Holiday Kisses: A Rare GiftMistletoe and MargaritasIt's Not Christmas Without YouThis Time Next Year Read online

  Oh, but the man could kiss. She touched the back of her hand to her lips, feeling him there, feeling, too, the scrape of his whiskers, the muscles in his neck and shoulders, the bristled ends of his short cropped hair, the heat of his hands.

  Honestly, she hadn’t meant to stop him. His skin on her skin, his fingers at her bra had shocked her, and she’d stiffened—her spine, her shoulders, the tilt of her head. How could Dillon not have been put off by her reaction to his touch?

  What was done was done, and hiding in the bedroom for the duration of her stay was out of the question. First of all, she was not one to duck and run when things got heated. Secondly, she was starving.

  She sat up, left the bed and grabbed her carryall to sort through her things. She chose another pair of jeans and a Christmas red sweater Gran had knitted last year. The yarn was a softly glittered silk mohair, the shade perfect for her hair and her skin and her eyes.

  A shower and shampoo and fresh makeup, and she’d be ready to finish cooking the breakfast she’d abandoned in lieu of a bone-melting kiss. And hopefully she could convince Dillon Craig that she wasn’t the jerk he was probably thinking.

  Brenna cooked her breakfast alone, ate it alone and washed up the dishes all by herself. And though she stretched out the tasks for an hour, her host never showed, giving her no chance to convince him of anything. Fine. Be that way, she mused, walking through the cabin, looking for something to do.

  She assumed he’d returned to the barn, or perhaps this time to the clinic. Searching him out for the company seemed like a very bad idea—especially since the storm had found new footing. Squalls rattled the windows and wind gusts sent the flames in the fireplace jumping. She figured the electricity wasn’t long for this world.

  At least Dillon had a generator. He also had a television but nothing but snow for reception. She didn’t bother with her laptop; there was no using her smartphone for a hotspot in these conditions. She did have her e-reader and hundreds of books, so she settled into the corner of the sofa for a fictional escape.

  One book then another lost her attention. Hardly surprising. Her attention had been caught by the kiss and pulling it free to focus elsewhere was proving to be a chore. If she were at Gran’s she wouldn’t be having this problem.

  If she were at Gran’s, she’d be baking cookies and decorating the tree. She’d bought new candy-cane-striped ribbons and cupcake ornaments with glass sprinkles to add to the tree’s edible theme. She wondered if Dillon ever put up a tree.

  He had a forest of pines around him just like her grandmother did. One friend or another always brought Gran a tree, and by the time Christmas morning arrived, Brenna and her grandmother had left no branch unadorned. They strung popcorn and cranberries, pierced cut-out cookies with ice picks before baking to make holes for threading with string.

  She glanced toward the front door, wondering how far out she’d have to go to find a workable tree. It was Christmas, dang it all, and without a tree and baking and her week with Gran, things weren’t going to be the same.

  Though she couldn’t blame herself for the accident—she hadn’t been speeding, she’d listened to the forecast—she couldn’t help but be filled with what-ifs. What if she’d left Raleigh ten minutes sooner, or ten minutes later? What if she’d been thinking about the conditions of the road instead of her upcoming move? What if she’d toughed out the heat in the car rather than reaching for the temperature controls at just that moment?

  She closed her eyes, shook her head, looked back at the door and realized she had no way to chop a tree unless she made a visit to the barn for an ax or a saw. Plus, she’d have to rig a stand, and her luck, sharing close quarters with the pollen would set off an allergy attack.

  But there was a seven-foot coat tree with, she counted, eight curved arms beside the front door…

  She had ribbons and ornaments and hooks, and surely she could find a pinecone or two without getting lost in the forest. If Dillon objected, she could take it all down, though unless he was some kind of Grinch, she couldn’t imagine why he would.

  Bringing a semblance of Christmas into the house would help get her through the days to come, and he’d have to be a total scrooge to say no to a girl missing her Gran.

