Christmas With You Read online

  “West hired you?”

  “He must’ve seen something worthwhile in me because the first two weeks on the job I was the worst bartender ever, but he didn’t kick my ass out the door.”

  “West’s pretty savvy. He would’ve taken into account your other”—she paused, eyebrows twitching downward into a small frown—“assets. You’re very popular with the bar’s clientele.”

  “I like talking to people, and I love working in Due South.” Kip shifted in his seat so he could catch her eye. “After years of being stuck in a cowshed with Dad, Barry, and Manu, three of the most stoic men I’ve ever met, I enjoy meeting different people every day and talking about stuff other than cows. That some women seem to think I’m an undercover escort is not my problem. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t sleep around.”

  A flush of heat appeared on Carly’s cheekbones, and she lowered her eyes, fiddling with the strap of her purse. “I shouldn’t have implied that. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not sorry you implied it.” He glanced around to ensure no one paid them any attention and then touched her chin, raising her head. “But I don’t want you wondering if I kiss my other co-workers like I kissed you.”

  She continued to study him with whiskey-colored eyes. Prickles sped up and down his spine at her silence.

  The ferry’s engines powered down as they approached the mainland terminal. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead, and conversation among the passengers grew louder as people got ready to disembark. The sounds seemed to echo down a distant corridor, caught up as he was in the spell of her beautiful face.

  Then her lips curled up, and she leaned in close to murmur, “Actually, pretty-boy, I kissed you.”

  Heat blasted through him. If they hadn’t been surrounded by other people he would’ve dragged her onto his lap and tasted her lush mouth again.

  “That time, sweetheart.” He sent her a lazy smile, infusing it with every bit of desire scorching his veins. “Next time, I’ll be the one kissing you.”

  ***

  Kip Sullivan made a fine-looking pack horse.

  Carly lugged her shopping onto the wharf and turned to watch as Kip—plastic bags hanging off his arms, boxes stacked against his broad chest— maneuvered onto solid ground to join her.

  “There, that wasn’t so bad,” she said as he gave her a long-suffering look from behind two enormous Lego sets she’d picked out for the twins.

  “After three hours of shopping, I would’ve chosen to row a dinghy back here. Two hours after that, I nearly stripped off and swam.”

  Carly laughed. Kip had mock-bitched from the moment they’d first arrived in Invercargill’s town center. Yet, he’d examined everything she had chosen—discussing, arguing, comparing—and his excitement at finding the perfect gift for one of his family members was infectious. As much as he complained about being outnumbered by females, his descriptions of his mother and sisters were always funny and kind-hearted. He’d do anything for them, even though they obviously drove him nuts at times—but wasn’t that what family was supposed to do?

  His grimace switched into a sly smile by the time they walked off the wharf. “How about we go to my place for dinner, and afterward, you can give me a gift-wrapping lesson?”

  Be alone with Kip again? In his no-close-neighbors beach house? A low-down pleasurable squeeze fisted her insides. She didn’t want this day to end, but it would have to be on her terms.

  “I bet you don’t have any gift-wrapping supplies at your place. Why don’t you come back to my house, instead?”

  And she’d have her nosy landlady to keep Carly’s naughty, I wanna ravish my co-worker thoughts in check.

  He grinned from behind the boxes. “Duct-tape doesn’t count?”

  “No. And FYI? Gift-wrapping isn’t a euphemism for naked fun time, okay?”

  Though her heart pounded a little bit faster as a whisper of breeze carried his fresh, male scent to her nose. Made her wonder who the rule was for—Kip…or her?

  “I’m game.” He gave her a long, lazy grin. “So long as you can keep your hands off the goods and on the gifts.”

  Her gaze skipped down the tanned column of his throat and the tempting sprinkle of dark hair that started just above the neckline of his shirt.

  “Won’t be a problem.”

  Would so be a problem.

