A Christmas Proposition

by Jessica Lemmon

  Even though it killed him to say it, Emmett couldn’t blame Chase for defending his sister.

  “I understand.”

  Sixteen

  Movement drew his attention to the staircase. Stef, wrapped in a thick gray bathrobe that she must have found in the back of his closet, held up the yards of extra material and came down the steps like royalty holding her robes.

  My queen.

  Her frown was evident, the ends of her blond hair dark and wet.

  “I heard the phone ring earlier. Which one of my overprotective family members was it?” She clomped over and sat on the couch next to him; the robe balled up and she tucked her legs under her. “Let me guess. The one you serve like he knighted you.”

  He didn’t respond since she’d guessed right.

  “That fire feels nice.”

  Taking advantage of her nearness, he wrapped an arm around her. He wasn’t much of a cuddler, but where Stefanie was involved he was coming to realize the only place she belonged was in the protection of his arms.

  “You don’t have a single string of tinsel,” she pointed out.

  He looked around with her at his utilitarian style, the palette of earthy browns and concrete grays, exposed earth-toned brick walls. The decor was a complete antithesis of her style. It was like she’d been sent from a castle to live in a cave with the dragon.

  His fingers brushed her shoulder, the thick terry cloth keeping him from her bath-warmed skin.

  “You don’t have to stay here.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” She gave him a playful shove, not picking up on the shadow that’d stretched over his soul. “I understand why you didn’t deck the halls.”

  He felt the weight of her ocean-blue stare on his profile. He turned to meet her eyes.

  “Where is your dad now?”

  “Probably at home. Or at a bar.”

  “Do you see him much?”

  Emmett shook his head.

  “Do you want to?”

  Another head shake.

  “I’m sorry.” He could hear the sincerity in her voice.

  “Don’t be. It is what it is.” He touched one of her cheeks with his knuckle.

  “Well, you have to admit this is the most unique Christmas you’ve ever had.” She smiled, pleased with her joke. Damn if he couldn’t help a small smile of his own.

  “Unforgettable,” he agreed.

  He would never forget her. In the event Stefanie started feeling too much for him—more than he could return—then he would let her go home to her family and exile himself in the process.

  Part of him howled in protest, the reverberation of that silent cry shaking him to the core. When it came to letting her go, he didn’t have a choice.

  He’d do it to protect her. He’d do it for her.

  He’d do it...even though he didn’t want to.

  * * *

  The Dallas Duchess. That slimy wench.

  The gossipy blogger had swiped the Tweet Stefanie posted this morning, but rather than offer her congratulations, she’d slapped the wedding picture of Emmett and Stefanie on her website alongside a saucy, tawdry headline.

  “Stefanie Ferguson Stoops to Marry the Help.”

  And lookee here, there was even a comment from Blake the Snake. That flaming pile of dog—

  “Refill?” Emmett extended his arm, a cardboard box filled with doughnuts balanced in one big hand.

  “One is my limit.”

  “Wimp.” He lifted a perfect sugary ring and ate most of it in one bite, a moan echoing in that barrel chest of his.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She set aside her iPad and stood to take a doughnut, but he tugged the box away and shoved the rest of his into his mouth. He offered her the box again and she snatched a chocolate-covered one and took a sinful bite. After a few swallows of coffee to chase her sugar buzz, she tried to sag on Emmett’s couch. Impossible. The back and sides were hard and flat, not a couch meant for sagging.

  “I don’t typically indulge in something so decadent,” she called out as he carried the box into the kitchen. He returned with a mug of coffee in hand.

  “Neither do I.” He crossed the room and lifted his wallet off the mantel before shoving it into his black slacks. “To be clear, I’m talking about waking up and making love to you.”

  Damn. Now that was sweet. She had no idea Emmett could be sweet until she’d married him. She’d convinced herself they hated each other—had told herself for years that he only tolerated her because she was Chase’s sister. But that couldn’t have been true, could it? He’d slipped into her life—into her bed—almost seamlessly.

  He bent to kiss her. She tipped her chin to catch that kiss and the meaning behind it.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.” She stood and grabbed her coat while he fetched his own. “Even though I don’t think anyone in the free world should have to go to work until New Year’s Day.”

  But she had an appointment with Penelope that couldn’t be missed. She hadn’t left herself much of a choice.

  Emmett pulled to a stop at Zach and Penelope’s home. Pen used to have a shingle hung downtown, but since her daughter was born she’d moved her office to the house and employed a nanny to watch over Olivia during work hours.

  Zach stepped outside, on his way to his own office no doubt. He wore a suit and a scowl that was meant for either her husband or Stef herself. Maybe it was meant for both of them.

  Emmett put down his window when Zach approached.

  “Hey, big brother,” she chirped. “Before you dole out any overblown speeches and squarely place yourself in the pot-calling-the-kettle-black category, you should know that Chase beat you to it and I don’t care what either of you think.”

  She blew her brother a kiss, and then grabbed Emmett’s shirt collar, pulling him close for a real kiss—one he returned, albeit stiffly. He was glaring when she pulled away, and she was flushed, and suddenly wishing she’d started that smooch at his house instead, where they could continue it in privacy.

