It Must Have Been the Mistletoe... (11 page)

H
AVING BEEN SUFFICIENTLY
distracted twice—once against the wall and once in the bathroom—Layla milked the final note of her final performance from her instrument, then casually strolled offstage. She'd done it, she thought. She'd played without once thinking of the audience. Bryant was standing off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, the strangest expression on his face.

Bewildered, indulgent…and oddly tortured.

Curiously enough, she understood that.

Things would never work between them on a permanent basis. She'd known that. He'd all but told her that he didn't ever want to settle down. She'd agreed to the terms and she wouldn't embarrass herself by trying to prolong the inevitable. Bryant had laid everything out for her so that she could make an informed decision before she slept with him.

She'd made the decision—she would accept the outcome.

That didn't mean she would have to like it, because she didn't. She hated that it was over between them before it had scarcely begun. Was she in love with him? Truthfully, she didn't know. She'd never been in love before. She had nothing to compare this to. Looking at him made her chest hurt, having him inside her made her feel that her bones were going
to melt with happiness. She loved listening to the sound of his voice, appreciated his keen mind and sharp wit. His smile lit her up, made her want to smile, too.

Was that love?

It was something, and she hated walking away from it—from him. But she would do it because that was what was expected of her.

“That was beautiful, Layla,” he said. “I might be biased, but I think Clint needs to forget Rusty and hire you on a permanent basis.”

She was flattered, but hell, no, and she told him as much. “Don't you dare suggest that to him! I've been able to handle performing live because you've been distracting me—” her gaze tangled significantly with his “—but I'm not cut out for stage work.”

He sidled closer. “I'd be happy to distract you all the time if you joined the band,” he said.

“Take one for the team, eh?”

He laughed, searched her face. “Something like that.”

She shook her head. “I don't think so. I'll build my house and stick to the studio.”

He nodded and his expression said he'd expected as much. “Wanna play Scrabble?” he asked, jerking his head toward the game.

No. She wanted to sneak out to the bus and make love to him again. She wanted to ask him to come to Christmas dinner with her family, then ask him to come home with her and make s'mores in her living room fireplace. She wanted to see him in her house and in her bed because she knew he “fit,” because she knew he belonged. But until he figured that out—and she was prepared for the hurtful fact that he probably never would—there was nothing she could do.

Instead, she blinked away the moisture in her eyes and the ache in her chest and said, “Sure.”

And the last word she played was
bittersweet
.

 

T
ELLING HIMSELF THAT HE
was the master of his destiny, that he wasn't going to be like his father, that what they'd had was wonderful but couldn't possibly be sustained, Bryant followed Layla to her car at the Nashville airport under the guise of making sure she wasn't attacked.

In truth, he didn't want to be away from her and was dreading the moment when she would get in her car and drive off, when the contact would be lost.

He grimly suspected a part of him would be lost as well.

She turned and smiled up at him, but the grin was frayed around the edges and didn't quite reach her eyes. “Here I am,” she said, clicking her doors open with the keyless remote. To his surprise she drove a truck.

He grunted. “I pictured you in something a little more sporty.”

She stepped out of the way while he stowed her bags. “This is more practical,” she said. “I hated asking my dad every time I found something I needed to haul home.”

That made sense. Little Miss Independent. He managed a grin. “Guess it'll come in handy when you're bringing all those flats of flowers home, huh?”

Another pained smile. “Yep.”

He studied her for a moment, wishing he could say the words that would allow this to last, to keep her near.

But he knew better. People left. And it hurt. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, lingered longer than he should. “Merry Christmas, Layla,” he murmured.

He felt her grin against his lips. “You, too, Bryant. Good night.”

She slid quickly into her car and pulled away into the night.

A hollow feeling settled in the pit of his belly, one he instinctively knew was going to last for a long time.

 

L
AYLA DASHED A TEAR FROM
her cheek and allowed herself one last look in the rearview mirror before making the turn
that would take her out toward the interstate. He was still standing there, looking more like a lost little boy than a badass security agent.

It killed her to leave him, made something in her soul screech and howl.

But this was the way he wanted it.
He'd
made the rules.
He
had to be the one to change them.