  They walked in amicable silence through town. Daylight savings meant the sun blazed down even though it was nearly 6:00 p.m. Kids romped along the beach in front of Due South, and Carly waved to Zoe and Jade, who were running in circles with their little dog, Sparky. Long summer days at Christmas time still disconcerted her, and as for the usual wave of anticipation that had always accompanied the festive season? Meh. Not even choosing gifts for her stepfamily, and Zoe and Jade—which she’d put off until the last minute—could blow her blues away.

  Carly pushed open the gate that led to her little cottage down the back of the property, and held it for Kip. He angled in after her, freezing when the front door to the main house opened.

  Betsy Taylor poked her head out, lavender-tinted hair curling above her eagle-eyed stare. “There you are. Thought you must’ve missed the ferry.” Her gaze flicked over Carly’s shoulder. “And a handsome escort to accompany you home, I see.”

  “Mrs. T. You’re looking radiant this evening.”

  Betsy blew a loud raspberry. “Such charm to go with those good looks.” Her landlady, more infamous for flirting than even Kip, poked one of her walking sticks against the door to open it wider. “After meeting your dear parents the other day, I can understand where you get both those admirable traits from.”

  She narrowed her eyes at Carly. “He’s staying for supper?”

  Other women Carly’s age would resent someone monitoring their movements, but the elderly widow had a heart as big as the Pacific and genuinely cared about her. “That’s right, Betsy. Then I’m going to help him wrap his gifts for his family. You know what men and gift-wrapping are like.”

  “My husband couldn’t have even coped with those pretty gift-bags everyone uses nowadays.” Betsy raised a walking stick and stabbed it in Kip’s direction with a stern frown. “I may be old, but I still remember what Oliver was like at your age. One-track mind—sex, sex, sex.” A shark-ish grin appeared on her wrinkled face. “Carly, you lucky girl.”

  A masculine chuckle sounded from behind her. Heat flashed down the length of her body, as if he’d reached out and grabbed her ass. And not the type of ass-grabbing from a stranger on a public bus, whom she’d want to punch, but the kind of ass-grabbing that led to hot, sweaty sex.

  Before she could think of a witty reply, Betsy made shooing motions. “Off you go, then; the news is on. When you get to my age, you have to have the TV cranked up to hear anything—so make as much noise as you like.” She winked at them and closed the door.

  “She’s as subtle as a brick upside the head,” Kip said.

  Carly attempted to untangle her tongue as they followed the path down the side of the house, to the little one-bedroomed cottage she rented. She opened the door and led the way into her small open-plan living room/kitchen. She dumped her bags on the couch, shivers running up and down her spine. Being alone with Kip in her house was like inviting a tiger in for a bite to eat, not knowing whether she’d end up as the main course. What had she been thinking?

  “You realize my reputation is ruined?” She slipped her purse off her shoulder and tossed it onto the dining table. “Betsy will be on the phone to her church ladies as we speak.”

  Kip placed his boxes and bags next to hers. “Gift-wrapping, the lesser-known but more scandalous activity two un-chaperoned adults can take part in.”

  “Smartass.” Carly flopped onto an armchair and kicked off her flip-flops, while Kip continued to scan her living room.

  He’d never been inside her little place before; when he’d picked her up to go to breakfast with his family, he’d met her at the front gate.

  “Nice place,” Kip sa
id, walking over to the French doors that opened out on a private bricked courtyard lined with pots of lavender. “How come you haven’t put those up yet?” He tilted his head at a large cardboard box, the words Christmas Decorations scrawled on the side, which she’d shoved in a corner of the living room.

  Betsy had insisted Carly bring the decorations here at the beginning of December, steamrolling Carly’s quiet protests that she wasn’t in the mood. In the end, it’d been easier just to take the damn box, since Betsy couldn’t easily navigate the stairs down to the cottage to check whether her tenant had used the decorations.

  “I haven’t even opened it.” Carly rolled her shoulders and pinned on a fake smile. “I’ll get around to it later.”

  Kip turned away from the doors and braced his hands on the back of the couch. “And a tree?”

  “Trees are just for the kids, don’t you think?” Though, every year, her dad had insisted on a fresh, six-foot-at-the-smallest tree.

