Heart racing, Greta tore open the gift, pretending Daniel’s comment didn’t embarrass her. She unwrapped a black box, embossed with a gold symbol on top. Opening it, she gasped with a smile. “Oh!” It was a miniature replica of one of the famous Fabergé eggs, green, gold and pink, a lily of the valley created to be a jewelry box. The soft lighting captured the glossy details and delicate trappings. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Renclair. It’s breathtaking. It’s exactly like the egg Tsar Nicholas II gave his wife. I’ll cherish it.”
Anne smiled and gave a single nod. “You’re welcome.” She slid her husband a look. “Starbucks card. Humph.”
“These are from me,” Sophie said as she passed her two boxes. “I hope you like them.”
Greta unwrapped Sophie’s present: a beautifully long, delicate gold necklace, especially designed for backless dresses, and a matching gold clutch. Sophie knew how much Greta loved to accessorize when she dressed up. She hugged her good friend with a sincere thank you.
When Mason handed over his gift, her heart fluttered when it landed in her palms. When she lifted the top of the box, she laughed in delight and surprise. “A winter muff!” To help everyone else’s bafflement, she added, “Exactly like the one I used when we read to the children at the hotel. I can’t believe you even thought of this.” She ran her fingers over the black fur.
Mason grinned, pleased with her reaction. “There’s a shop downtown that sells them. It was either a bonnet or a muff. Bonnets are currently out of style.” He winked.
She shook her head, amazed at his thoughtfulness. “I adore it.”
“Why? You live in Russia?” Christopher sneered.
Everyone shook their heads at the eldest Renclair. Greta answered, “Almost as cold. England.” She met Mason’s eyes, wishing she could scramble into his arms and kiss him wildly. “Thank you, Mason.”
Their eyes held a little longer than she’d meant, but she couldn’t look away.
“You’re welcome,” he said, his deep voice making her stomach flip.
A silence settled on the small circle, until Christopher blurted, “Blech. It’s hot as misery in here. Someone move me.”
It was Daniel who rose to help his father. “If you can’t stand the heat, don’t sit next to the fire, Dad.”
“You’ve got the same stupid humor as your son. And I never laugh.”
The tension broken, Greta let out the breath she’d been holding. The breath Mason could so easily steal from her.
What a difference a woman makes, Mason thought in amusement as he took in the scene around him. Or maybe the fact he hadn’t stayed home for Christmas in five years and forgotten that among the bickering, the poking-fun, the grumbling, there were a few things he did enjoy.
“Mason.” His father waved him over to the other side of the room. At Mason’s approach, he pulled out three books on the shelf. “Remember this ritual of ours?” Behind the leather-bound novels was a bottle of Bowmore 1955 40-year-old scotch, bottle number 268.
Mason shook his head, disbelieving. “You still have some left after all these years?”
“Only one shot a year. On Christmas Eve. Of course I still have some left.” Daniel grabbed the crystal decanter and pulled the stopper, sniffing the aroma of the rare vintage scotch. “Nothing like a little taste of heaven to go along with Christmas spirit, son. Here, before your mother or grandfather see.”
As if he could hear them from across the room, the senior Renclair craned his neck and hollered, “What are you two doing huddling over there like a couple of Yankee sneaks?”
Daniel’s low grumble came first before he cleared his throat and feigned innocence to his father. “Showin’ Mason my first edition copy of A Farewell to Arms, Dad. See?” He lifted the book, knowing full well his father wouldn’t be able to see much of anything from that distance. As if Grandfather would believe him. Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered, “Hurry up and pour some before he smells it.”
Mason chuckled. “Yes, sir.”
