A Bad Boy for Christmas

by Jessica Lemmon

  Palm to her jaw, he smiled back as gently as he could. “Not a simple thing, Cupcake.”

  “I just…the timing. It’s wrong. And we…I mean, we don’t…” She shrugged, not knowing how to relay what she was thinking.

  “We don’t have any plans to stay together. This was a life sentence,” he guessed.

  “Yeah.” There was more she wasn’t saying. He could see it.

  Threading his fingers into her hair, he said, “But it doesn’t sound like a bad life sentence.”

  “It sounded almost…”

  “Wonderful,” they said at the same time.

  The same fucking time.

  He lowered his lips and kissed her. Soft turned to deep. Deep turned to hard. Soon hands were pulling and pushing, kneading, and roaming. Unable to stand in the center of the living room and kiss her, he lifted her up and carried her over by the fire.

  Then he laid her down on the pile of blankets covering the couch, stripped her bare, and made love to her slow and long and until they came in unison.

  Came the same way they did everything—together.

  * * *

  “So much wine,” Faith mumbled. It was cute.

  His girl wasn’t quite loaded, but she was feelin’ no pain. After he poured her a glass of wine—and himself a glass—she’d had a moment where she felt bad for drinking it.

  “Is it like we’re celebrating?” she’d asked, frowning at the red liquid.

  “Cupcake, it’s Christmas Eve. Of course we’re celebrating. Two paths, sweetness. One didn’t pan out. That’s it.”

  He hated seeing her sad. Up to him, she’d never have that forlorn, lost look in her eyes again. He got it, though. He may be the one bucking up for her benefit, here, but he’d been pretty rocked by her tears.

  There had been a second he was certain—a million percent certain—that she was crying because she was pregnant. Which would have meant she was freaking out. Which he could live with. It was a big announcement. He knew, he’d been on the receiving end of it once before.

  “I never told you about Maya.” He kept his eyes trained on the flames.

  Ever so softly, she spoke. “You didn’t.”

  “Here goes.”

  She moved closer, snuggling against his side. They’d gotten dressed after—too damned cold to sit here naked. She had pulled on his henley and he’d tugged on his T-shirt. She looked cute in his shirt. He had his back to the arm of the couch and was stretched out with room to spare. The couch was huge. Faith’s breasts were pressed against his ribs, her arm thrown over his shoulder, wineglass aloft in one hand he couldn’t see because of the length of the sleeve. She may be tall, but she was still a woman, and she was swimming in his shirt. He liked that just about as much as he liked everything else about her. Liked the way she looked at him when he talked. Liked how much she cared. Liked how she responded to him when he told her what to do, or when he wanted something from her. He liked how she kissed him, liked the way her hands felt on his body…

  No. He didn’t like it.

  He loved it. He loved her. Sure as he was of anything on this planet, he knew that above all else. He had fallen for Faith Garrett. Sank like a stone.

  Too soon to lay the news on her, he knew. Not after her dealing with the news today. Not during the holidays when she might think he’s saying it for sentimental reasons. Wasn’t like him to hold back, but he couldn’t put that on her back along with this, the timing, and the fact he was just now confessing about Maya.

  He loved her too much to do that.

  “Back in the day, Donny left for New York and I stopped squatting in his apartment and moved in with Mom and Dad,” he said. “I was nineteen. Stupid. Thought I knew everything.”

  “Nineteen…”

  “Don’t do the math. You’ll freak out.”

  She spared him a smile. “I always forget we worked together.”

  “No reason for you to have noticed me.”

  “Hard to believe that. You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”

  Flattered, he paused in his storytelling to kiss her. She tasted like wine, so he told her so. She offered her glass to share. He sipped and continued. “Maya and I would break up for months at a time. I met her in high school and we had this on and off thing. You know how you do.”

