The Christmas Cookie Collection

by Lori Wilde

  “I can get it,” Shannon said.

  “Don’t worry.” Raylene waved a hand as she pushed through the double doors leading to the small kitchen where they prepared a small bar menu. “You’ll be waiting on me soon enough.”

  Shannon looked a bit stricken to find herself alone at the bar with a dozen guys giving her the once-­over. Up close, she wasn’t drop-­dead gorgeous. Her nose was slightly crooked, her complexion was pale, and her lips were a bit too wide. But she had high cheekbones, a mass of sexy dark hair that swayed over her shoulders when she moved, and those world-­class legs.

  Nate’s entire body tensed, which both unnerved and irritated him. It had been a very long time since he’d had such an instant sexual attraction to anyone.

  She glanced around for a place to sit. There were two vacant spots. One beside Snake and one beside Nate. Snake patted the stool next to him.

  Shannon didn’t look Snake’s way. Instead, her intriguing golden brown eyes met his, and Nate found himself smiling at her like some damned schoolboy.

  “May I sit here, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Nate,” he said, holding out his hand, surprised by how hopeful he felt. “Nate Deavers.”

  “Shannon.” She returned his smile and took his hand.

  A snap of static electricity crackled between them. Just normal, static discharge. Happened all the time in the winter months. So why did it feel like a nuclear reactor had gone off in his hand?

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh.” She jerked her hand back, ran it down her side. He couldn’t help tracking her palm as it ran over her hips. “Sorry about that. Must be the wool dress.”

  “I’m not.”

  She looked puzzled. “Not what?”

  “Sorry about the zap or the wool dress. It looks good on you.” And so do those killer shoes.

  Her high cheekbones colored instantly, and she dropped her gaze.

  Subtle, Deavers. Real subtle.

  Nate wasn’t a flirt. Not usually. He’d had his moments in the past, but by and large he didn’t say things like that. Now he was coming across like a douche. What was he trying to do? Scare her over next to Snake?

  But no, she climbed up on the stool beside him. She sat up straight, perfect posture, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, hands stacked on top of the bar.

  Nate’s heart thumped weirdly.

  Everyone was still staring at her, some with lusty gazes. The new girl in town. He felt an absurd urge to blacken a few eyes. Raylene came backward through the double doors carrying two steaming bowls of stew. She sat one bowl in front of Shannon and another on the bar in front of the stool beside Snake.

  “Keep your hands to yourself,” Raylene warned, shaking a finger under Snake’s nose before coming around to the other side of the bar and taking the last open spot.

  “Hey, I’d never pinch you. Earl’s my best friend.”

  At the mention of Earl’s name, everyone fell silent. Nate didn’t know the full history, but Chap, the bartender, had told him that Raylene’s husband had left her the past Christmas and no one had seen or heard from him since.

  “Could someone pass the pepper?” Shannon asked brightly, as if looking for something to break the tension. She hadn’t even tasted her stew yet.

  The pepper grinder was sitting in front of Nate. He passed it to her. Their hands touched again.

  Zap!

  “Oh,” she exclaimed a second time, then laughed nervously.

  “Guess we better stop touching each other,” Nate said.

  “Good idea.” She plucked a thin napkin from the dispenser on the bar and spread it over her upper thighs. “Apparently, together we’re combustible.”

  Her statement wasn’t particularly provocative, but Nate’s body lit up as if she’d just said something very naughty. His mind immediately filled with red-­hot images. Those sexy legs of hers wrapped around his waist, their naked bodies drenched in sweat.

  Nate ran a hand over his forehead.

  She scooped her spoon backward in the steaming stew, and then brought it up. A lingering drop of juice fell into the bowl instead of in her lap. Perfect table manners.

  Beside her, Nate felt like an ox. Big and uncouth and bumbling.

  Shannon puckered her lush lips and blew across the stew to cool it.

  Watching her, Nate just about fell off his chair.