  Brenna’s kiss still on his mouth, Dillon stomped the snow from his boots on the mudroom floor, shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a peg to dry. Then he stopped, sniffed the air, and swore he smelled sugar cookies baking.

  He was given more baked goods from friends and family of patients than one man could ever eat. He kept the cookies and brownies in the clinic to share. He ate a couple of slices of the cakes and pies, froze some, tossed the rest.

  But since resigning his commission following his father’s death, and his building and moving into this cabin, no one, in the two years he’d lived here, had ever baked anything in his kitchen. He was pretty sure he didn’t even have cookie pans.

  The thought of Brenna doing so…

  He knew the back door squeaked, knew she’d hear him coming, but still he tried to sneak in so he could see her at work. Stupid, really, but he couldn’t deny the purely caveman enjoyment of having a woman, especially this one, especially after that kiss, cooking in his kitchen.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said before he even got a good look. “I read till my eyes crossed and I had to do something.”

  He pulled the door all the way open, letting in a rush of cold air from the mudroom before he got it closed. Her hair was caught back from her face with a band, and the dark strands fell in waves around her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove, and the smile on her mouth was full of memories.

  He knew that because of what he’d learned from Donota about her and Brenna’s Christmas cookie tradition. “No. I don’t mind. Smells great, in fact.”

  “I only made half a batch so I wouldn’t use up all your flour.”

  “There’s probably a bag in the freezer.”

  “Yeah, I saw it when I went looking for a casserole for dinner, but I didn’t want to be anymore presumptuous than I’ve already been.”

  “The casseroles are there to be eaten, the staples used. And cookies are always welcome. Not presumptuous at all.”

  She had yet to look at him, her sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows as she used the side of a glass tumbler to roll out a small slab of dough. And she didn’t look at him now, either. But she did pause, and the smile kicking him in the gut began to fade.

  She scrunched up her nose. “It’s not just cookies and a casserole.”

  He’d been working in the barn four hours or so. He hadn’t noticed the time when he’d left the house, and he only noticed it now because he made for a lousy host, leaving her alone for so long. He hadn’t thought that she’d have nothing to do.

  So what besides cookies was he in for?

  He followed the cant of her head, pushed off the back door and made his way from the kitchen to the main room. He didn’t see it at first. The fire blazed brightly, lighting up the room where his blankets were folded rather than draped over the back of the sofa.

  The television was off, the books stacked on the shelf in their usual disarray. She’d left his clutter—his reading glasses on the coffee table, his patient charts beneath them, his empty coffee cup on top, too—and he liked that she had.

  It was when he glanced at the door that he saw the coat tree.

  Red-and-white ribbon wrapped the trunk and the arms where, last he looked, coats had been hanging. Sparkly glass cupcakes weighted down the ribbon, hooked at alternating intervals with pinecones tied with sprigs of fragrant green needles.

  On top of the rack perched his Stetson, the black beaver crown ringed with the same red and white. A star-shaped cluster of pinecones held the place of honor in the crease he’d spent a lot of time working to his liking.

  “I didn’t damage your hat, or the coat tree. And I can undo it all if you want—”

  “No. Leave it.”

 
“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind taking it down.”

  She minded. He could tell by the tone of her voice. And that made all the difference.

  “You might not even celebrate Christmas. I didn’t think…”

  He turned to her before she could talk herself into undoing all her work, because it was suddenly important to him that she not. “Brenna, trust me. It’s fine.”

  Her gaze found his briefly before she glanced back at the only holiday decoration his cabin had ever seen. And as he watched, her mouth turned down, her chin trembled, her eyes grew red and damp.

  “I miss Gran. Every year, for as long as I can remember, and especially since my parents moved to Malaysia, this has been our time. Mine and Gran’s. And next year I might not be able to get back. If Gran’s still here then.”