His father purchased this scotch almost ten years ago and paid a small fortune for it. Almost nine thousand dollars for the bottle, if memory served. Mother almost fainted when she’d found out how much he spent on a bottle of liquor, but she could hardly argue when she spent that amount every year on her wardrobe—only remarking that clothes and style were a necessity, whereas rare whiskey was not. Still, the man didn’t spend much on himself, save for his weakness for a vintage bottle of scotch once in a while. Every year, Mason and his father took a shot of it on Christmas Eve as tradition. A tradition his father never wavered from. Since Mason had been absent for the past five years, he had missed out, as his father refused to share it any other time. Eager to continue with this ritual, Mason grabbed the two dusty shot glasses that had flanked the bottle.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Greta and Sophie engaged in animated conversation, his mother admiring her new diamond watch, and his grandfather squinting with all his might trying to see what Mason and Daniel were doing. Grinning, he poured a full shot in the glass and handed it to his father. “Still have to say a goal of mine for the next year before I take this down?”
“You’re damn right you do.” With a deep inhalation, Daniel rubbed his slightly round belly. “I’ll go first so you can think about it for a second. Let’s see…I…well, I promise to drive your mother crazier this year than ever.”
Mason laughed and stopped his father’s arm from raising the glass to his lips. “Dad. That’s not the right kind of goal.”
“Sure it is, son. The more I drive her crazy, the more she tries to fix me. That seems to be the only kind of attention I can get from her these days.”
He eyed his father with a questionable gaze. “What makes you say that? Now that you’re semi-retired, you and Mom have more time together.”
“Eh, nothing’s changed. She still does her own thing; I do mine. Think we’ve had that routine going for so long, feels too weird to do anything else.”
“I see your point. All right, Dad, to driving Mom crazy.”
Mr. Renclair smiled roguishly and tossed back the scotch, swallowing, and setting his glass down with a satisfied ahh. “Your turn. Make it a good one, too. You haven’t done this with me in too long!”
Guilt knotted in his throat at the reminder of how he’d ditched Christmas—including all of its little traditions—and he knew immediately what his goal for the year was going to be. One only his father needed to know. “I will take everything less for granted. That includes all of you.”
Daniel seemed surprised at this admission. “Why, Mason. All mature and grateful. There is some Southern spirit in you yet, boy. For a true Southern man, nothing is more important than family.”
Mason gave a short nod, raised his glass and drank the scotch in one quick swallow. It, and his guilt, burned down his insides with a smooth fire. He’d meant what he said and it felt good to say it out loud. “Thanks, old man.”
His father slapped him on the back as he hid the bottle away. His favorite show of affection. “Like old times.”
As they turned around to join the others, another tradition occurred to Mason, one he hadn’t seen since he was in high school, maybe even before that. A tradition that could kick off his father’s goal of receiving more of his wife’s attention, but in the right way. “Say, Dad.” He raised his voice so everyone would hear, and tapped a finger to the grand piano as they walked past. “When was the last time you and Mom performed together?”
Sophie’s head snapped in Mason’s direction, eyes wide. Even grandfather’s wiry brows shot up.
“Performed together? The duet?” his father asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. We haven’t done that—”
“Since 1994,” Anne cut in, shaking her head as she continued to pour a glass of wine.
“A real shame,” added Christopher.
Greta grinned, setting her glass of eggnog down. “What duet?”
Sophie bounced up toward the piano. Pleased to share the story, Mason smiled down at Greta. “Every year, as far back as I can remember, my grandparents would sing ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’ for everyone, with a little dance routine to go with it. I used to think it was corny and annoying, but after a few years, I anticipated it.” He sauntered over to his grandfather and laid a hand on his shoulder, and the old man patted his hand. Mason continued. “After Grandma passed, my parents took over. When Sophie was old enough and learned how to play it on the piano, she joined the act.”
On cue, Sophie played a few notes of the song. “We haven’t done this in forever!”
“And I’m not about to revive this tradition,” proclaimed Anne. “I’m much too out of practice.”
Daniel added, “I still can’t sing worth a damn.”
“Dad!” Sophie protested. “That’s not true and you know it. You do the best impression of Dean Martin! Come on, you guys, do it for us. It’ll be fun. Mason’s here. Greta would love to see it, too. It’s your signature Christmas Eve entertainment.”