  God, she was incredible in an effortless way—­refined, elegant, understated. She seemed completely unaware of her natural sexuality and the power she could have over a man if she chose to exercise it.

  One of her delicate hands reached up to finger the strand of pearls at her neck. His gaze tracked her movements. A pale blue vein at the hollow of her throat fluttered with each pulse beat. Her short fingernails were filed into smooth half-moon shapes and polished with a pinky-­white luminescent polish.

  She slipped the spoonful of stew into her mouth and chewed slowly. Her jaw muscles moved in a hypnotic rhythm.

  Mesmerized, Nate couldn’t have looked away if someone had yelled “suicide bomber.”

  “Want something to drink?” Chap asked her.

  She placed two fingers to her lips, smiled, swallowed, and said, “A glass of wat—­no,” she interrupted herself. “I got a new job today and a place to stay. A celebration is in order. What kind of wine do you have?”

  “Red and white,” Chap said, completely serious.

  A quick frown furrowed her brow. “Maybe I’ll have a beer. What do you recommend?”

  A bemused expression crossed Chap’s face, and he shot Raylene a where-­in-­the-­hell-­did-­you-­dig-this-­one-­up look. “We got Bud and Coors on tap. Or Lone Star long necks.”

  “I’ll have that last one,” she said. “The one with the long neck.”

  Snake chortled, and Raylene none-­to-­subtly jammed her elbow into his ribs. “Hey!” Snake protested, rubbing his flank. “Whyja do that?”

  “Watch the game,” Raylene told him.

  Chap pulled a Lone Star from the cooler, twisted off the top, and slid it across the bar to her. Shannon took another napkin and ran it around the head of the bottle. She brought it to her lips, took a tiny sip, winced.

  Seriously? Had the woman never drunk a beer before? At her age?

  Now, besides being sexually aroused by this pretty stranger, Nate was completely intrigued.

  She stroked her slender fingers, with the pearly nail polish, up and down the long hard neck of the smooth glass bottle. On any other woman, Nate would have assumed the action was a come-­on, a flirtatious gesture, but Shannon seemed unaware of the effect she was having on him.

  He couldn’t stop looking at her. It was disturbing how much he wanted to stare at her. His mouth was dry. His gut knocked. He curled his hands into fists and forced his attention back to his mug of beer. Seconds later he was back for more, tracing his gaze over the swell of her breasts. Not big. But not small. Just the right size for fitting into the palm of a man’s hands.

  “Where are you from?” Chap asked her, tossing the bottle cap into the garbage.

  “I was raised on the east coast,” she said mildly.

  “You don’t sound like a Yankee.” Chap polished the chrome with a bar towel. “More like a newscaster. Can’t tell where you’re from.”

  “Whatcha doin’ in Texas?” Snake asked.

  “Looking for a fresh start.”

  “Runnin’ from the ghost of Christmas past, huh?”

  “You might say that.” Her fingers were still tracking up and down, up and down that cool glass bottle.

  Her words got to Nate. She was here for the very same reason he’d moved to this town. To start over, forget the past.

  “Well, with those dynamite legs, I’m glad you ran straight to Twilight,” Nate blurted.

  Shannon ducked her head, but not before he saw twin
splotches of pink spread across her cheeks. Apparently compliments embarrassed her. Why? It’s not like she was an inexperienced teenager. Better question: why was he so fascinated by her?

  She reached for the pepper mill again, twisted it a few turns over her bowl. So, she liked things hot. She settled the grinder back on the bar, and he caught a whiff of her scent. Understated though she was, her fragrance packed a delightful punch. First there was the mild aroma of new linen, followed by a clean note of lemon, ending with just a crisp hint of evergreen. She smelled like soft sheets dried on the clothesline outside a summer cabin in the ­mountains.

  “Cowboys got it on the ten-­yard line, forty seconds left on the clock, fourth down,” Snake hollered. Every gaze at the bar—­including Shannon’s—­riveted on the television screen overhead. “Run the ball, Romo.”