  Well, hell. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not? I think it often enough.” She wrapped her arms over her middle. “I’m not trying to be morbid, just realistic. That’s why this Christmas meant everything, and now it’s not going to happen.” At the sound of the kitchen timer, she headed off to pull her cookies from the oven.

  Dillon stared at the coat tree a few seconds longer, and swore on the lives of the men he’d lost, Brenna wouldn’t lose Christmas.

  Chapter Seven

  Brenna pulled the last cake pan of cookies from the oven and slid the thawed casserole in to heat. To keep busy and from embarrassing herself further, she prepped a simple powdered-sugar-and-water icing for the cookies, taking Dillon up on his offer to use his supplies. He did have plenty, though not everything she would’ve liked.

  At Gran’s she’d have had access to food coloring and decorative sprinkles and colored sugars. Instead of finishing a half batch with a washed-out glaze, she and Gran would’ve baked dozens, then piped icing into ribbons and swirls and curlicues. And though just as scrumptious as cookies baked with Gran, these wouldn’t be the same.

  Nothing about this Christmas would be the same, and she’d planned so carefully to see that it was. Next year, things could change. This year, her last year in North Carolina, she wanted to surround herself with the comfort of the familiar.

  There was nothing comfortable or familiar about the situation she found herself in. She didn’t have a plan to deal with what Dillon was making her feel, and that left her flailing, left her…acting out. Because that was the only way she could describe that impetuous kiss.

  “Can I help?”

  His question was simple, the offer kind, but she couldn’t find her voice to answer. She felt…unbalanced, and until she was stable, keeping her mouth closed seemed like a really good idea. Handing him the bowl and spoon, she held the vented pizza pan she’d used in lieu of a cooling rack over the sink.

  “Like that?” he asked, the sugary ribbon dripping onto the first cookie and spreading to cover it. The excess ran into a bowl she’d placed beneath.

  “Perfect,” she finally said because not responding was more of an obstacle than acknowledging his effort to smooth the bumpy waters.

  “This is the first time this kitchen has seen any cookie baking, you know.”

  Having dug through his freezer, she wasn’t surprised. At the rate food arrived as gifts or barter, the man could go years without ever having to feed himself.

  “Too bad, because this is a great kitchen. Mine is half this size and I still manage to be a baking fiend. I can’t imagine what I could do with all this space.” And please, please don’t let him think I was asking for an invitation to use it on a permanent basis.

  “You’ve got a condo, right? I think that’s what Donota said.”

  It was strange to hear Gran called anything but Gran, and it made her wonder again about the relationship Dillon had with her grandmother. “I do. Not too far from the hospital. It’s a mess at the moment, boxes everywhere, and I’m not even halfway through packing.”

  “I got rid of most of my things when I enlisted. Stored what I wanted to keep in Dad’s barn.”

  “What did you keep?” she asked, turning the pizza pan to bring more cookies close.

  He laughed. “None of my baking sheets or wire racks for sure.”

  That gave her a chuckle, but it didn’t answer her question. It did, however, make her wonder why he’d had baking sheets in his previous life. None of your business, Brenna. Don’t ask. “Easy enough to make do.”

  “You’re pretty good at that. The cookies. The tree.” He dipped up more glaze.

  She shifted the pan again, nudging her hip against his and staying there. “Mostly I’m good at Christmas. I love it. The corny songs, stringing popcorn for the tree. Eating as much as ends up on the needle and thread.”

  “You do it by hand?”

  “Gran and I do. Some folks buy finished strands, or fake plastic ones. But stuck fingers and Bing Crosby is our thing.”

  “What’s Christmas without traditions, right?”

  She thought again of the dates carved into his lamp and fan. “Do you have any?”

  “Does spending it alone count?”

  “You don’t, do you?” The thought of him doing so broke her heart.

  “I spent a half dozen in tents eating turkey and ham with thousands of other guys dressed just like me.”

  “Since then?”

  “I get a lot of invitations,” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice.