This was not a choice she could make for him, and until he decided to choose her, to take a chance with her, there was nothing she could do but get used to the pain.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

H
E WAS A GLUTTON FOR
punishment, Bryant thought as he made his way slowly down Layla's parents' street. An idiot. A moron. A fool. But while he was being foolish…

It had taken the private investigator he'd hired yesterday less than three hours to find his grandparents. His grandfather was buried in The Willows Eternal Rest Cemetery less than sixty miles from where he lived, and his grandmother was in an assisted-living nursing home within five miles of where her husband was buried. Under the guise of visiting from an area church, Bryant had gone to meet Elsie Walker. Thin and withered with perfectly coifed snowy-white hair and bright pink lipstick, his grandmother wasn't the cookie-baking type granny he'd imagined. She was erect and regal, and while age had worn down her body, it had not dimmed her mind.

She'd taken one look at him and known he wasn't who he said he was. “You look very familiar, young man,” she said. “I feel I should know you, but don't.”

“I have that kind of face.”

“Maybe so, but you have my daughter's eyes. What was your name again?”

He'd told her, and after she'd extracted a promise from him that he would visit again the following week, he'd left.
Elsie Walker had some pictures she'd like to show him, she'd explained. Mostly she'd talked about her husband, whom she'd loved dearly. Staying power might not have been a genetic trait passed on from either of his parents, but it was reassuring to see that his grandparents had had it. Fifty-seven years, all of them happy, she'd proudly told him. She hadn't much to say about her daughter, and Bryant suspected that, like him, Elsie hadn't heard from her in years.

What the hell was he doing here? Bryant wondered as he looked for a place to park on the street. The sidewalk was full and cars were lined up on either side of the road for half a block.

The truth was…he couldn't stay away. It had been little over twenty-four hours since he'd left Layla and it had felt like twenty-three hours fifty-nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds too long. Could he breathe without her? Yes.

But he didn't want to.

He had no idea where this was going or whether or not it would end in disaster. He didn't know if he could commit to a woman long-term, because he'd never tried—he'd never met a woman who'd inspired him to attempt it.

He wasn't altogether certain he was inspired now…but he couldn't stay away from her.

That's why he was here, in her town, on her street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

Pathetic, but he didn't care.

He slid in behind a sleek Lexus, exited the car and pocketed his keys. Shoulders hunched in his black peacoat against the cool Christmas Eve air, he followed the crowd on the sidewalk, waiting for his turn.

And there she was.

She was wrapped in a blue cloak, her blond hair covered by a hood, holding a squirming baby that was too big to be the infant Jesus, and looked largely entertained by all that was going on around him. It was the goat that held the child's
attention, Bryant realized, following the kid's chubby pointing finger. Layla smiled and murmured something to the little boy, and as though she'd felt Bryant's stare, she turned her head and looked directly at him.

She smiled then, a genuinely happy-to-see-him grin that made the bottoms of his feet tingle and his chest warm. Her older sister, sensing Layla's preoccupation, followed her gaze, and the youngest one, Rita, gasped. She leaned over, and though he couldn't hear what she said, he knew she was asking Layla what he was doing here.

Layla handed the baby off, gestured to another cloaked woman waiting in the wings, then picked through the audience and made her way to him. “Bryant,” she said wonderingly. “What are you doing here?”

Hell if he knew, Bryant thought, soaking her in. She had a freckle to the left of her nose. How had he missed that? He shrugged. “I was curious.”
I wanted to see you. I couldn't stay away.

She turned and looked at her family. “Pretty cool, isn't it?”

It was, so he nodded. He shifted, suddenly nervous. “Look, I know that you've got your family thing tomorrow, but I was wondering if your evening would be free.”

She turned back to face him. “My evening?”

This was harder than he'd thought it would be. He'd never invited anyone to share the holiday with him before, but he wanted her there. “I thought we could have some eggnog, roast some chestnuts over an open fire.”

“At your house?”

“Yeah.” This was a mistake, Bryant thought. He shouldn't have asked her. She would come out of pity, because she knew he was going to be alone. Dammit, why—

A slow-dawning smile slid over her lips. “I would love to.”

His world brightened. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I'll text directions to your phone,” he said. “See you around seven then?”

“I'll be there with bells on.”

He didn't care what she wore, so long as she showed up.

 

L
ORD, PLEASE DON'T LET
me be in an accident or get pulled over,
Layla silently prayed as she made her way out to Bryant's place. She was wearing a long coat and little else and was currently debating the wisdom of such a choice. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. It had been too late to get Bryant a proper present, but with some leftover Christmas decorations, she'd turned herself into one.

