“Do it for Chase if you can’t do it for me.” Hurt flooded her eyes.
Did she really believe he found her so unsavory? Emmett wouldn’t stoop to defend himself aloud, but his thoughts went there. He was doing this for her. So that she could come out here to...do whatever she was doing.
“You owe me the truth,” he reminded her. But when she took a breath, presumably to tell him, he held up a hand. “Not here, though. I’m hungry.”
* * *
Stefanie had never set foot inside a Chili’s restaurant until today. It wasn’t that she was too good for a burger and fries; it was that there wasn’t much of an opportunity to go to a chain when there were hundreds of other unique restaurants to choose from. Any man she’d dated had endeavored to impress her with meals that had cost hundreds of dollars.
Emmett didn’t apologize for choosing a restaurant that had nary a word of French on the menu. She appreciated being treated as an equal and not catered to like some spoiled rich girl. She wasn’t sure if it was because he was stubborn or because he knew her better than anyone else, but the latter seemed impossible. They barely knew each other at all.
Once they were settled in with their drinks—wine for her and beer for him—and a bowl of warm tortilla chips and a dish of salsa, Emmett gestured with a chip for her to speak. “Go.”
“I’m not in Harlington for a girls’ getaway.”
“I gathered.” He piled salsa onto another chip.
“For the last three years I’ve been hosting charity dinners for families who can’t afford a Christmas on their own.” She reached for her wine, her throat dry. “I’m planning on taking it public next year, maybe recruit some ‘elves’ to help me throw more than one charity dinner at a time. I guess I’m saying...this will be my last year for anonymity.”
He said nothing, regarding her with a narrowed gaze. Stefanie could understand why. It probably didn’t make sense to him why she would keep a noble cause quiet.
“I wanted to do it on my own,” she supplied. “In case you haven’t noticed, my parents and two older brothers, not to mention my oldest brother’s best friend—” she paused to give him a meaningful eyebrow raise “—don’t let me do much on my own. I don’t want anyone’s input. Succeed or fail, I wanted the outcome on me.
“It’s been a success. I’ve hired assistants over the years to help me pull it off, but I do most of the work. I’m a party planner and an organizer by nature. It’s a challenge I enjoy.”
Emmett crunched another chip as if she hadn’t revealed a huge secret or exposed her tender underbelly to him. Either he was too hungry to comment or...
Well, she didn’t know or what.
Guessing what was inside his head was a challenge she was not equipped for.
“Say something.”
After a long guzzle of beer, he did. “You provide Christmas dinner for poor people.”
“And gifts. That’s simplifying it, but yes. The idea that a little boy or girl wouldn’t wake up to gifts or a Christmas tree made me want to change all of that. I’ve always had magical Christmases. I couldn’t imagine not having them.”
He nodded, but the reaction was noncommittal at best. Not that she wanted praise for her charitable work, but she had expected a more favorable reaction. She’d always assumed Emmett considered her the shallow end of the Ferguson gene pool. Much as she’d convinced herself she didn’t care what he thought of her, she did. It was her plight.
In a dark corner of her heart, she cared what a great many people thought of her.
“You’ll be glad to know that your standard attire for work is acceptable for the dinner.”
“I’m not going.”
She blinked at his reaction.
“You’re my fiancé. Of course you’re going. What else are you going to do?” She tried a tactic she was sure would sway him in her favor—making him believe she could be in danger at the event. “I never know what kind of people could show up, so it would be nice if you were watching out for me and the volunteers. I won’t make you talk to anybody. You can be your lovely, quiet, unsociable self.”
He sat back in the booth and crossed his thick arms over his thicker chest.
“I bet you would enjoy it. It’s rewarding to give back to those who have little when you have so much.”
Since she was looking right at him she didn’t miss one of his eyes twitching or the frown between his eyebrows deepening.
She didn’t understand. What kind of person wouldn’t support a charity that provided Christmas for underprivileged kids? Had she pegged Emmett wrong? Was he truly the scrooge she’d labeled him as?
“Anyway...” she said when it was clear he wasn’t going to say another word. “Now you know the real reason I’m here. And it’s not to gallivant with my friends. I’ll just gallivant with you instead.”
It was like delivering a speech to a stone wall...one that ate chips and salsa.
“You’d be pretty if you smiled more.” She batted her eyelashes coyly, but Emmett didn’t smile. “Yeah, that line never works when a man says it to me, either.” She reached for a chip and shrugged, giving up.
After dinner, they returned to the B and B, where they passed Margaret in the kitchen. Their hostess was pouring steaming mulled cider into red and green mugs.
“Emmett and Stefanie!” she greeted. “Your timing is perfect. I was about to take a tray of drinks into the living room. There’s a fire in the fireplace, pine garlands draped over every surface and Christmas music playing.”
“That sounds absolutely dreamy.” Stefanie inhaled the scent of warmed cinnamon and clove and citrusy orange rind. “Let me take my purse upstairs and we’ll be right down.”