With a reluctant, uncertain twist of his mouth, Daniel glanced at his wife, who was trying not to smile. He swept over to her, captured her hand, leading her to the piano. “What do you say, Anne? I’m feeling nostalgic.”
“You’re feeling the Bowmore,” she retorted dryly.
He chuckled at her quip. Mason went to sit next to Greta, knowing his mother was going to cave in. He distinctly remembered how much she enjoyed singing the song with her husband, even though he couldn’t recall why they ever stopped. Then again, those few Christmases after high school had been a little strained, with his mother’s father passing away, and Mason’s dad missing a couple Christmas Eves due to handling the company on his own. After that, they never picked it up again. Now seemed as good a time as any to bring it back, and he could see the old sparkle in his mother’s eye.
“Well,” Anne sighed, pressing a hand to her chest and clearing her throat delicately. “I barely remember the steps—”
“We’ll improvise,” encouraged Daniel with a smile.
“I haven’t sung in ages. My voice isn’t what it used to be—”
“Don’t be scared, Anne.” Daniel tucked his hands in his pockets and stepped back a few feet, grinning at his wife.
“Scared! Please, Daniel.” She smiled, smoothing a hand over her blouse. “All right. Sophie, give me half a minute to run the lyrics through my head.”
Sophie hit a few keys, smiling. “Of course, Mother.”
“This ought to be good,” mumbled Christopher, pulling out his flask.
Anne Renclair sent a chiding glance to her father-in-law, then shifted her gaze to her daughter, and gave a single nod. Sophie started playing the appropriate notes. With a slight lift of her chin, Anne gracefully set one hand on her hip, and gestured to Daniel with the other. She started the song, and with her husband, acted out the words of the famous duet. Greta bumped Mason with her elbow, crossing her legs, and setting her folded hands on her knees. She whispered, “You should be recording this. It’s adorable. I didn’t know your parents could sing.”
Pleased with himself, Mason sat back, grinning at his parents as they performed the song and the accompanying moves as if they’d done it yesterday and the day before.
He leaned over to Greta, speaking low so no one would hear, “They actually look like they’re having fun.” Studying her profile, how she smiled so genuinely as his parents sang and his sister played the piano—and Grandfather took another sip from his flask—he was unable to tear his gaze away. The night before Christmas hadn’t been this enjoyable in ages. To think he would’ve missed out had he not made his driver turn the car around. On impulse, he squeezed Greta’s hand then lifted it to kiss it. She whipped her gaze to his, blushing. Earlier, he’d immediately sensed her shyness about displaying any affection between them, choosing to sit away from him rather than next to him while they opened gifts, and ignoring his direct gaze. They weren’t fooling anyone, Mason knew, but if it made her more comfortable to keep a distance, he didn’t mind. As long as she was nowhere but in his arms at the end of the night.
His parents came to the end of the song, and Mason smiled as his father wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist from behind, swaying, as they sang the final line in unison.Greta sprung up with applause, Grandfather saluted with his flask and Sophie clapped, beaming. Mason whistled as he clapped, seeing his parents smile genuinely at one another. A rare sight. One he hoped would happen a helluva lot more often than on Christmas Eve.
Greta looped her arm in Mason’s, eyeing his grandfather. “You’ve inspired me to keep the party going. I think I have an idea to lift Christopher’s spirits a little more this season.”
“Oh? Determined to make the old man jolly all year round, are we?”
His grandfather already adored her—hell, his whole family was practically eating out of her hand these days—and it probably wouldn’t take much more to make the old man happy. This was Greta’s talent, her gift. Too bad when it came to her own happiness she seemed to run more than anything. Well, for the moment her hot little feet were in Swan’s Crossing and he had every intention of making her Christmas as memorable for her as it had been for him.
Later on in the guesthouse, Greta lit her candle for Leo, whispered a prayer for his health and smiled when she heard the static of the radio waves. Mason tuned up the radio.
