by Nichole Rose
"You can't marry my kitchen, little star," I murmur, circling around the island toward her. She's going to marry me.
"Can so."
"No."
"You're no fun. Where are your food sprinkles?"
"Food sprinkles?"
"Spices. The stuff you put on food to make it taste like magic?" she sasses, hands on her hips and a smirk on her lips. "I forgot cinnamon."
Christ. I think I love her.
I rake my gaze down her body, smiling wider when I see that she's kicked her shoes off somewhere and is wearing mismatched Christmas socks. "I don't think you can reach them."
She gasps in mock outrage. "Are you calling me short, Mr. Greenway?"
"If the shoe fits." I crowd close to her and reach over her head to open the cabinet where all my spices are kept. I don't even know what half of them are used for, but my mom and Savannah have a tendency of bringing me things they think I need even when I really don't. I guess they think being a bachelor makes me helpless. Letting them fuss over me and fill my house with shit I don't need nor use makes them happy, so I let them get away with it.
"You smell good," Lana says. Her body presses closer to mine as if she's trying to smell me and then a little purring sound comes from her. Her hand skims along my stomach.
My dick instantly reacts, pointing like a divining rod at her.
"You're killing me here," I groan, grabbing the cinnamon.
"Sorry," she says even as her soft laugh says different. She removes her hand. "Did you put on cologne?"
"No. I showered." I drop the bottle of cinnamon into her outstretched hand and close the cabinet before doing a little smelling of my own. "You smell like Christmas."
Her dimples appear again.
Fuck it.
I swoop, caging her in against the island. As soon as she tips her head back to look at me, I press my lips to hers, kissing her like I've been dying to do since she first kissed me last night. Only this isn't a sweet little peck. I boost her up onto the counter with my hand around her waist. Pans hit the floor with a clatter, but I don't care.
I lick into her mouth. Her taste hits my system hard, annihilating my self-control. Jesus, she even tastes like Christmas, all sugar and spice and everything nice.
She kisses me back just as desperately, her hands clutched in my hair. Our tongues dance together and then apart as little whimpers and moans whisper from her. She's purring like a happy little kitten again.
Kissing her is a revelation. She's unschooled, eager, and so damn sweet. The combination is intoxicating as hell. She learns quickly, mimicking me as I pour my desire for her into our kiss. When we're both gasping for breath and she's trembling in my arms, I back off, placing a softer kiss to her lips before I rest my forehead against hers.
"Wow," she whispers. "Can we do that again?"
A burst of laughter escapes my lips. "You're something else, you know that?"
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"It's a good thing." I kiss her again to reassure her. "It's a really damn good thing."
"Okay then."
Chapter Four
Lana
"I'm not keeping you from your family today, am I?" Sawyer asks, eyeing me across the island as he pipes icing onto his sugar cookies. I think they're supposed to be angels, but they look more like those little throwing stars ninjas use. He's terrible at baking. Which is adorable to me.
Spending the morning with him has been so much fun. Even though he's a little quiet, he's wickedly clever and so sweet. He teases me just to rile me up, grinning the whole time. I like it because he seems so sad sometimes, like there's a heavy weight on his shoulders.
He keeps stealing kisses, but I don't mind. I really like those. I haven't kissed many people before. Dating just wasn't ever a big priority for me. The few times I have gone out, I didn't have fun like I'm having with Sawyer. I couldn't wait to leave. The thought of leaving here makes my stomach hurt.
"It's just me and my mom," I say, turning to pop another pan of chocolate chip cookies into the oven. I brush my hair back with my arm to keep from getting flour in it. "She's a trauma nurse. She had to work today so she can be off tomorrow."
"What do you normally do on Christmas Eve?"
"Bake cookies to deliver to the nursing home and hospital. And then we watch Christmas chick flicks." I smile at him. "But don't worry, I won't make you watch them with me."
"I'll have you know," he says, smirking at me, "I'm an expert in Christmas chick flicks. The Hallmark Channel is my jam."
"Your jam?" I throw my head back and laugh. "Name one Hallmark movie."
He sets his icing bag down and carefully wipes his hands on a hand towel, his brows furrowed as if he's thinking hard about his answer. And then he lifts those gorgeous deep brown eyes to me and gives me that little boy smile. "I don't have a fucking clue," he admits cheerfully. "But I'm going to go with something about a small-town girl down on her luck."
I shake my head at him, unable to keep from smiling like a crazy person.
"In all seriousness," he says, picking up his icing bag again. "I've been watching them with my little sister for years. Christmas is her favorite season. She eats, breathes, and sleeps the holiday from October until January."
"How old is she?"
"She'll be eighteen next month."
"She's a lot younger than you."
"She's adopted."
"Really?"
He nods. "My mom had some complications when my brother, Saint, was born. She wasn't able to have more kids, so they adopted Savannah. Her parents were good friends with my parents. They were killed in a car wreck when she was a baby."
"That's really sad," I murmur, "but really sweet of your parents to bring her home so she would always be with people who loved her parents. I bet she adores you and your brother."
"Yeah, she does." He smiles, but it doesn't touch his eyes this time.
