by Kim Boykin
“Night Em’,” Miranda drawled. “Love you.”
Emma gave her a know-it-all smirk and started up her walkway as Logan backed out of the drive.
“I’m surprised at you,” he said, putting the car in drive and heading up the street. “We’ve been in Magnolia Run, what? Three minutes, and you haven’t said a word.” She wouldn’t let him bait her. No way. “Come on. I know you want to. Charleston wannabes. And just look at those blower boxes dotting the lawns. Bet you’re thanking God all of those blowups aren’t inflated. Barbarians.”
“You think you know so much, Logan Mauldin?” She really really tried to huff but it came out kind of flirty. He stopped about twenty feet shy of the stop sign and grinned at her. “I happen to like those blowups, especially the ones attached to the roof that make it look like Santa really is coming up the chimney. I love every aspect of Christmas, especially decorations, unlike this house,” she pointed to the single house on the corner with a very sad looking red bow on the mailbox and no decorations anywhere, not even a wreath on the door.
He whipped into the driveway. “What are you doing?” she gasped.
“You’re right.” He turned his brights on, illuminating the brick single house with the cheery red door, but not the first Christmas light. “I can see that you’re dying to stage an intervention.” He shoved the car into park and got out.
“Are you insane? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”
“These people obviously need help; they need a little Christmas. Hell, a lot of Christmas. Just look at that pitiful bow.” Could he read her mind?
“These people would be within their rights to shoot you. I know I would if you showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night.”
He was leaning against the doorframe, looking delicious and goading her.
She wasn’t buying it. The red bow on the mailbox flapped at her, teasing her. Yes, it needed about three yards more ribbon. Yes, it needed a good fluffing at the very least. She fought the urge to get out of the car and shape the hopefully wire rimmed fabric into a proper looking bow. “It’s red. It’s Christmas. It’s fine,” she gritted out. “Now get back in the car.”
“Come on, Miranda. You know you want to. Let’s just go ring the doorbell.”
She’d heard those words before. When she was twelve and he and his friends talked her and Dusty and Hannah into ringing doorbells then dashing on Halloween night. They only did it to the people who didn’t hand out candy. It was harmless and of course annoying as hell to the homeowners. But when they got caught, Logan had caved like the spineless preteen that he was. And blamed it on her.
“Logan. Get back in the car. Now.” She reached across the console and tried to grab his arm. “Not everyone even celebrates Christmas. I’m sure these people are busy. Or something.”
“Too busy for Christmas? Then we definitely need to intervene.” He was trying to keep a straight face, but wasn’t doing a very good job. “You get out of the car, and let’s do our civic duty. I guess it would really be our Christmas duty. Doesn’t matter. We’ll tell them we’re co-chairs of the Christmas committee. That should carry some weight. Don’t you think?”
She leaned so far over the console, her boobs were almost falling out of her sweater. If that’s what this was about, just sneaking a peek, she was going to kill him. She might just kill him anyway. Thankfully, her fingers latched onto his shirtsleeve and she tugged with both hands.
“Get back in the car now,” she hissed. He obeyed, grinning at her.
“But this is serious, Miranda. We’re talking Christmas here.”
“You are the most exasperating man I have ever—.”
“Relax, Miranda. It’s my house. I sold mine a couple streets over and closed on this one about a week ago.”
She punched his arm hard and he didn’t flinch. “Christmas intervention my—” And why was she always bringing up her ass, to him? She wasn’t interested in him. Not one little bit. “Eye.” And he was looking into her eyes with a wicked smile. He licked his lips and she wanted to what? Lick them too? Bite the bottom one? “The show’s over, Logan. You can take me home now.”
“I’m sorry for teasing you,” he said the words, but the twinkle in his eyes said different. “Come inside, and let me make it up to you.” Yes, her girl parts cheered. Yes. Yes. Yes. “Not like you think,” he added hastily, and the cheers changed to boos. “I owe you for riling you. A drink. A tour of the anti-Christmas home.”