  Anyway.

  Stefanie left Zach and Emmett in the driveway and announced her arrival to Pen quietly in case Olivia was sleeping.

  “In here. She’s upstairs playing.” Penelope appeared in the entryway wearing a slimming white dress and waved Stef into her office. It used to be a formal dining room, but they’d converted it into a modern office with French doors and curtains for privacy. Pen shut the door behind her.

  “I’m assuming you saw the blog.” Stef sat on the white leather couch.

  “Oh yes. I check her site regularly.” Pen rolled her eyes. “Tea?”

  “Please.”

  Pen poured two cups from a kettle from a small table behind her desk and rested the delicate china on saucers before joining Stef on the couch.

  “How’s it going?” Pen sipped her tea.

  “Fine.”

  “How real is this marriage?” Pen tilted her head. “Did you consummate it yet?”

  “Penelope!”

  “Did you?”

  Stefanie lifted her tea both to buy time and to wet her parched throat before admitting, “A few times.”

  “I am going to say something very unpopular.”

  “Chase and Zach beat you to it,” Stef grumbled.

  “I like you two together.”

  Not what Stef was expecting to hear. Pen drew a hard line when it came to her clients, and she could be as bullheaded as Zach when it came to doing things her way.

  “He’s always watched you. I didn’t think of it before, but now that I’m in the family and I’ve seen him at a few family functions...” Pen nodded as if envisioning one such function now. “Emmett stays in your orbit.”

  She sent Penelope an unsure smile. The idea that Stef was newly attracted to Emmett made sense—they’d ne
ver spent time together unchaperoned until recently. But what about those times he’d lurked in her periphery, or stepped into her line of vision to scowl...

  “I guess I always assumed he was in Chase’s orbit.”

  “Yes, but I think that has to do with you. He knows that staying close to the Fergusons comes with the perk of being close to you.”

  He’d certainly stayed close by lately. They’d slept in the same bed, had slept together, had shared meals and breakfast and had even given Oscar, the cat, a bath after he darted out the front door and straight into a slushy mud puddle.

  But for how long? She’d married him with the stipulation that he could walk away. She doubted he would remain in a marriage that was for show. If he couldn’t make it work with the buxom brunette Sunday, who he easily stayed friends with, Stef wasn’t sure she and Emmett had a chance. They’d never been friends.

  “I doubt he’s the forever type, so don’t get your hopes up,” she told her sister-in-law.

  Pen let out a pfft sound of disagreement and rested her cup and saucer on the glass coffee table.

  “What was that for?”

  “You are the one who personally pulled Zach’s head out of his ass when he and I split. How can you say Emmett has no hope?”

  “That’s different. Zach’s so obviously in love with you.”

  “And I’m in love with him.” Pen’s smile was gooey before vanishing altogether. “Are you in love with Emmett?”

  “What? No! How?” Penelope wisely remained silent but Stefanie kept protesting. “I can’t be in love with him. We’ve only been married for thirty-two hours.”

  “Yes, but you’ve known him for years.”

  “You’re making no sense.” Stef swept aside the conversation with one hand. For one, it was making her uncomfortable, and two, it was...making her uncomfortable. “Advise me how to behave in public with him. That’s what I want to know. That’s all I want to know.”

  She didn’t want to entertain an idea that her heart might follow where her body led—that she might stumble and fall into a big pile of “I love you.” She knew how this ended—Emmett and Stef had constructed the end from the beginning.

  But Pen wasn’t convinced. “Mmm-hmm.”

  Well, Stefanie didn’t need to convince her. She didn’t need to convince anyone of anything. And she certainly didn’t need to entertain the notion that happily-ever-after was in store for her and Emmett.

  It wasn’t.

  It was as simple as that.

  Seventeen

  “Try to look like you’re not completely miserable.”

  Stefanie’s arm was looped in Emmett’s as she stood at his side at the museum fund-raiser. She’d dragged him to the event, being held at the Dallas Museum of Art in the Renaissance room, but attending the private function had been Penelope’s bright idea.

  His wife wore her for-the-public expression, an amiable twist of her lips suggesting she had a secret no one knew but her. Meanwhile, his frown was frowning. He wasn’t good at faking anything. He hadn’t had the practice and, frankly, didn’t give a damn what anyone thought.

  His arms were straight at his sides, his fists wound into twin hammers. His focus jerked around the room in search of a particular lowlife by the name of Blake Eastwood, who was “scheduled to appear,” according to Pen. Personally, Emmett would have liked to find and pummel him into paste.

  “Or like you’re out for blood,” Stef whispered as they walked through a pair of velvet ropes. A security guy in a tux asked for their tickets and Emmett handed them over.

  Pen had also arranged for a local photographer to be here to snap photos of Emmett and Stef holding each other close. Bonus if it included a seething, flame-red-faced Blake in the background.

  “Breathe.”

  “I’m not as good at this as you,” he said between his teeth. Understatement. Given the choice, he’d rather be in the background five hundred percent of the time and in the foreground never. Ever.

  Stef walked him to a painting, a huge, wall-size painting of angels and demons and people with knives in their guts and dogs snarling, their teeth bared.