  “I did that with my high school boyfriend. Kid stuff.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged his eyebrows. “She didn’t outgrow it, apparently. She came to me, belly round, told me she was pregnant and that it was mine. Timing was right, so I didn’t even think. Just reacted. Went to my parents, told them immediately. Asked my dad how soon I could start working for McClain’s Handyman Services, how to get certified, asked if he could hire me full-time so I could get insurance for both Maya and me.”

  “You were going to marry her.”

  He nodded. He was. Would have been an absolute disaster.

  “So that’s how you got your start as a repairman.”

  “Necessity.” He’d hated the work. Hated the electrical classes, hated HVAC, hated installing cabinets and fixing sinks. Hated the process the entire way. But he’d have done anything to be there for his future child. For the woman he’d convinced himself he loved. “Maya moved in. One month later, she moved out.”

  “A month.”

  “The guy she’d been sleeping with after we broke up—or, God help me, probably during—pulled into the driveway one day and told her he’d changed his mind. Big, dumb redheaded guy on a motorcycle. Lee was his name. Skinny, mean-looking. Put her right on the back of his bike. I tried to stop her, tried to stop him. There was yelling, there was swearing. There was my dad coming out to the driveway to hold me in place. Lee flipped us off, left with Maya, and I never saw her again.”

  Faith placed her palm on his chest. It warmed him through the soft cotton of his shirt. “Connor.”

  He emptied the wineglass down his throat and put it on the floor.

  “You flipped your whole world upside down because you believed you were going to be a father.” Her eyes flicked to the side in thought. “If I would have come out of the bathroom and said I was pregnant…”

  “We’d still be here on this couch.” He cut her off, refusing to let her finish her thought. “You’d just be more sober.”

  Her teeth speared her lip. She watched the flames for a minute before locking on to his gaze. “I would never trap you.”

  Too late.

  “I know, Cupcake.”

  “I mean it.”

  He brushed her nose with his. “I know.” He sat up, throwing the pile of blankets off his body and putting his feet on the floor.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You want more wine?”

  “Sure.”

  He stood, pulled on his pants, then sat down and tugged on his socks and boots.

  “Seriously. Where are you going? We have plenty of firewood, don’t we?”

  “I”—he grabbed his sweater from the back of the couch and jammed his arms into it—“am getting you a tree.”

  “A…tree?”

  His head popped through the neck of his sweater. “A Christmas tree. It’s Christmas. Almost. You need a tree. We’re not getting out of here tomorrow, either, I’ll bet.”

  It was still coming down out there. Fast, too.

  “You can’t be serious. There’s a blizzard outside.” Her eyes were wide with concern, but he could also see she liked that he offered. And he liked that, a whole helluva lot.

  “Cupcake.” He leaned over her on the couch, eyes on the henley she wore. He could just make out the shapes of the pink confections that were her delicious nipples. He dragged his eyes back to her face. “You’d better find something to decorate with. Be creative.”

  Then he kissed her lips, and because there was no resisting the call of those breasts, dropped to his knees, lifted the hem of the shirt, and took a taste of them as well.

  CHAPTER 22

  Faith had amassed a pile of, erm…unique t
ree trimmings, when Connor finally busted through the front door with a very large, very snowy evergreen tree. He turned and gave the branches a shake, dumping piles of snow on the threshold.

  “Grab that for me.” He tipped his head in the direction of a metal something-or-other sitting on the porch.

  She lifted the contraption, mouth dropping open when she recognized it for what it was. “You found a tree stand?”

  He didn’t answer, grunting as he hauled the tree across the room and to the corner. She swept some of the clods of snow onto the porch with her shoe, then shut the door against the wind.

  It was still snowing, and blowing. Blustery, frigid weather and he’d gone out and chopped down a freaking tree. That said, she couldn’t stop the smile from lighting her face. He went outside. And cut down a tree. For her. As romantic gestures went, this had to be at the top.

  Holding the trunk with one hand, he held out the other. He was as snow covered as the pine leaning against the wall, stretching almost to the ceiling. She met him in the corner and handed over the stand. With her help, they wrangled the tree into place, knocking more snow to the ground, onto her, soaking through her sweater and Connor’s henley she wore underneath.

