Must Love Mistletoe

by Christie Ridgway

And in that single moment he’d shown her he still had the upper hand when it came to her body’s responses.

  Where that fit in with her sensible assertion that sexual attraction and emotional sloppiness were not one and the same she didn’t want to think too hard about.

  “Still, you should have better giveaways,” Trin grumbled, continuing to dig through the candy. “Especially when I came all the way over here—”

  “You live two blocks away.”

  “—to renew our friendship only to find you won’t spill a sole small detail about what’s going on between you and the Fabulous Finn.”

  His kiss was fabulous. And he was so strong. Stronger than she was. His grandmother had called his name and Bailey hadn’t heard it at first, she’d heard nothing over the rumbling-train beat of her heart. But if she had, she would have ignored it, all to stay longer with Finn. To touch Finn more. To give Finn anything he asked.

  What a weakling she was. First, surrendering to pressure to come back to Coronado. And second, surrendering to the sexual temptation of having one more taste of her first lover.

  This time, it had taken Finn to break them apart.

  “All set.” The voice of Byron, the male half of her team of part-time sales kids, snagged her attention. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him wrapping up a transaction at the counter. He slid the receipt into the store’s trademark bag and gave the shopper his usual dreamy smile. “Like, have a cool Yule.”

  Trin’s gaze caught Bailey’s. Cool Yule? she mouthed, her dimple digging into her cheek.

  “Now that you see what I have to deal with,” Bailey whispered back, “maybe you’ll stop whining about the quality of the free grub.”

  Byron, his shoulder-length blond hair cemented by salt water into tight corkscrews, drifted in the wake of the departing shopper, his flip-flops flap-flapping against the soles of his tanned feet. He sniffed the air as the door opened.

  When it closed behind the customer, he swung toward Bailey. “I gotta leave a half hour early today, boss lady. Surf’s up.”

  “What?”

  “Brontë!” He raised his voice. “Surf’s up!”

  His female counterpart, down to the salt water– treated hair and the sandals, poked her head out of the back office. “Then you have to go home and get my wetsuit, By, I didn’t bring it with me.”

  He nodded, and turned toward the front door. “Later, gators.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bailey protested, stepping in front of him. There were browsers all over the store: gathered around the nearby tree that was dressed only in seashells, in the old kitchen where they kept the potpourri and holiday baking mixes, up the ornate staircase and in all the second-floor rooms, including the alcove devoted to Christmas dolls. “You can’t go now. And you guys can’t leave early.”

  Byron just looked at her.

  “I’m serious.” She narrowed her eyes and put the ice in her voice that made the two-hundred-dollar-a-billing-hour attorneys quake in their Prada loafers. “You and Brontë don’t get off until six o’clock.”

  “But boss lady, it’s Christmas time.”

  “Good, Byron,” she praised, nodding. It wasn’t clear to her if his brain was merely water-logged or if he was just plain dumb. “And we’re a Christmas store, so that means we’re busy and I need you to do your job.”

  Byron gave her his puppy-dog eyes. They’d worked on her during his first couple of shifts, but now she knew better. He didn’t have a big paper due the next day or an important exam first thing in the morning. As far as she could tell, he wasn’t even enrolled in any institution outside of the School of Surf Wax.

  So she wasn’t giving in again. She wasn’t giving in to one more thing! Not to impulse, not to hormones, not to puppy-dog eyes, emergency requests, or guilt-tinged obligations. She was here, saving the family farm, and wasn’t that enough?

  The rattle of jingle bells drew her eyes to the door. An older man entered, just as “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” piped through the store’s speakers. Oh right, she muttered silently. Santa Claus, my sorry behind.

  Instead of red felt and white fur, the man coming through the door wore a blue-and-gold cap that read “U.S. Navy Retired.” And she doubted he was bringing her anything she wanted for Christmas. Yesterday this very gentleman had phoned to set up this afternoon’s meeting, letting her know it was “imperative.”