  “They’re going for the flea flicker,” Shannon said.

  “What?” Snake craned his grizzled head to stare down the bar at her. “No way, sister.”

  “Would you care to make a wager?”

  “Do you even know what a flea flicker is?”

  “The Dolphins’ new defensive line is a brick wall against fourth-­down runs. The Cowboys’ head coach is smart enough to know that. They need an unorthodox play to win this game. Fifty dollars says flea flicker.”

  “Make it a hundred and you’ve got a deal,” Snake said.

  “Fine by me if you want to throw your money away.” Shannon shrugged.

  “Shh, shh.” Chap thumbed the remote to turn up the volume. “They’re back from commercial.”

  “There’s the snap,” the announcer said. “Look, look!” His voice rose. “It’s a flea flicker! And Smith catches it in the end zone. Cowboys win!”

  “Just like the old days,” Raylene said wistfully. “With Landry, Staubach, and Pearson.”

  “Dammit!” Snake cursed.

  Several of the other men hooted and joked.

  “Pay the woman,” Raylene told Snake, sliding off her stool. “She out-­strategized you.”

  “That was amazing.” Nate grinned at Shannon.

  “Don’t be in awe.” She canted her head. “When your father is—­” She broke off suddenly, as Raylene passed behind her seat.

  “Is what?” Nate prodded.

  “A die-­hard Cowboys fan,” she finished, though he had a feeling that was not what she had intended to say.

  He took in the bright sheen to her eyes. Was it from the money she’d just won from a disgruntled Snake or because she was hiding something? She was an unusual woman. Studying her, Nate felt his body stir. He didn’t know what her agenda was, but she was cultured, smart, and unique. A breath of fresh air in a small town that could get stuck in its ways.

  “I think I’m a die-­hard Shannon fan,” he murmured.

  She looked startled, and then the slightest smile tipped her lips. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Deavers?”

  “Nate,” he said. “Call me Nate.”

  He dropped his fingers to her hand and snap! Electricity. Shocking, that vigorous crackle.

  Shannon pulled her hand away, scooted her stool back and picked up the bowl of stew she had not finished. Had she lost her appetite? Or had he crossed the line? Chased her off?

  She started for the double doors behind the bars that led into the kitchen, a purposeful expression on her face as if she couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

  “Shannon.”

  She turned her head, looking frazzled, uncertain, cornered. “Orientation,” she said. “Raylene’s going to show me the ropes.”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  She stopped at the door.

  Nate got up and walked toward her, with each step his heart thumping harder. He reached her.

  She stood, frozen in place.

  “You forgot this.” He took Snake’s hundred-­dollar bill that she’d left behind on the bar in her rush to get away from him and slipped it into the pocket of her dress, his hand skimming over her hip in the process. “You earned it fair and square.”

  At his touch, her lips parted slightly, and an emotion Nate couldn’t decipher flicked across her face. He was coming on too strong. He knew it and yet he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  “Thanks.” Her voice came out in a husky rush.

  Clearly, this woman had some mental baggage. Hey, just like you do. He would be smart to get away from her before he took advantage of her vulnerability, because right now he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to breathe. If they didn’t have an audience, he probably would kiss her. So much for his Navy SEAL self-­control.

  “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence, but her golden-­brown eyes rounded and her gaze shifted to his mouth. The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

  Was she thinking the same blasted thing he was thinking? Nate lowered his head.

  She was standing between the bar and the kitchen, a bowl of half-­consumed stew in her hand. Behind them sat a bar full of patrons, and he was seriously thinking about kissing her?

  Timing, Deavers. Timing.

  Yeah, well, his timing mechanism was screwed up. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel anything for so long, he thought he’d forgotten how. So why this woman? Why now? Was it because he was lonesome, and the spirit of Christmas was moving him to do things he wouldn’t ordinarily do, like volunteering to put holiday lights on the Horny Toad for Raylene?