They’d turned all the lights off, with only the flames of a few candles and the enchanting Christmas tree lighting the small room.
Mason stood at the window in the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” she asked curiously.
He gestured her over. “Come here.”
Walking over to him, she interlaced her fingers with his. He set her in front of him, wrapping his arms around her. He pointed outside. “Out there. Do you see them?”
Searching the moonlit dark, she gasped softly at the sight. Deer were wandering through the open field of the back lawn. “A little family.”
The most mature of the group—a doe—craned her head and waited as the smaller two caught up. They slowly made their way across the snow-covered lawn, and eventually disappeared in the trees.
She gloried in the shared moment, resting her head on his shoulder. “I love your home, Mason.”
He took her chin, turning her face to his. His lips feather-touched her mouth, and she quivered at the sweet tenderness. Smoothing his thumb across her bottom lip, he said, “It’s almost midnight.”
“Time for bed?” She lifted a brow with a smile.
He tapped her nose. “Not yet.”
In the living room, he stretched out on the sofa and brought her to sit between his legs and against his chest so they could face the tree. Gazing at the lights, listening to the radio, he simply held her. No seduction. Just warmth and affection.
He hummed along with the radio, grazing his lips in her hair, making her laugh, and the pure contentment overwhelmed her.
She eventually drifted to a deep sleep.
Early sunlight in the bedroom woke her up, as it always did. This time it was Christmas morning. Mason must’ve carried her upstairs after she’d fallen asleep. Pushing up, she realized he wasn’t in the bed with her. “Mason?”
Swinging her legs off the bed, then shuffled to the bathroom. Did he leave? She frowned. After brushing her teeth and washing her face, she wondered if he’d headed over to the main house early without her. Well, she definitely needed a hot shower and a cup of coffee before joining him.
Her hand touched the rail to head downstairs, when she stopped.
Mason stood below, waiting, smiling up at her. An astonishing amount of boxes were under the tree. He opened his arms wide. “Merry Christmas.”
She didn’t know how long she stood
there, taking in the scene below. With fingers to her mouth, she took each step one by one, aghast.
He met her at the bottom of the stairs, hands on hips, unbearably attractive and proud.
Finding her voice, she breathed, “You did all this?”
“Of course not. Santa was here.” He pointed behind him. “Clearly.”
His thoughtfulness shot straight to her heart like a blast of light. She laughed and threw her arms around him. Don’t cry. He won’t appreciate tears. Squeezing him tight, she held them back, striving to keep her emotions in check. Kissing him would help. So she did.
“Now, now,” he chided, breaking away, rubbing her arms. “It’s not Christmas morning for me.” He arched a brow. “Yet.”
She grinned, whirled around, hands clasped, memorizing every detail so she would remember it forever.
Mason gave her a sound smack on her butt. “Go on! Tear them open already.”
It wasn’t very ladylike, or refined, the way she ripped at the wrapping paper, but she didn’t care. A box of chocolates here. A set of candles there. A red cashmere winter hat. She loved them all.
Sitting among the torn paper, surrounded by her presents, she laughed as Mason burst out of the bathroom with nothing on but his boxers and a reindeer headband.
She pulled him down to his knees, and his mouth descended on hers, playful at first, then firm and sensual. He untied her robe, slipping his hand inside and spanning her waist. Her laughter died to desire, needing his touch, aching under it.
With a groan, he moved his lips down her throat to her shoulder, his tongue sliding along her skin, the reindeer headband falling off.
She let the robe fall to the floor, and raised her arms for him to remove her nightgown. Gently kissing along his jaw line, tasting his clean skin, the masculine scent, she gasped as his fingers dug into her backside. He was trembling.
She pushed his shoulders, urging him down, and climbed on top. He had a condom in his hand for her and she took the liberty of sliding it on for him. As she eased herself on his hardness, a low, broken moan emerged from her throat as he hissed his pleasure.
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