  “Hey,” Trin said, sotto voce. “Is it my imagination or what, but does that guy look like General Waverly from White Christmas? He’s got the exact same military posture and military haircut.”

  Bailey looked over at her friend. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, the classic White Christmas. In the movie, there’s that old World War II general who Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye put on that show for in Maine.”

  “Vermont.”

  “I think it’s Maine.”

  “Trust me,” Bailey said. “It’s Vermont.”

  Trin scowled. “I thought you hate the holiday and everything that goes along with it.”

  Turning away from her friend, Bailey forced a welcoming smile, though instinct was telling her she should be anything but. “Captain Reed,” she said with a little wave. “Or should I be calling you President?”

  He strode toward her, chuckling. “Bailey, I’m the president of the chamber of commerce, not the United States, as you very well know.”

  “Your orders sounded mighty presidential over the phone yesterday.” But when she’d asked him why they had to meet, he’d held out his reasons for the face-to-face.

  “I like to do these things in person when I can,” he said, still smiling.

  These things? That didn’t sound good. “Well, I don’t have much time, we’re busy here, and”—she broke off as she realized that Byron had slipped out after the newcomer’s arrival—“we’re shorthanded.”

  Next chance she got, she was going to smear suntan oil on the surface of Byron’s old-school longboard. It was a surfer’s prank guaranteed to give him a cold dunking when he tried to stand on his first wave of the day. She hadn’t grown up half Gidget for nothing.

  The captain drew out a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his sport coat. “Don’t worry, I won’t take up much of your time.”

  Bailey eyed the paper. “What do you have there?”

  “First off, I just want to extend the chamber’s appreciation for stepping forward, Bailey. We understand you have your own job, but this is important too. To your family and the community at large.”

  She didn’t bother wondering how he knew so much about the circumstances. Coronado comprised a mere seventy-five hundred households—and due to the military presence, that meant significantly fewer were full-time civilians. Those civilians were the kind of people who reveled in the small-town atmosphere that included plenty of small-town gossip.

  “We knew we could count on you, Bailey. We’re all glad you didn’t turn your back on The Perfect Christmas. It’s a landmark.”

  “An institution.” She should have turned her back on it. That would have been the easier path. But the weight of tradition and her innate firstborn perfectionism had rendered her genetically incapable of allowing the decades-old family business to fail on her watch. She’d had to at least try to make it better.

  “I’m doing my best until the twenty-fifth,” she said, making clear she had her limits, though. “After that…”

  The captain beamed through her warning. Bailey supposed she was glad someone still felt like smiling. She could barely breathe for the weight of the albatross.

  Which only got heavier as he held out the paper in his hand.

  “What’s this?” she asked, afraid to take it.

  He still wore his charming smile as he forced the sheet into her hands. “The chamber events scheduled for the store.”

  “Events? What events are those?” she asked, but slowly opened the paper. It outlined the next days until Christmas.

  Santa Storytelling Hours.r />
  Christmas Movie Nights. Which apparently included dessert.

  Tea for the walking tours on Saturday mornings.

  Her head shot up. “We can’t possibly do this. I don’t have the time or the extra employees necessary.”

  She’d pressed Byron and his twin, Brontë, to find her additional help, but they were more interested in the state of the surf than the state of the store’s staff. “I’m sorry, but The Perfect Christmas will have to back out of these events this year.”

  He was already shaking his head. “I know it might be difficult, but the flyers have been posted all over town for weeks. Concierges in the big hotels have organized groups of interested guests to attend together. We can’t disappoint the tourists. It’s our livelihood.”

  Behind her, Trin was whispering in appalled tones. “Bailey, he’s a veteran! You can’t let the general down. Who’ll bring snow to Maine?”

  Vermont.

  Albatross.

  She tried picturing Byron in the dry-cleaner-wrapped St. Nick costume hanging in the back office. Yo, dude. Have yourself a cool Yule.

  Bailey groaned. On her watch it was going to be the Big Kahuna playing the Big Claus. Terrific.