  She fetched a few towels to clean up the hardwood floor, but by the time she did that, there was only water, the fire having done its job at melting the snow.

  Breathing regulating, he propped his hands on his hips and craned his head. The treetop stood about a foot or more over his head. He pulled off his knit cap, revealing messy hair, and sniffed, his nose red from the cold. He had to be freezing.

  “Thank you.” To show her gratitude, she kissed him. He kissed her back, taking his time, his lips cold but delicious.

  When they pulled away, his eyes went to the pile of stuff on the floor she’d gathered to decorate the tree. Then his eyes went back to hers, thick sandy-brown brows rising high on his forehead. “Really?”

  She studied the rather crafty, in her opinion, decorations she’d chosen and grinned back at him. “It’ll be pretty.”

  “Love the way you think.”

  Something warm unfurled in her chest like a length of ribbon. Like twine wrapped around kraft paper packages. Whiskers on kittens…Connor had quickly become one of her favorite things, she realized. And the look in his eyes, the sound of his words…

  He’d paid her a lot of compliments over the months they’d spent together, but he never said he “loved” anything she did. Always liked. Never loved. Figuring she was getting swept up in the sentimentality, the emotions—and the Primitivo—she shook her head to dislodge the thoughts currently nesting there.

  “Gimme one of those blankets,” he said.

  She handed one over and he put it under the tree. “That’ll take care of the melting snow and double as a tree skirt.”

  “Now we decorate.”

  “First, more wine,” he instructed. “And I’m starving.”

  * * *

  It was nearly two a.m.

  The last two hours were split between the kitchen and decorating the tree and finishing the third bottle of wine.

  Faith hiccupped, then giggled, satisfied when it was answered by a deep rumble of laughter at her back.

  Connor was happy. She was happy.

  Life couldn’t be better. Even here, in a barely heated cabin, buried beneath inches of snow, cobbling together dinner as best they could. The stove was gas, so she guessed they could have made it work, but instead they’d slapped ham and cheese onto bread with no condiments.

  “Needs mustard,” Connor had replied glumly.

  “Mayo,” she’d argued.

  After choking down their late-night dinners, without chips she might add, they opened more wine. Because, why not? Bellies full, they decorated the tree, laughing as they did, because honestly, the décor was kind of funny.

  “Our Christmas tree is turning me on.” His voice reverberated off her rib cage. They’d fed the fire and returned to their blanket pile on the couch to admire their handiwork, her against his chest, him holding the wineglass they were sharing.

  “I think it’s festive.”

  “The red one is.” He kissed her temple and pointed at the lacy bra strung over two branches. “Red one’s my favorite.”

  Yes, she’d adorned their Christmas tree with her underthings. They were pretty and delicate, and in the absence of garland and tinsel, she had to think of something. Thongs and bras it was. But he’d contributed, too.

  “I think the spoons are a nice touch,” she said.

  The silverware—and she used that term loosely—in the drawers of the kitchen had to be the cheapest flatware on the planet. While they were preparing their dinner, he lifted one of the spoons up and bent it in half with his thumb, then lifted an eyebrow.

  “Do it,” she’d said. “We’ll replace them with something nicer. Just save a few to eat with.”

  Now, bent spoons and forks hung on branches, catching the light from the fire and winking at them conspiratorially. The finishing touch was on the top branch. One of her black pumps, with a very tall heel and red sole, acted as the angel on their naughty yuletide tree. She’d brought the shoes with nefarious plans in mind. Wearing nothing but them, for example.

  When she confessed her intentions, he’d smiled approvingly and told her, “Gonna take you up on that, Cupcake.”

  She smiled at the eyesore on the side of the tree—where a few branches had snapped during the drag indoors. Other than sacrificing one of their couch pillows, there was nothing doing for filling the hole. “Looks like someone took a bite out of the tree.”

