Christmas With You (6 page)

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 said, 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 caught 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.

“Come on, how hard can it be?” She nudged the first of the two Lego boxes closer to him. “It’s the easiest one to wrap.”

“You promised—no female commentary or advice.”

He shot her a sharp glance, and she mimed zipping her lips, her eyes—still a little puffy—dancing with humor. Puffy-eyed or not, she was beautiful. Breath-stealing, gut-wrenchingly, heart-palpitating-ly beautiful. Keeping his hands off her during dinner had taken a feat of willpower equivalent to that of a starving man sitting at a ten course banquet and managing not to eat.