  But despite that, with Trin whispering behind her and the chamber’s representative wearing an expectant smile in front of her, she discovered she couldn’t say no to the gen—captain. President. Whatever.

  Whatever was wrong with her?

  She still didn’t have the answer to that question at 11:58 p.m. that night. Back from the store but unable to sleep, she was wide awake when the phone rang in her old room. Channeling her inner teenager, she automatically picked up the receiver on the little table beside her bed.

  Her spine jerked straight against her skinny pillow when she heard the voice on the other end.

  And she couldn’t say no to that person either.

  * * *

  Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas

  Facts & Fun Calendar

  December 6

  In 1843, British businessman Sir Henry Cole asked artist John Calcott Horsley to print some Christmas cards. One thousand cards were printed in black and white and then colored by hand. The cards, which depicted a happy family raising a toast, were criticized by some for promoting drunkenness.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  Bailey had showered after coming home from work and scrunched her hair dry, but she had to shimmy out of her flannel sleep pants and cotton-knit tank top. Considering the circumstances, she yanked on her black jeans, her stiletto-heeled black boots, then pulled over her head a tight black camisole followed by a looser, see-through silk one of midnight blue with black sequins sewn along the edge of the vee neckline.

  Without billy club or badge, but with two layers of brown-black mascara and plum-rose lip gloss, it was the best rescue uniform she could come up with on short notice. It said, “I’m a kick-ass babe and I’m in charge.”

  Or so she thought until she strode into the unfamiliar bar on the nontourist side of town. Simply named Hart’s it was located at the far corner of a small strip mall, next to a darkened nail salon. She’d gone through the single-wide, dinged-metal door with confidence.

  But as she stepped into the low-lit room that smelled of beer and loud aftershave, rocked by the noise and the vibration of a pumping bass line beneath the soles of her boots, her bravado drained right out of her.

  Had she ever walked into a bar by herself?

  Certainly not one like this.

  Though women accented the room here and there, it was mostly filled with men. Young men with shorn hair and muscular bodies. Military men, she deduced, who liked their beer and their raucous music. In one dark corner a few couples moved on a scarred dance floor. In another, dueling pool tables glowed green under drop lights.

  When a knot of tough-looking men turned to check her out, she almost backed through the door.

  But she’d promised Mrs. Jacobson to retrieve Finn and bring him back safely. How could she fail an eighty-something-year-old lady who had crocheted the receiving blanket she’d been bundled into for her trip home from the hospital?

  Then there was Finn himself, of course. She couldn’t help but be concerned about him after his grandmother said he’d called, clearly inebriated. She didn’t want him driving himself home. The elderly woman swore she’d have gone after him herself, but she’d recently given up her license.

  Bailey didn’t want Finn driving himself home either. She owed him that, at least. After all, it was Finn who’d held her hair off her face and out of the gutter when she’d puked up wine coolers until her belly button hurt.

  Seventeen and stupid.

  Now she was twenty-eight and on a rescue mission.

  Except she didn’t see Finn anywhere.

  Then a man blocked her view. He was huge, one of those shaved-head, biceps-like-hams types, who looked as if he spent Sunday afternoons wearing blue face paint and yellow San Diego Chargers bolts on his cheeks. His voice was hoarse, as if still recovering from screaming for the team. “Can I get you something?”

  When she felt for the doorknob behind her, a little smile played over his mouth. It made him look almost like a human being. “The manicure place is next door, hon. They won’t open again until nine in the morning, though.”

  Somehow it was a relief to know he didn’t believe she belonged here either.

  Another man walked up to the first. “Troy—” he started, breaking off as he glanced her way. “Bailey? Bailey Sullivan?”

  She knew who this was, though it had been a decade since she’d seen Tanner Hart in person. There was no mistaking his blue eyes, his golden-haired, movie-star good looks. Six months ago he’d become a media sensation, though then he’d been clean-shaven and his blond hair cut tight to his head. Now it was reaching his shoulders and the gold stubble on his chin hadn’t seen a razor in a couple of days.