"Can I ask a question that's none of my business?"
"You want to know why I'm not at home," he guesses.
"It's obvious how much your family means to you."
"They do," he says, and then carefully ices the cookie in front of him. Just when I'm about to open my mouth to apologize for being nosy, he looks up at me again. "Every year on Thanksgiving, we have a big family dinner. My mom wasn't feeling well last year, so instead of her trying to cook dinner the night before and then again on Thanksgiving, we decided that we'd all go out to eat." He swallows hard. "Savannah was supposed to ride with me, but Saint had just gotten a new car and he wanted to show it off. I had an errand to run, so I agreed to let her ride with him." His hands shake so he sets the icing bag down and grips onto the edge of the counter.
He looks a little lost, so I circle the island and push my way into his personal space to wrap my arms around him. His muscles are rigid with tension, but after a second, he hugs me back. I lay my head against his chest, listening to the way his heart pounds. It seems so loud and strong for a heart that's as broken as I sense his is.
"I was a mile from the restaurant when I heard the crash," he rasps. "Instantly, I just knew it was them. I felt it in my gut so I just…floored it to get there. I was the first one to arrive at the scene. Saint had taken a curve too fast and lost control. The car flipped over an embankment and caught fire." His entire body trembles so I hold him tighter, trying to be strong enough to hold him together. "They were trapped in the vehicle. I still have nightmares about pulling them out of the wreckage before the flames got to them."
"Oh, Sawyer. I am so sorry," I whisper, tears filling my eyes at what he must have gone through trying to save the siblings he loves so much.
"Saint had cuts and bruises, but Savannah…Savannah was in bad shape," he murmurs, his voice a gritty rasp that breaks my heart to hear it. "They had to airlift her out of there to the hospital. Her first surgery was a couple of hours later. Her second was the next day. She spent months recovering. Even now, all the bones she broke still caus
e her problems."
"You blame yourself."
He nods his head against mine, his breath a painful shudder. "They found a bottle of whiskey at the scene. Saint had been drinking. I knew that he'd been drinking more than usual since his last tour ended, but he swore to me that he hadn't touched a bottle that day. I'm not even sure if I really believed him or if I let her get in the car with him because I was impatient to run my errand."
"It's not your fault, Sawyer," I whisper, tilting my head back to look at him. My heart hurts at the bleak look in his eyes, as if his soul is bleeding and raw. The sight of his pain sends tears trickling down my cheeks. "You never would have let her get in that car if you'd known. You wouldn't have let him get in that car either."
"I should have known." He wipes my tears with shaking hands. "Saint is the wild child in our family. It's only gotten progressively worse since his band was signed when he turned twenty-one. He's reckless and irresponsible and does things just because he can. It's always been my job to watch out for him and Savannah, to make sure he doesn't get too far out of hand."
"Wait. Are you talking about Saint Green from Vengeful Saints?"
"My brother," he says, his voice flat.
"Wow. I had no idea." Vengeful Saints is one of the most successful rock bands around. Saint Green—Saint Greenway, I guess—is the bad boy of the group, the lead singer. He's always in the tabloids. At least he was…until he was involved in a car accident last year. His little sister was critically injured. "You guys seem so different."
Sawyer gives me a grim look. "Like I said, he's reckless and irresponsible. Savannah idolizes him though. They've always been thick as thieves. She's missed him terribly."
"You stayed away so she could spend the holiday with him," I whisper.
He shrugs like it's not a big deal but we both know it is. "Saint and I haven't seen each other since the day of the accident," he murmurs. "We both said things we can't take back. But he's home for Christmas this year, so it's better for everyone if I'm not."
I don't think that's true. He and Saint may be at odds, but I'm guessing his family misses him just as much as they missed Saint while he was gone. From what I remember, Saint checked himself into rehab and disappeared from the public eye for six months. When he reappeared, he was…different. He stopped appearing in tabloids, stopped doing a lot of things.
I don't think Sawyer is the only one who blames himself for what happened to Savannah. I don't think he's the only one still hurting. I also don't think Sawyer is ready to hear that right now.
The rift between him and Saint is something they have to mend on their own. I can't force him to do it. I can't even make him go home for Christmas. But I can show him that he isn't the awful person he thinks he is.
He might doubt himself, but I don't. I've known him for all of a day, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he never, ever would have let either of them get into that car if he'd even suspected that Saint had been drinking.
He may be upset with his brother, but he loves him as deeply as he loves their little sister. He says he stayed away so Savannah can see Saint. I think he stayed away to give Saint the same time with her. That's the kind of selfless, loving person he is. Even though he's hurting and lonely, he put them first the best way he knew how. I don't think he realizes that keeping himself from them is only going to hurt everyone more. It's only going to hurt him more.
I'm going to find a way to help him see the man I see when I look at him. And I see so much in him. He's the selfless, loving brother who would do anything for his siblings, and the gentle giant who upended his whole life to help protect a school full of kids he's never met. He's the gentlemanly stranger willing to drop everything to help me clean up my own mess…and the sweet, lonely man who let me invade his home and his life without a single complaint.