  “Ah, the mountain’s most eligible bachelor.” One her grandmother had never mentioned. As soon as she and Gran were alone, Brenna was going to get to the bottom of the secret of Dillon Craig. “How do you decide which to accept?”

  He shrugged, brought a knuckle to his mouth and licked away a blob of glaze. “I accept them all.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I make rounds on Christmas day like any other. I just stick around longer for lunch or dinner or coffee and pie, depending on what time it is.”

  “Must make a long cold day for Ranger.”

  “He gets his share of oats and warm barns.”

  “Bet you bring home lots of presents.”

  “I’ve got enough scarves to wrap an army of mummies. Reb Curtis made my fireplace set. Dewey Moss made Ranger’s saddle. And you’ve seen my freezer.”

  She had to ask… “Anyone hang mistletoe just for you?”

  “I’ve been caught a time or two.”

  “I’ll just bet you have,” she said, and bumped his hip.

  He bumped back. “And you haven’t?”

  She thought about last year’s department party. About the bad karaoke. About Rob Merrill’s thick lips. She shuddered, wishing for brain bleach to clean her memory.

  “Thought so.”

  “Uh-uh. That was me remembering a night of bad karaoke caroling.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Besides, we both know I don’t need mistletoe.” And there it was. The kiss and her big mouth. One big happy family. Or one big pile of poo. Either way, she’d stepped in it.

  “Be a damn shame if you did.”

  Oh, but he tempted her. The tone of his voice, so soft, so seductive. Or was she imagining things she wanted to hear? She set the pan of glazed cookies on the counter, hesitated. “About that…”

  “If you’re thinking of apologizing, don’t. I was there, and you have nothing to apologize for.”

  That didn’t exactly set her at ease. “I don’t want things between us to be uncomfortable.”

  “Are they?”

  Avoiding the question, she found two pot holders and opened the oven for the casserole. “We’ve got a couple more days of being cooped up together. I think things will be less awkward if we forget that kiss happened.”

  He waited until she’d set the dish on the stovetop. Then he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “I’m not ever going to forget that kiss happened. And I don’t believe for a minute that’s what you want.”

  And wasn’t that her problem in a nutshell? Knowing what she wanted? “We can’t get involved and kisses have
a tendency to take things that direction.”

  “It’s too late,” he said before his mouth came down on hers and proved him right.

  They were involved. There was no getting around it. The sweet touch of his lips, the gentle exploration of her face with his hands showed her that truth, as did her fast beating heart.

  She reached for him, curled her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and felt the rise and fall of his very hard chest as he breathed in, breathed out, as his heart thudded to the rhythm of hers.

  He was a beautiful man, he was a damaged man. He was a secret her grandmother had kept from her and she wanted to know why. His kiss only told her so many things, but she fell into him anyway, his bravery, his generosity, the heat of his skin, his strength.

  Why now? The question worked to wedge between them but she pushed it away. All that mattered was the brush of his fingers along the curve of her ear, the press of his other hand to the small of her back. He was hungry, his mouth, his body. He wanted her.

  And she wanted him. How could she not? She slid her tongue along his to play. To coax, to tease. To imagine what it would be like to have weeks, months, not just days.

  She let out a moan at the thought, slid her hands to his shoulders. He smelled like the big outdoors, pine and cold earth and winter, and she tasted the cookie glaze he’d licked from his hand.

  It was too much, all these conflicting emotions. Wanting what she couldn’t have. Wishing he’d come into her life before she’d turned her world upside down. Wondering how hard it would be to make room for him, what it would cost her?

  Breaking away from the kiss, she dropped her forehead to his chest and shuddered. “We’ve really got to stop doing this.”

  “And I’m really going to have to disagree.”

  She wanted to laugh, but found herself squeezing her eyes tightly shut. “Then we really need to stop doing it while I’m cooking because I’m going to starve if we don’t.”

  “Does that mean we can pick up again when I don’t have you slaving over a hot stove?”