  “Hey, you go chop a tree down and see how easy it is,” he teased.

  “No way.”

  The arm he’d wrapped around her was solid. He squeezed her gently. “It’s not perfect.”

  “It is, though.” She rested a hand over his and interlaced their fingers.

  “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “It is.”

  They sat, snuggled together in their couch-and-blanket fort, and listened to the soothing sounds of the logs crackling in the flames. After a minute or two had passed, she turned her head and caught his lips. “I’m so sleepy.”

  He snagged one more kiss. “Me too, Cupcake. Let me get rid of the glass.”

  Before he sat up, she stopped him. “No, you’ve done everything. I’ll get it.” She climbed over him and out of their makeshift bed and took the wineglass. In the kitchen, she did some light cleanup, rinsing the plate they’d shared, tossing the paper towel into a paper grocery sack acting as a trash can. When she returned to the living room, she found Connor, eyes closed, mouth open slightly. The firelight lit the sharp planes of his face, the full set of his mouth.

  He was so very attractive. So deadly gorgeous. Her eyes went to the tree. He was also sweet, so sweet she ached with longing. She was beginning to think he’d do anything for her. She was beginning to think he’d do anything for anyone. Like take care of this place when he hated handyman work because Donovan asked. Or start working for his father when his girlfriend came to him needing a baby daddy.

  A deep sigh worked its way from her belly and blew out of her nose. There was something about him being willing to do anything for her that made her feel as if she was leaning on him too much.

  If that pregnancy test had been a plus instead of a minus, he would have made things right for her. But was it because he did what always needed done? Because he had a strong sense of duty? Or because he genuinely wanted to help?

  Did Connor do what he needed to do or what he wanted to do?

  Was he with her because he wanted to be? Or was she just so needy he responded to her neediness with service.

  Tread lightly, girl, her heart warned.

  He was giving her everything she wanted…but what about him? If he was shortchanging himself, he’d realize it eventually. And then she’d be in the same position she was with Michael.

  That was something she couldn’t risk. Not ever.

  The nega
tive pregnancy test was a blessing. Because Connor, whether he’d admit it or not, was now free to go whenever he wanted.

  And so was she.

  * * *

  Faith was fast asleep when steam from a coffee mug curled into her nostrils. Connor watched her eyes flutter open, thinking she might be the most beautiful he’d ever seen her.

  Hair everywhere, flowing like a blond fountain over the blankets, pillows, and his shirt she’d slept in. Her lips tipped into a cute smile, her eyes blinked again, heavy and groggy.

  “Mornin’, Cupcake.” His voice was craggy from waking too early. He’d been restless come sunlight. Christmas morning hadn’t been a morning he was anxious for in years.

  Until this year.

  She had changed him. In a short time, and for the better. Watching her love of the holidays, her genuine, childlike excitement for a time of year that typically fed his soul nothing but depression, he had opened his eyes this morning excited for the first time in years.

  She’d done that for him. And for that reason, he wanted to make her morning the most special one she’d ever had.

  “Where did you get that?” Her eyes were wide and filled with gratitude, focused only on the mug.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He’d looked for a coffeepot and coffee—though it would have been some ancient, nasty coffee he’d bet—but found nothing. So he had to start looking elsewhere.

  She sipped and closed her eyes, then smiled. “You found my stash.”

  He grinned back at her. “I did.” Instant coffee. Just add hot water. Hot water, thanks to a gas stove and copper-bottomed saucepan, he’d managed.

  “Bless you.”

  He sat on the edge of the sofa and snagged the cup from her grasp. “You have to share. There was only one packet left.”

  She pouted.

  He winked at her, took a drink. Mmm. Good for instant. He was impressed. Handing back her cup, he kissed her temple then stood. “Merry Christmas, sweetness.”

  “Merry Christmas, beefcake.”

  With a chuckle, he strode to the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast. Hang tight.”

  * * *