“It’s not anti per se.”
“I don’t even put a tree up.” He laughed when she flinched at his words. He was still teasing her. Wasn’t he? “I don’t have to. Mom does enough Christmas for everybody.”
“I’m really tired, Logan.”
No she wasn’t. Not even a little bit. And she was surprised at how relieved she was when Emma got out of the car and it was just the two of them. What if she did go inside his fancy new home? What if she did turn off her brain and let herself have that drink? Would she end up in his bed? Probably. No, the way he was looking at her, like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, she absolutely would. Unless, he opened his mouth, because the man lived to exasperate her. Case in point? The Christmas intervention. But before that, on their non-date, he had seemed—. What? She wasn’t sure but he was definitely different. “Please, just take me home.”
Ten minutes later, he pulled up in front of her house and killed the engine.
“Logan.” She put her hand on his and then pulled back when she felt that damn current that always passed between them. “If you repeat what I’m about to say, I’ll have to kill you, but the band was really good.”
It was meant to be funny. He’d laugh. She’d laugh and they’d go their separate ways.
“Bootie Call.” He smiled, making her wet.
She needed to get back to the humor that helped them ignore this thing between them. Even his teasing was better than admitting that just being in the same car with him was messing with her. “Yes. Jesus. Bootie Call.”
“You didn’t blush,” he said, looking at her with the most gorgeous green eyes she’d ever seen.
She hadn’t blushed. Why had she done it in the first place? And what had changed that she could say those two little words to him now with no reaction other than her girl parts doing the happy dance. “The band is a great fit for the cotillion,” she said, softly. And if she didn’t get out of that car, she was going to climb him like a tree. “Thank you.”
He smiled at those words, then glanced at the cottage that looked like a Carolina Christmas card, which basically meant an inordinate number of Christmas lights, trees with Spanish moss, and no snow. He turned in his seat to face her.
“Sorry for giving you shit. I know you love Christmas,” he said, looking at her like she was the only girl in the world. “You love everything wrapped up in lights, don’t you?”
Oh, God, she was picturing him all tangled up in lights, lying beside her, with that smile that made her feel things for him she shouldn’t feel. Didn’t want to feel.
“Everybody loves Christmas lights,” she laughed, “and who doesn’t love Christmas?”
“I know what your nightmare is. No lights. Lousy bows. An artificial tree. But what’s your idea of the perfect Christmas?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, you know; I’d bet everything I own on it. So, what’s the one thing you’ve always wanted for Christmas but you never had?”
Him. Shit. Okay, this was getting ridiculous; she had to do something. If she didn’t get out of that car and into her house, alone, she was going to do something stupid. She had a house full of guests. If he walked her to the door and kissed her on her doorstep like he did this morning, she’d probably drag him inside, race him to her bed and wear him out. And it had been so long since she’d had sex, or really good sex, and she had suspected that’s the only kind Logan Mauldin had.
But the guests would hear; there’d be complaints, not that she’d ever complai
ned when couples got after it. And there’d be lousy reviews on all the B&B websites. Great stay except for the owner having wild monkey sex all night long.
Not to mention the fact that it would never work with Logan. They were too much alike, all type-A and smart mouthed. The wild monkey sex might be good—scratch that—fantastic, but they’d drive each other nuts like they had their whole lives. And if she really wanted that wild monkey sex, she would have taken him up on his offer at his house.
The little voice in the part of her brain that wasn’t all sass and vinegar spoke up. Except for that very first kiss in the shed. Oh, and let’s not forget the one this morning.
But he’d broken her heart once without even knowing it. Which accounted for one of the many reasons she couldn’t stand Pammy Anderson. Sure it’d been a long time ago, but there was that one night, when they were in collage, that had shown her how much she liked Logan. How very hard she could fall for him if she wasn’t careful. How much he could hurt her. Did hurt her.
Besides, he was Logan Mauldin, for God’s sake. Women like Pammy and Candice Johnson were always throwing themselves at him. Well, let them have him. She didn’t need that.