  Nate leaned in closer. She peered into his eyes.

  “Shannon?” Raylene called from the kitchen.

  She jumped back. “Duty calls.”

  She spun around too quickly, apparently forgetting how close she was to the door, and ran smack dab into it. The bowl of stew slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor.

  “Oh no,” she exclaimed, and bent to pick up the shattered pieces of the earthenware bowl.

  “Broken dishes come out of your paycheck,” Raylene hollered.

  “Good thing you’re good at hustling football plays.” Nate squatted to help her.

  “I’ve got this,” she said. “Please, go back to the bar.”

  “I can’t help feeling responsible.”

  “It’s not your fault. Go. Please. Leave me alone and we’ll get along just fine.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  For the next two days, Shannon learned the ins and outs of cocktail waitressing. She had a great memory, so she had no trouble remembering who ordered what drinks. The difficult part was standing on her feet all day. Yes, she was fit, spending hours a week on the treadmill at the gym, but that kind of exercise was far different from standing on hard floors for eight hours at a stretch.

  Hard work prevented Shannon from dwelling too much on that devastatingly handsome Nate Deavers. She could have sworn that for a minute there, before she’d dropped that bowl of stew, he’d been about to kiss her.

  Even more alarming, she’d been about to let him.

  Which distressed her. A great deal. Hadn’t she learned anything about fast-­paced romance from her disastrous relationship with Peter?

  He’s not like Peter, whispered an unruly voice at the back of her brain. In fact, he’s the exact opposite of your con-­man ex.

  Peter had taken care with his appearance, a true metrosexual. He was suave, sophisticated, and articulate. By contrast, Nate was all guy. Big and strong. Rough around the edges. A man of few words. When he’d tucked that one-­hundred-­dollar bill into her pocket, the heat of his fingers burning straight through her clothes, she’d come completely unraveled.

  Luckily, Nate did not come into the bar on either Monday or Tuesday. By the wee hours of Wednesday morning, when she fell exhausted into bed, Shannon had convinced herself that the physical attraction between them was nothing more than an aberration that would quickly pass.

  She awoke at nine a.m. on Wedne
sday. Normally, she got up before dawn and enjoyed the quiet of the morning with a cup of coffee and a slice of whole-­wheat toast. But when you worked in a bar and stayed up past two a.m., sleeping late simply followed.

  Feeling self-­indulgent, Shannon contemplated rolling over and going back to sleep for another hour. But then she heard an odd tapping noise outside her window.

  She got up, wearing nothing more than the thin cotton nightshirt she slept in, and went to investigate. She pulled back the curtain and found herself peering into Nate Deavers’s face.

  Startled, a high thin screech escaped her lips. She plastered a hand over her mouth. Her pulse raced, pumping blood lickety-­split through her body.

  He had a hammer in one hand, a string of Christmas lights strung over his neck, and a guilty grin on his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, the window glass between them muffling his apology.

  Irritated, she raised the window. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  He raised the strand of twinkle lights. “Puttin’ up Christmas decorations.”

  “While I’m trying to sleep?”

  “It’s nine a.m.”

  “I work in a bar. I don’t get into bed until almost three.”

  “I waited as long as I could. This project is going to take hours.”

  “Poor you.”

  “Come help me,” he invited. “Seeing as how you’re wide awake.” He looked so charming with a dark brown curl flopped boyishly over his forehead.

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because you feel sorry for me?”

  She folded her arms over her chest, remembering belatedly that she was bra-­less. “But I don’t.”

  He gave her a sad face. “I’m up here on a ladder, no one to hand a fresh strand of lights up to me when I’m ready for them. I have to climb all the way back down and get them for myself.”

  “You live such a hard life.”

  His devilish eyes met hers. “You have no idea how hard.”

  Shannon had never been one to pick up quickly on flirtatious clues, but the fire in his gaze blistered her to the bone. Flustered, she snatched the curtains closed, heard his deep chuckle. She’d never been around such an earthy man.