  He shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m in the minority. They want to go out to the Brailsford’s tomorrow to choose a tree. We can get you one while we’re there—nothing like the smell of fresh pine in the house.”

  “I’ll pass. But thanks.” Carly sprang out of the armchair and ducked into the kitchenette, her stomach twisting, as memories of her dad lifting her when she was a child so she could place the star on the top bough, swarmed through her mind.

  “What do you feel like eating?” She yanked open the fridge door, hoping the cool air would dry the wetness gathering in her eyes. “I can whip up a salad, and there’s some marinated chick—”

  “Hey.” A warm hand closed over hers on the handle.

  She swallowed the last syllable and straightened. Kip stood behind her, the heat from his big body buffering her, driving back the frigid air. He eased the door shut and turned her to face him.

  “Aw, sweetheart.” Big hands framed her jaw, his thumbs scraping across her cheeks. “Don’t cry.”

  Damn. The cool air didn’t work—but the heat generated by him being so close might. Another tear slipped over her lashes. Nope, not even the sexiest man she’d ever met could stop the tears now they’d begun.

  “You going to wig out now?” she asked.

  In her experience, guys headed for the nearest exit when the waterworks started. Even her dad and Del had taken off a few times when she started to blubber. And a redhead after a crying jag? Stuff of horror movies. Seriously.

  “You’re asking a man with five sisters if he’s gonna run?” He looked down, a small smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. “Tears don’t scare me.”

  “What do you do when one of your sisters gets upset?” She sniffed, sliding a glance toward the tissue box on her dining table. Attractive guy and a woman with snot leaking out her nose—gross didn’t begin to describe it.

  “This.”

  His hands dropped from her jaw and he tugged her forward until her nose bumped his shoulder. She pressed her face into the sun-warmed fabric of his shirt—uniquely scented with his soap and a trace of saltwater spray—and slid her arms around him. One hand cupped her nape, and his other settled snugly across her back. He said nothing, did nothing, just held her while her tears soaked his shirt.

  Comfort and tenderness were the last things she’d expected to find in Kip’s arms. Not after their water-fight lip-lock. Not when she hadn’t been able to stop replaying every, single, amazing second. A Sleeping Beauty kiss, her best friend Sophie back in LA would’ve called it—one that woke you from your every-day stupor. A once-in-a-lifetime, stuff-of-fairy-tales kiss.

  “You’re not going to ask why I’m crying?” she said, her words muffled against his shoulder.

  “No.” His big hand continued to knead the knotted muscles in the back of her neck.

  “Or try to fix me?”

  His chest expanded as a chuckle rumbled through him. “You’re not a broken-down car that needs me to tinker around under the hood to try and get you running again. You’ll tell me why you’re sad if you want to. Or not.”

  She melted just a little bit more and closed her eyes.

  “My dad always insisted we have a real Christmas tree, not a fake one. Every year, even after Mom died, we’d drive out to a farm to pick one out. We’d lug that fir over to his pickup—him taking the weight at the heavy end, of course—and after we’d loaded it, he’d scoop me up and pretend to throw me on top.” Her lips curved at the memory. “Back home, we’d hang every single decoration in the box on that damn tree. His decorating philosophy was if the light reflecting off the sparkly balls and tinsel weren’t blinding us, we hadn’t accomplished our second Christmas mission.”

  “Second Christmas mission?”

  She nodded, resisting the temptation to burrow into him farther. “Get a real tree and deck it out Gatlin style. Mission number two out of six.”

  “What was the first?”

  “Write a letter to Santa—in my best handwriting, with correct punctuation and grammar. No cheating by using a computer and spell check.”

  “And the other four missions?”

  “Number three required a trip to the nearest mall to sit on Santa’s knee.”

  He pulled back to grin down at her, brushing a strand of hair off her face. “Didn’t you already write him a letter?”

  “The letter was to tell him what I wanted. I had to thank him for all his hard work during the year in person.”

  “And to plead your case to be on the nice list?”

  “I was always on the nice list.”