“Come on, Miranda, the one thing that would make your Christmas perfect.”
“It ridiculous.” Could she really tell him? Would he laugh his ass off? Of course he would.
“The perfect compliment to your favorite time of the year. Tell me.”
She blew out a breath. “Snow.”
He did laugh. Snow? In the Lowcoutry? Where the temperature on Christmas Day usually hovered around 65 degrees?
“I know, wanting the impossible. Crazy, huh?”
And then he wasn’t laughing anymore; he was looking at her like he knew exactly what it felt like to want the impossible.
“I need to go, Logan.” So why wasn’t she getting out of the car?
“When can I see you again?” he asked, slight smile. Serious.
“I’ll see you at the next committee meeting.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“And you know, this wasn’t a date,” she said.
He rubbed his thumb across her cheek. “Miranda.” He breathed out her name, and, boy, did the car heat up fast. “It’s after one o’clock in the morning.” He leaned across the console. “I picked you up. I brought you home, and now I’m going to kiss you.”
And then he did. He nuzzled her lips, his breath on her cheek. When she licked her bottom lip, he took that as permission and slanted his mouth over hers. His hands slid into her hair and held her in place while their tongues tangled. When it ended, she was clutching his shirt for all she was worth and couldn’t catch her breath. She hurried out of the car and up the walkway to her front steps, but he was right beside her.
“Really not necessary—.” She barely got the last word out before he pulled her into him and kissed her again, soft at first but then deeper. Hotter. One of his hands tangled in her hair, the other, sliding down to cup her butt. She meant to pull away; she really did. Instead, she sank her fingers into his hair and lost herself in him.
When the kiss ended, he looked up at the mistletoe suspended above them with a bright red satin ribbon and plucked a berry off. “There,” he said, “that’s one,” smiling down at her, knowing full well he had weakened her considerably.
She unpeeled herself from him and smoothed her hand over her sweater like nothing had happened. “One what?”
“You know the tradition.”
Yes, she did, but it was folklore. A Magnolia Bay legend about a Christmas miracle. A berry plucked off of the mistletoe for each kiss. Whoever gets the last berry, gets the girl.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Logan, this wasn’t even a date.”
He plucked another berry off the sprig and then kissed her again. Tenderly. Melting her to the bone. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”
Chapter Eight
‡
She’d let Logan’s calls go straight to voicemail and had ignored his text messages that had gone from Last night was fun. Do you want to grab dinner? to apologetic. Look, I’m really really sorry about the intervention thing. I could have sworn by the way you kissed me that you’d forgiven me.
Kissed him? Bah. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Because it would be a big mistake to get carried away with Logan Mauldin. By Logan Mauldin. And she didn’t need that.
But she had gone out with the very yummy John Jackson who was a very good kisser, thank you very much. Sure, he didn’t make her heart flip over in her chest or lust zing around her body like a triple shot of espresso like Logan did, but he could learn to be a great kisser. He was certainly willing. Able. Maybe heart flipping and lust zinging could be taught because Miranda really wanted to have those things with John. Anybody, other than Logan.
“Good morning.” The couple from Maryland, who got in late last night, breezed into the kitchen, reminding Miranda that she should have been finishing breakfast instead of ruminating over Logan. “Are those toasted nuts? They smell divine.”
“Morning y’all. Sorry breakfast is a smidge late. I just need to heat up the syrup and finish toasting the pecans real quick,” Miranda said, taking the last of the crispy apple wood smoked bacon out of the pan and turning the burner off. “You’re in for a real treat, red velvet pancakes, an Ivy Cottage Christmas tradition. Just help yourself to coffee and juice on the buffet in the dining room, and I’ll be right out.”
“Oooo,” Ms. Maryland said. “Sounds delightful. Doesn’t it, Dave?”
“Well, don’t expect it to make up for no TV in the room. If I’d known that, we would have stayed at a Holiday Inn last night,” Mr. Maryland snapped. “I missed the damn Ravens game, and they’re probably gonna make it to the playoffs this year.”