Around the corner at the stairs, she stopped on the second step, alarmed to feel Emmett’s palm at her lower back. She turned and regarded him curiously.
“Isn’t this a gentlemanly thing to do?”
“Unless you are trying to steady me because I had a second glass of wine, then yes.” She had to smile as she ascended the steps, his hand on her lower back before it slipped casually to her hip.
He’d been listening to her, after all.
He’d also opened the door for her when they exited Chili’s, and then he made a point not to unlock the SUV so he could open that door for her, as well.
The conversation at dinner had been mostly one-sided as she’d chattered about the charity. She was trying to be friendly, but it was hard to be friendly with someone who...was introverted? Didn’t know how to be friendly? She had no idea what Emmett’s issue was, and she was tired of guessing.
Tonight, she’d enjoy warm cider and Christmas music in front of a crackling fire.
In their shared room, she hung her coat on a hook on the wall and deposited her purse on the bed. When she turned and found Emmett untying his boots, she asked, “Why are you taking off your shoes? We’re going to the living room.”
“Pass.”
“Emmett. We’re engaged. People expect to see us together.”
“People get tired. You can tell them that’s what happened to me.” He took off his other boot and dropped it with a thunk.
“This is a perfect opportunity for you to practice being with me around people.”
He let out a grunt before standing in front of her. Almost over her. He took a step closer, his hand going to the shiny metal buckle of his belt. She watched as he pulled the thick leather through the buckle and she licked her lips, her mouth practically watering. It took everything in her not to drop her attention to his waist or lower.
“What are you doing?” she croaked when he reached for the button on his slacks.
“I’m going to take a shower. And then I’m going to bed.”
“How about one mug of cider?” She tried again, blinking out of the pheromone haze saturating the air between them.
“Knock yourself out. I’m not going down there.” His eyes on hers, he slowly pulled the belt through the loops of his pants and began rolling it.
Was it hot in here or was it just him?
When he reached for his zipper, she shut her eyes.
“Can you at least wait until I leave the room?”
“Aren’t we supposed to be practicing?”
Her eyes flew open, her cheeks heating with...something. Lust? Frustration? Frustrated lust?
But before she could take him to task, she saw one corner of his mouth lift in amusement.
“Thought you liked it when I joked.”
“All joking aside—” she cleared her throat “—there’s no need to practice the physical part.”
“You sure? A lengthy kiss usually follows the ‘I dos.’”
“I’m pretty sure I can wing a chaste marital kiss. Even with you.”
“You’re the boss.”
His gaze drifted to her mouth, that move as sensual as if he’d leaned forward to press his lips to hers.
“Right. I’ll be back up in an hour.”
“Take your time.”
She fished her room key out of her purse as she heard the rustle of clothing that—she guessed—was Emmett taking off his pants. Hand sweating on the knob, she exited and walked into the hallway, shutting their bedroom door behind her. No way was she turning around to see if he was a boxers or briefs guy.
No freaking way.
Eight
Emmett was lying on the hard floor, the thin carpeting doing his back no favors. And the sleeping bag wasn’t helping after a long day of driving, getting engaged and the bonus of being pummeled by memories.
Stef had gone downstairs well over an hour ago, and now his little social butterfly was taking her sweet time delighting the guests of Lawson B and B. He could imagine her broad, infectious smile. The way she stood when she told a joke and almost always flubbed the ending.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, wishing she’d come back if for no other reason than to distract him. He could go downstairs, he supposed, but after he’d found out the real reason for her being in Harlington, something inside him had cracked open and out seeped decades of toxic waste.
He’d been in one of those families she was planning on serving. After his mother and baby brother had passed away, his father quit working. They’d had financial help from the state, and his old man had qualified for disability thanks to an unsuccessful attempt at suicide.
That’d been a shitty Christmas.
Emmett had worked hard to escape his past, to make up for the assistance his father sponged off the system. He’d done well for himself, and always worked harder than expected to make sure he earned every cent of his paycheck. As his check was signed by a Ferguson, it was no surprise that Stef’s sharing that she was in town to help the less fortunate had struck a raw chord.
As if he needed a reminder that she was better than him in every way.
Uglier thoughts like that one had traipsed around his mind in a demented square dance since he’d climbed out of the shower. Thoughts like, if Chase knew who he really was, would they even be friends? Emmett had shared everything with his best bud save what income bracket he’d hailed from. He’d also wondered if Stefanie ever would have approached him about marrying her if she knew he’d once qualified to be one of the guests at her dinner.
The entire scenario sickened him. He couldn’t escape the loss that came back like the Ghost of Christmas Past. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a sheep in wolf’s clothing—and underneath the tough exterior was a tender boy with a broken heart.
“Fucking Christmas.” He pushed himself to sitting, ran a hand over his short hair and sighed. Sleep was so far away he’d need a passport to get there.
Dressed in only boxer briefs and a sleeveless tank, he braced himself against the chill in the room when he climbed to his feet. The Victorian was an old house and drafty as hell.