  “I bet you were. And fourth?”

  “Baking Christmas cookies to share with the neighborhood. Mission five was planting the magic Christmas beans.”

  Kip’s eyebrows shot up, and a giggle slipped past her lips.

  “Magic Christmas beans?” he asked. “You’ve lost me.”

  “On Christmas Eve, a little envelope of jellybeans would arrive in our mailbox, along with instructions on how to plant them in our backyard that night. Come Christmas morning, I’d wake to find the jellybeans had transformed into a row of candy-canes.”

  “Cute. And you believed this?”

  She smacked his chest. “It’s no less ridiculous than Santa travelling in a magic sleigh around the world in twenty-four hours.”

  “Don’t mock the big guy, or you’ll end up on the naughty list, for sure. What was the last mission?”

  The final mission before she fell into bed, ready for the excitement of Christmas morning…

  Her arms, still wrapped around Kip, sagged, as heavy as if her bones were filled with lead. Carly inhaled past the hot, watery pressure crushing her throat—like hell would she start crying again. “The final mission was a goodnight kiss with Dad under the mistletoe. We never missed a year, ever.”

  Even at the hospital, she’d taken a little bouquet of mistletoe into his room.

  “He sounds like someone who got a kick out of Christmas.”

  “Most wonderful time of the year, he said.” She eased out of Kip’s arms, conscious she was still twined around him. Swiping a hand across her cheeks, she crossed to the table and snatched a tissue from the box. “In the military, he had a nickname—Rudy. Short for Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. My dad was a big tough Air Force officer who drove his buddies nuts singing Christmas songs every year, from December first onward.”

  “Rudolph, huh?” Kip chuckled, and bless him, he didn’t even glance at the giant soggy spot she’d left behind on his shirt.

  Carly blew her nose. “Kinda like me now, I imagine.”

  He flashed his straight white teeth. “Nah, you’re cuter, and you’ve got a much nicer rack than any reindeer.”

  The laugh rolled out of her, spilling over the grief that had surged up in her heart only moments ago. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should. A man who grew up on a farm doesn’t take comparisons between deer and women lightly.”

  She hurled the tissue box at his head.

  Kip caugh
t it with one hand. “This for the wet patch on my shirt?”

  Crud. Kinda hoped he hadn’t noticed. “Sorry about that.”

  “I’ve been coated with stuff a lot worse than a little girly snot.” He tossed the box onto the kitchen counter and wriggled his eyebrows rakishly. “Anytime you want to make another wet patch, I’m your guy.”

  A flirtatious comeback tickled the tip of her tongue, and she opened her mouth—closed it again as the implications of what he’d done fanned goosebumps over her skin. He’d made her laugh, made her feel beautiful, even at her worst. But most of all? Amongst the grief for her dad, Kip had unearthed a small corner of her heart that still contained a kernel of hope. Hope that one day she could trim a tree without tears. That she could sing Christmas songs, bake cookies, and even kiss someone she loved under the mistletoe again.

  She crossed to him, rose on tip-toes, and brushed a kiss on his jaw, her lips tingling from the contact with his five-o’clock shadow. “Thank you, Kip.”

  His eyes gleamed blue fire. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

  ***

  “Give it your best shot. Show me what you can do,” said Carly.

  Kip glowered at the roll of snowman-printed paper, scissors, and tape dispenser, lined up on his right side like instruments on a surgeon’s sterile tray. After dinner, he’d muscled the coffee table away from the couch, and the two of them had kneeled on the floor, surrounded by shopping bags and gift-wrapping crap.

  If his mates could see him now…they’d laugh their damn asses off. He wouldn’t blame them.

  Carly, opposite him, wore a wide this is gonna be hilarious grin.

  Perfect.

  If making a dick of himself was the only way to make her happy, he’d play the fool. Given his talents with gift-wrapping were approximately as good as his talent with floral arrangements; he’d have her in stitches in no time flat. Though he didn’t want to think about why it’d become important to hear her laugh—a sound that filled his stomach with tickly feathers and made him grin moronically in return.