  Obviously Tanner had changed his life since the incident that had caused Finn to warn: “Don’t mention it if you see him.” So she stuck to general niceties.

  “Hey, Tanner. Fancy, uh, meeting you here.”

  “This is where I work.” He jerked his thumb at the Mr. Clean look-alike who’d first spoken to her. “This is my brother, the bar’s owner, Troy Hart. Troy, this is Bailey Sullivan.”

  Her hand disappeared inside Troy’s huge paw, as she recalled what she knew about him. Heroism was a Hart family tradition. He’d won more than his share of medals in Afghanistan.

  When her fingers were returned to her, surprisingly unscathed, she looked over at Tanner. “I’m here for Finn. His grandmother sent me to bring him home.”

  “Sent you?” Tanner echoed.

  “I live right next door, if you remember. I promised I’d rescue him, since he’s apparently pretty, um, intoxicated. Is he here? Have you seen him?”

  Tanner and Troy exchanged a glance. It must have spoken volumes, because Troy backed off with a little wave while Tanner crowded her toward the door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure I confiscate his keys. He’ll, uh, stay the night with me. Or, uh, something.”

  “So you’ve seen him?” She rose on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder. “He’s here?”

  “You bet. Sure. And he’s fine.” Tanner kept moving her backward. “I’ll take care of it. Make sure he comes out okay. You have my word. Scout’s honor. Cross my heart.”

  Bailey’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t manage a law firm peopled by a bunch of motor-mouth attorneys without learning a thing or two about what a bunch of fast talk could really mean. Planting her feet on the sticky floor, she crossed her arms over her chest. “What aren’t you telling me? I’m not leaving until I know he’s okay. I promised his grandmother, Tanner. I won’t go until I at least see him.”

  He rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin. “Listen, Bailey. Finn…Finn hits the bottle kinda hard, now and then. When he does, I watch out for him. He’s not going to get into any real trouble.”

  Her stomach cl
enched. Not any “real” trouble. What did Tanner mean by that? She pictured a broken nose, bloody lips. Finn picking bar fights. Or worse, Finn stumbling around in the dark, half blind and prey to criminals, pickpockets. Maybe even terrorists. Remember, he was a federal agent.

  She clutched Tanner’s arm, even as she realized she might be overreacting just a tad. “Take me to him. I’ll get him home right now.”

  “Bailey—”

  “Tanner, I’m not leaving until I at least see him for myself.”

  The guy who’d been the lead story on more than one infotainment television program groaned. “You don’t—”

  “I certainly do.”

  Shaking his head, Tanner turned. “My life sucks,” he muttered. Then he pulled her by the wrist, leading her left to a part of the bar she’d missed before. Jutting off from the main area was a smaller room, filled with more tables and chairs, another couple of pool tables, and in one corner…Santa.

  Santa Finn, with a bevy of giggling beauties lined up before him, all ready to sit on his lap and tell the pirate what they wanted for Christmas.

  A red-and-white fleece hat perched sloppily on his dark head. Candy canes poked from the pocket of his shirt. And after each woman whispered her secrets in his oh-so-eager ear, he gave her a piece of candy…and a lingering kiss.

  Something told her Finn Jacobson wouldn’t relish her rescue.

  Which was exactly why she took her place at the back of the line.

  The women shuffled forward slowly, since Finn took his sweet time with each lady. It gave Bailey plenty of minutes to work up a good mad. Oh, he was going to cringe when she got through with him.

  Because he gave each woman his full attention (not to mention a swat on the butt as she left his knee), he didn’t see her coming until she was right in front of him. Even then he wasn’t fully aware of the trouble he was in because he was checking out his stash of candy sticks as he automatically curved an arm around her waist and drew her nearer.

  “Have you been a good little girl?” he asked absently, still looking down as he pulled her onto his lap.