I know a thing or two about men who don't believe they're worthy of love, and this one is so incredibly worthy. I'm going to find a way to heal his heart and make him see what I see. If he can't fight for himself right now, I'll fight for him. Even if I have to fight him.
"How big is your fridge?" I ask, reaching up to touch his jaw.
He blinks at me, confused.
"Will it hold all these cookies?"
He glances at the bowls still filled with cookie dough and then nods. "It'll hold them," he says, his eyes scanning across my face. "Why?"
"Because there's someone I want you to meet."
Chapter Five
Sawyer
"What are you up to, little elf?" I ask Lana, eyeing her sideway as I navigate through the gates of a cemetery in the Tenderloin district of the city. She's perched in the passenger seat of my truck, commanding me like a tiny queen.
"You'll see," she says, her dulcet voice not giving anything away. "Oh! Turn right! Turn right!"
I curse and make a sharp right onto the gravel drive leading deeper into the worn-down cemetery. The grass is patchy and faded flowers hang limply in baskets and arrangements on tombstones. Some of the tombstones are so old they're covered in moss.
The truck bounces over a series of deep, muddy potholes in the gravel lane, sending us both sliding back and forth until our seatbelts lock.
"Sorry." Lana looks at me with big eyes once the truck levels out on the other side of the potholes. "I should have warned you. Every time it rains, the gravel washes out."
"It's all good," I murmur. "It'll take a hell of a lot more than a last-minute turn and a few potholes to take down this truck."
"Turn right at the very last driveway on the right. It's beside the old angel statue. And then park under the giant oak tree," Lana instructs as if she's been here a thousand times. She cocks her head to the side and then smiles. "Oh, I love this song."
I reach to turn it up, but her horrified squeak stops me mid-motion.
"You can't play loud music in a cemetery," she says, making it sound as if I intended to set up a stage and throw a party. The look of horror on her face makes me want to kiss her again.
"I don't think they'll mind," I murmur, but I don't turn it up any louder.
"They might."
Her haughty sniff pulls a chuckle from my lips. I shake my head at her. My little elf marches to the beat of her own drum, but she's still a rule-follower. If she gets any cuter, we'll be giving the souls at rest here more of a show than I'm strictly comfortable with.
Lana tilts her head back. Her beautiful voice rings out around us as she sings along to the radio, belting out the lyrics to What Child is This? as if she were born to sing. Her voice is clear and strong, and incredibly powerful for such a little bitty thing. I listen in awe, goosebumps rising on my arms.
She notices and smiles. "I love singing."
And I love how comfortable she is with herself, how confident she is. She throws her whole heart into everything she does and never apologizes for it. Whether she's singing, dancing, or taking over my kitchen, she never hesitates. When she's happy, she's joyous. When she's sad, I'm pretty sure the angels weep. She shines bright as a star.
There is something so peaceful about being near her, as if this is where I'm meant to be and loving her is what I was born to do. I think it may have been. In a matter of hours, she's managed to wriggle her way into my heart, claiming it as her own. Everything is brighter with her here, better. She makes me want to be better, to do better.
She gives me…hope.
"You have a beautiful voice, Lana." I take the last right by a stone angel near the back of the cemetery. It's so old the face has eroded, leaving it expressionless. The giant oak is situated just on the other side. The bare branches shoot upward like bony fingers reaching toward the heavens. Like the angel, the tree stands in testament to the age of this cemetery.
"Thank you," Lana says, and then hums the last few bars of the song.
"Wait for me," I murmur when she unlatches her seatbelt to climb out of the truck. She's so short I had to lift her into it. I don't want her breaking her leg trying to climb
down without help.
"Okay," she agrees, settling back.
I turn off the engine and pop my door open before stepping out. Gravel crunches beneath my feet. The smell of rain is stronger out here. So is the unique scent I've begun to associate with this city—saltwater, brine, and humanity.
I circle around to the passenger side.
"Thank you," Lana says politely, letting me lift her to the ground.
Feeling her curves beneath my hands makes my entire body ache. She's so soft.
She slips her hand into mine. There's a look in her eyes that's new, a steely determination that is as unique to her as the scent of San Francisco is to this city. This little elf is on a mission and won't be stopped until she's completed it. Her grit makes my dick hard.
Then again, everything this magical little elf does puts me in the same state of aching need. I've never wanted anyone the way I want her. Hell, I've never wanted anything the way I want her. Talking to her is simple, being with her is effortless.
"So, why are we here?" I ask, standing as close to her as possible to block the wind from her. The horizon to the west has darkened significantly since we left the house. The storm will be here within the next hour or two. I want to have her back home, tucked up safely in my kitchen by then.
"Come with me and I'll show you." She takes off through the grass.
I follow behind, smiling as she practically dances to keep from stepping on any part of the graves we weave between. She even reads the names off the tombstones and whispers apologies when she can't completely avoid stepping on them.
A few rows in, she draws to a stop at the side of a grave. Its flat, grassy top hints at its age. My stomach sinks at the sight of the festive flowers and little snowmen lining the top of the small tombstone. They hint at just how much she loved the man buried here. His name was Sam Austin. He died young.
"This is my dad," she says, her soft statement confirming my suspicion.