When he’d walked into the kitchen, Miranda knew the problem before he opened his mouth. Wasn’t the first time she’d seen a man all miffed about being someplace with no TV, except for the one in Miranda’s private quarters. The wives were always so ecstatic about staying in a romantic B&B, they usually made sure that the pouting didn’t last very long. Sometime it took a matter of hours for them to lay down their cross, others, a day or two, but Dave was going to be an easy convert. He was eyeing the stack of fluffy red pancakes beside the griddle. Maybe even salivating.
“I promise, Dave,” Miranda drawled, taking the cookie sheet with toasted pecans out of the oven. “My red velvet pancakes are better than any old football game.”
“We’ll see,” he snipped and headed for the coffee.
“Sorry about that,” Miss Maryland said.
“I meant what I said. I’ll have him groveling in no time,” Miranda smiled. She made sure the buffet was perfect with scrambled eggs, grits, bacon and her near world-famous pancakes. Then she went back into the kitchen to clean up and wait for the inevitable.
It took a little longer than she thought, but she’d still have time to make it to Classic Party Rentals in Mt. Pleasant to finalize the details for the cotillion. She wasn’t surprised to see Dave in her kitchen instead of his wife. Coffee cup in hand.
“Oh, my, don’t tell me we’re out of coffee,” she said, playing dumb.
He looked down at his cup. Wait for it. Wait for it. “My wife was wondering,” he began. Miranda’s eyebrows were probably close to her hairline. “I was wondering if we could have the recipe. For the pancakes. They are good.” Her eyebrows were still at a perilous level. “Great. Really great.”
“Great enough to make up for missing the game last night?” Miranda teased.
Cute, portly, sixty-something Dave blushed like a little girl. “Best I ever had.”
Tomorrow, Dave would be begging her for the shrimp and grits recipe, and the one for crab cakes the day after that.
*
Logan turned down Coleman Boulevard to grab some lunch at Shem Creek and maybe a beer. Yeah, it was a little early for drinks, but his meeting with the Mt. Pleasant city planner hadn’t gone well.
He got her to buy into his plan to renovate an old strip center that had seen better days. It was across the street from a group of trendy, sterile-looking condos that looked like they belonged in Moscow instead of Mt. Pleasant. The city planner wanted the shopping center to mirror the condos, but Logan would be damned before that would happen. He’d have to come up with another way to get her to go for his plan to make the place look more like Pitt Street in quaint Old Mt. Pleasant or the Main Street shops in Magnolia Bay.
He was stopped at a light on Coleman Boulevard when he noticed Miranda get out of her car and disappear into Classic Party Rentals. It had pissed him off that she’d ignored his phone calls and texts. He’d considered stopping by her house again, but the idea that she might let him stand on her doorstep until hell froze over to prove that she wasn’t interested in him was enough of a deterrent.
But here? She was a nice Southern girl. She wouldn’t make a scene. Would she? He pulled into the parking lot beside her car and hurried inside.
“I have an appointment with Jemma,” she drawled to the receptionist. “Miranda Hamilton—.”
“And Logan,” he said, extending his hand to the doe-eyed receptionist. “Mauldin.”
“Oh, hi,” she breathed, making him wish he had the same effect on Miranda. “Logan, right?” she said with a flirty look.
Miranda was doing her dead level best to look unaffected by his presence and gorgeous in dangerously high heels, some kind of flirty short black skirt and a cobalt-colored top that accentuated her furious blue eyes.
“Yeah, and Miranda,” he added.
The receptionist giggled and tried an extension. “Jemma’s on her line. Have a seat, and I’ll just run back and let her know you’re waiting.”
“Take your time. I’m in no hurry,” he said.
Miranda glared at him. “That makes one of us,” she snapped.
He was prepared for her to light into him the moment the receptionist disappeared through a door, and she didn’t disappoint. “What in the hell are you doing here?”