  He wasn’t sure which of the subjects he identified with most at the moment.

  Next to him, his wife pressed close, her breast brushing his arm. She was wearing a short black dress, the slit in the side high enough to expose one creamy thigh when she walked. Her boots were the pair he’d taken note of in Chase’s office: knee-high with brass buttons running the length and ending in high, spiked heels.

  His attention on her helped his temperament stabilize. She’d had a calming effect on him lately—sleeping with her was probably the dominating factor in that effect. Before he’d taken her to bed, whenever she was around he’d been strung as tight as a string on that angel’s harp.

  “Keep your eyes on me,” she told him. “Pretend I’m the only person in the room.”

  “I can’t.” He lowered his voice so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I’m trained to notice that the old guy standing by the Renoir is checking out your ass, and a blonde lady is snapping pictures of the whole event in the corner by a painting of a well-endowed woman eating grapes.”

  “That’s our planted photographer. She’s legit.”

  He slid a glance over at the woman again and then back to the old guy. To Stef, he said, “Wasn’t Renoir an Impressionist? I feel like that painting’s in the wrong room.”

  Stef grinned. “Impressive, Mr. Keaton.”

  “I have my moments.”

  He’d always watched over Stef. She was in his sights because he watched over Chase, and she was an extension of Chase. He’d regarded her like he had any of her family members. Although, that wasn’t true, was it? He’d felt a pull toward her that eclipsed standard Ferguson concern. And now his desire to protect her was stronger than it’d ever been—and growing. Those wedding vows weren’t only for show. He’d taken them to heart.

  She towed him over to a different painting, another he didn’t recognize, tucked into a quiet corner that was populated only by them.

  “How’s this?” she asked.

  “Perfect. Let’s live here.” He took a quick look around to make sure they weren’t being watched. When her hand brushed innocently over his crotch, he jerked his attention back to her.

  “I’m the only person here.”

  “If that were true—” he lowered his lips to hover just over hers “—you’d pay for that.”

  She nuzzled his nose and he caught himself smiling down at her, his arm wrapped around her waist. Something about the way she tipped her head told him she was posing.

  “Is it happening now?”

  “Yes. The woman by the grape painting. Kiss me.”

  He’d intended to give her a chaste kiss, but chastity where he and Stef were concerned always approached inappropriate. By the time her tongue touched his, he was ready to get the hell out of here.

  Her attention moved from him to across the room and she gripped his arm, giving it a hard squeeze. “He’s here.”

  Emmett didn’t have to ask who “he” was. Blake, with a small-boned, big-eyed woman on his arm, glided into the place like he owned it. Smarmy bastard. He turned and spotted Stefanie, then Emmett and stopped cold.

  Emmett pulled his wife closer.

  Mine.

  Blake, incapable of taking a hint, excused himself from his date and completed the journey over to where they stood.

  “Stefanie.” Blake ignored Emmett.

  “Blake.” She rested her hand on Emmett’s torso. Anyone looking on might think she was smoothing his tie, but Emmett knew she was attempting to tamp down his ire. Didn’t work. The need to punch Blake’s face in still simmered.

  “I noticed—” Blake started.

  “Get the hell away from her.” Emmett was off script, but he didn’t care.
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  Blake’s face oozed into a smile. “Relax, Keaton. You’ve clearly won this round. Though I never dreamed she’d sell herself off to you.”

  Emmett’s arm flinched and Stefanie moved both hands to his forearm. Blake jerked away before sending Stefanie a bemused smile.

  “Better keep your dog on a leash, Stef. Is he the best you could do on short notice?” Blake asked. “Some wild animal that can’t be taken into public?”

  “Better a wild animal than a slithering, slimy reptile.” Stef loosened her hold—which she was about to regret. Emmett had enough of this conversation. The condition of Blake’s nose relied on his own response.

  Blake sneered. “That’s not what you said when I took you to bed, unless you mean—”

  Emmett shook off Stef’s hold and slammed a fist into Blake’s face.

  “You were warned,” Emmett growled.

  The other guests gasped and backed away as the blonde with the camera ran forward to catch a pic of the action. She’d snap a good one, too, given that Blake was doubled over, streams of blood running between his fingers. His date cooed over him, but Emmett was done.

  He took Stefanie’s hand and led her from the event, splitting the crowd like well-dressed bowling pins.

  * * *

  “No matter how hard I try, I can’t be upset with you.” Stefanie moved the plastic bag filled with ice from Emmett’s knuckles to inspect his red fingers. “No scrapes, though. Impressive.”

  “He has a soft face.” Emmett smirked at his own joke. “I’m done with the ice.”

  She went to the kitchen and dumped it into the sink, returning with a beer for him and a glass of wine for herself.

  He accepted the bottle, taking a few long swallows. She watched the column of his neck work as he drank, wanting nothing more than to drag her tongue over his Adam’s apple. Never before had she thought of Emmett as “sexy” but now that she saw it, it couldn’t be unseen. She’d been wondering lately how she’d missed it.

  His legs were spread, knees wide as he sat on his couch. She had no idea how he could like that rigid piece of furniture. She took the equally uncomfortable chair nearest him.