Can I help you with some of those bags?” He reached out and took several without waiting for her agreement.

  Sheila wanted to protest but felt grateful for the decrease in weight. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m on my way to find a hot cup of coffee. Care to join me?” Morgan took a couple of more bags from her grasp.