Now she felt ridiculous.

Incidentally, she hadn't needed directions to his place. She'd taken one look at the address—Hardscrabble Road—and instantly understood that sly little smile he'd worn when she'd told him about her land.

He was her neighbor. Or would be, very soon.

She couldn't imagine why he hadn't simply told her. Had their positions been reversed, she wouldn't have been able to stand not telling him. But Bryant…

She couldn't get a bead on Bryant. Just when she was certain she had him completely figured out, that their relationship was destined to explode like a fantastic firework and disappear just as quickly, he'd shown up at her parents' and asked her to Christmas.

She was trying not to read too much into this—he didn't want to be alone, he wasn't finished with her yet, etc.—but she couldn't seem to help herself. Something about him just clicked for her. He felt right. More importantly, she felt right when she was with him.

Anxiety tightened her belly into a miserable knot as she spied his mailbox and turned down his driveway. His house
wasn't visible from the road, but lights shone in the distance.

Her mouth formed a silent O as she found herself in the circular driveway in front of his house. It was a small cabin with a screened-in front porch. Golden light spilled from the windows and smoke curled from the chimney. All it needed was a blanket of snow to be Thomas Kinkade picturesque.

And then he was there, in the doorway, and the smile that split his face as she hurried up the walk—socks, why hadn't she worn socks?—made her chest fill with warm fuzzy air.

“Hey, you,” he said, pulling her inside and immediately into his arms.

And this was home, she realized. It wasn't a house or a piece of property. It was here, in his arms. Layla quaked with the realization.

“You're cold,” he said, drawing back with concern. “Come over by the fire and let's see if I can warm you up.”

Oh, she knew he could do that. She followed him on shaky legs, taking in a bit of his decor along the way. Wide-plank pine floors, comfortable furniture, art—no doubt his own—and high-end electronics. The kitchen and dining area were open to the living room and the ceilings soared overhead, giving the impression of additional space. She liked it, she thought. It suited him.

“Here, let me get your coat,” he offered.

She faked a shiver. “I'll leave it on for a minute more, if you don't mind.”

He gave her an odd look. “Sure. How was the day with your family?”

She settled onto his couch and rolled her eyes. “Hectic. Wonderful. The same as it always is.”

“That's nice.”

“What about your day?” she asked.

His gaze warmed. “It just got better.”

So had hers. “What have you been doing?”

He pulled a small wrapped box from the coffee table and handed it to her. “Making you something.”

Touched, Layla felt her eyes widen. “Bryant, you didn't have to do that. I didn't expect—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply. “Open it.”

She did, carefully. A tree pendent, a bit smaller than the one he wore, was nestled in a swath of scrap fabric. She gasped and withdrew it, holding it up to the light so that she could get a better look. “It's beautiful,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

“I included the roots, because I knew they were important to you.”

She swallowed tightly. “I see that.”

She didn't know when any gift had ever meant more to her. Her eyes glistened. “It's perfect.”

He slid a finger beneath her eye, catching a tear. “You're perfect.”

“What am I doing here, Bryant?” she asked, because she had to know. Needed to know what he was thinking. “I didn't figure you wanted this.”

He shook his head. “I didn't, either. But I can't get you out of my head, Layla. And I don't want to. I don't know where this is going. I don't know if I can be that guy, the one you want, but I know that I'll regret it for the rest of my life if I don't try.” He laced his fingers through hers and gave her hand a significant squeeze. “I just know that I'm grounded when I'm with you. Centered.
Rooted.
And I like that.”

It was as close to a declaration of love as she was going to get, and since she wasn't ready to declare herself yet either, that was fine.

She nodded, in full understanding, then smiled. “Would you like to unwrap your present?” she asked.

“You brought me something?”

“It's not new,” she said. He'd had her before, but…

“That doesn't matter.”

She guided his hand to the belt at her waist and helped him
untie the sash. The coat fell open, revealing red and green plaid Christmas bows on her breasts and a large velvet bow—complete with a silver bell—over her hoo-ha. She'd made a thong for the occasion. Being crafty had its perks.

His eyes darkened and she watched him lick his lips. “You are the best Christmas present I have ever gotten, hands down.”

Layla smiled, pulled a piece of mistletoe from her coat pocket and dangled it over his head, then bent forward and kissed him. “Unwrap me.”