He knelt to check the fridge beneath the television, praying for a few of those miniature overpriced bottles of booze to take the edge off. He never made a habit of drinking away a mood, but in this case, it would serve a dual purpose. He’d warm up, too.
He inspected the fridge’s contents—OJ, milk and water. Not a bottle of liquor to be found.
The sound of a key card sliding through the pad drew his attention to the door. Stefanie stepped into the room, her smile slightly wonky but no less charming. She carried two steaming mugs.
“I was hoping you’d be awake.” She smiled brightly, and even in the meager light leaking in from the streetlamp through the lace curtains he could see the pink tinge of her cheeks. “I had Margaret heat up a few more of these—and add some bourbon.” She bared her teeth in a bright grin. “I’ve already had one with bourbon.”
In spite of all that had haunted him this evening, he felt better already. She’d walked into the room and her presence had slain the demons.
“I’ll take it.” He flicked on a nearby lamp. “Nothing but nonalcoholic beverages in the room.”
“Well then. You’re welcome.” She handed over the cider topped with whipped cream. He wasn’t sure this concoction would make a difference in his mood, but it was worth a shot.
She sipped and then licked the whipped cream off her upper lip. At the same time, they moved to sit on the end of the bed.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Go ahead.” He gestured, remaining standing.
She sat, patting the bedding next to her. He regarded the quilt for a beat before easing down next to her.
Curling her legs beneath her, she held the mug with both hands and hummed. “I love being warm.”
“In this drafty house that might be a challenge. I didn’t see a thermostat in this room.”
Her eyes went past him to his bed on the floor. “Is it cold down there?”
He shrugged.
“You could always—”
“It’s fine.” Whatever she was about to suggest, he couldn’t let her. She wasn’t sleeping down there—or wedging herself onto the tiny sofa.
He drank his cider carefully to make sure it wasn’t too hot. It was perfect, and the sweet tang of bourbon welcome.
“Margaret has the hearth decorated with thick greenery and gold ribbon. Glass-and-glitter ornaments and nutcrackers that her children buy her every year.” Stef’s eyes were bright and happy. “Don’t you love Christmas?”
He nearly choked on his next sip.
“No.” He wasn’t sure what possessed him to tell the truth, but there it was.
“At all?” She regarded him like he’d announced he kicked puppies in his spare time.
“Not at all.”
“Why?”
He turned to face her and was struck dumb by the blue of her eyes. Stefanie Ferguson was a beautiful woman. He’d noticed before—it was impossible not to notice—but until now he’d never given himself the luxury to truly look at her.
She was royalty and he was more like a stable boy. In his mind, there’d never been a misconception about who she was and who he was—where she hailed from versus the rock he’d crawled out from under. She was whole, and he’d lost a chunk of himself a long time ago. Whatever passing admiration he’d felt for her in the past, he’d shut it down immediately.
“Did something bad happen?” she pushed.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat and stood, setting aside his warm drink, the whipped cream melted.
“Will you tell me about it?”
He faced her, hyperaware that she was dressed from head to toe and he was in his underwear. She noticed, too. He watched her take him in, her eyes sliding down his chest and lower.
Interesting.
Had she ever looked at him with anything other than disdain?
“It’s not a happy story, St
ef. I’d rather let you keep your delusions that Christmas is magical and wondrous.”
A line formed between her eyebrows. “I’m not a child because I choose to see the good. Why not admit you’re too much of a coward to share what’s bugging you rather than lash out at me?”
Ah, familiar ground. With a sigh, he returned to the bed, arms resting in his lap. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was lashing out. His blurred reflection watched him from the dark television’s screen. His broad shoulders were slumped as he sat there like a stubborn giant. Stefanie sat delicate as a fairy, blond hair out of its ponytail and spilling over her shoulders, her chin down as she watched him through her lashes.
They were contrasting in every way.
The filthy-rich girl. The wrong-side-of-the-tracks guy. She’d been blessed by the gods and his luck always felt like it was on the verge of running out. He didn’t talk about his family tragedy for a lot of reasons, the dominating one being habit.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” She stood and set her mug aside, but before she could huff off to the attached bathroom, he wrapped his fingers around her arm. Her eyes widened.
“Sorry.” He held up both hands. “I didn’t mean to—”
Rather than finish the thought, he scrubbed a palm over his short hair. “If you really want to know, I’ll tell you.”
Arms crossed, she hoisted an eyebrow in a proprietary manner and waited.
The floor was his.
* * *
Standing over Emmett was an odd juxtaposition.
She’d never seen him like this. In his underpants, sure, but she’d also never seen him look so...tired.
She had the irrational urge to touch him. She curled her fingers into fists to keep from reaching for him.
How could he not like Christmas?
“It was a long time ago,” he started.
Her stomach tightened at his foreboding tone. She’d wondered at first if he’d suffered a bad breakup over the holidays, but the hollowness in his voice suggested this tale was much, much worse than a broken heart.
A Christmas Proposition Page 5