First to Fight Box Set: Books 1-5

by Nicole Blanchard

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “If you think I’m saying you’re about to be a father again, then you’re right.”

  I’m struck dumb and only manage to hold onto her hands as she works a miracle for the second time in one night.

  While they repeat the same procedure for the second baby, I turn to Piper. “Twins?”

  She laughs softly and holds out her hands. “I tried to tell you a million times, but you wouldn’t let me.”

  I can’t find words.

  “Here you are, Daddy,” a nurse says and then places another baby in my arms. “Ten fingers and ten toes,” she announces happily.

  The baby in my arms is identical to his brother. It hits me like a shockwave, and I look up to my wife, who’s smiling softly at the baby in her arms. “Twins?”

  “Twins.”

  “Two boys.”

  She laughs. “That’s right.”

  “I should have known.”

  “Well, I was the size of a small country.”

  With our boys asleep in our arms, I lean over and kiss her. “You were beautiful.”

  She smiles and gazes at me with tired eyes. “Thank you,” she says.

  I trace the curve of my son’s cheek. “For what?”

  “For everything.”

  This causes me to look up and frown. “What do you mean?”

  She cups my cheek with her free hand. “If you weren’t so damn persistent, I’d never have this. I’d never have you. So thank you. When I lost my sister, it was as if I lost a part of myself. Finding you, it’s almost as if I have it back. You made me whole again, Logan. So thank you.”

  I kiss the baby’s forehead. “I’m pretty sure you’ve just given me the only thank you I’ll ever need.”

  “I’ve been thinking about names.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Preston and Lennox.”

  She doesn’t have to explain. P for her sister and Lennox for the friend she lost. “They’re perfect.”

  Later that night, after the doctors have cleaned up the room and the babies have been fed and are sleeping in their respective bassinets, I climb into the bed with her and hold her close to me.

  “What a day,” she says and yawns.

  “Why don’t you get some rest?” I suggest. “You have to be exhausted, and they’ll be up soon.”

  “Just a little nap,” she says and snuggles against my chest. “Stay right here?”

  I wrap an arm around her waist and rest my chin on her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Faith

  Holidays never end well in my family.

  “Faith,” my sister Lila hisses from the entrance to the dining room.

  I turn away from the annual sharing of presents going on in the living room and glare at her. It’s been a mild holiday for us. One that hasn’t devolved into someone calling the cops or an all-out brawl in the front yard. “What?”

  I have my eye on the medium-sized box sitting just under the tree. Aunt Ethel has been giving me suspicious glances all night, and I know she must have gotten my name. After thorough reconnaissance, I ferreted out which of the gifts under the tree she brought. Ethel always has a heavy hand with the presents, so I know it’ll be good, and I don’t want to miss when they call my name.

  Lila skirts around two of our cousins with a harried smile. “We have a problem,” she whispers in my ear as her fingers wrap vise-like around my upper arm.

  A collective gasp comes from the living room, and I stretch up to my toes to see over the heads of the crowd. With my eyes on the biggest present of the bunch, I say, “Did Grandpa get into the eggnog again?”

  “What? No.”

  “Good. The last thing anyone needs is another look at those cinnamon buns again.” I shiver just thinking about it. There are some things you just don't need to know about your grandparents. What they look like naked is all of them.

  “Jesus, Faith, pay attention," Lila hisses.

  I turn to her and remove her hand from my arm. “What’s the problem? It can’t be worse than Grandpa streaking across the front lawn.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says with a heavy dose of sarcasm, “would you consider Aunt Marie not bringing our guest of honor a present for the Secret Santa exchange a problem?”

  “You’re kidding,” I say. Though, I’m not very surprised.

  There’s always that one miserable individual who decides they don’t want or need to take part and forgoes purchasing a gift. I thought no one would dare forget to bring a gift for this recipient.

  Lila’s expression is grim and for a good reason. The present in question is for local legend and hero, Scott Green, who returned from Afghanistan a year ago minus a limb.

  My parents are patriotic to the extreme, my father having served for twenty years. So, when he heard Scott would spend the holiday alone, he invited—or ordered—Scott to attend our annual Christmas party. It must have been an oversight to allow his Secret Santa to be Aunt Marie—a bad one.

  “I’m serious as a friggin’ heart attack.” Lila wipes a hand over her sweaty brow. “Dad doesn’t know yet, but Mom’s been keeping track of all the Santa’s and their gifts, and she told me to figure something out.”

  A glance back to the living room shows the gift swapping still in full swing. I scan the attendants, but Scott isn’t among them. I haven’t laid eyes on him yet, but my brother Paul saw him earlier. With as many family members as we fit in our little house during the holidays, it’s no real wonder I haven’t met him yet. Hordes of them part around us on their way to the kitchen or the bathrooms causing us to squeeze against the wall to escape the crush. Clouds of perfume and cologne make me wrinkle my nose. We have to shout to hear one another.

  “What the hell are we supposed to do now?” I ask Lila.

  She bites a nail. “Do you think we have time to run to the store?”

  I glance at my watch as if it’ll have answers. “Depends. How many people are waiting on presents? Did Mom say?”

  Lila grimaces. “Okay. Okay. What about money? Too crass to give him money?”

  I snort. “That's an excellent idea. That’s like the ultimate pass-off gift. No imagination.”

  Lila glares at me. “You’re not helping!”

  “I’m thinking!”

  A crash comes from the kitchen, and Lila whips around. “Oh, no!” she shrieks. “Grandpa’s into the eggnog. You handle the present, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t drink himself out of his clothes again.”

  I open my mouth to protest and then remember seeing Grandpa naked. She got the worse out of the two. How hard could it be to find a present for this guy? With one last mournful look at the box under the tree, I cross the room to where my mother sits.

  She’s in the middle of the melee, calling out names from a little sheet. We tried to do it without moderation one year, which resulted in one of the more epic police visits. Her wild eyes meet mine, but her panic doesn’t show in her voice when she calls out the next name to receive their gift.

  “Did your sister talk to you?” she asks under her breath.

  “Yes, she did. I’m working on it.”

  Relief wipes away the tightness around her eyes and mouth. “Thank goodness. Your father will kill Marie. I only have a couple people left before Scott, and if we don’t figure something out, that poor boy will be the only one here without a present. I swear that woman doesn’t have a damn thing between her ears except meanness.”

  “Do you have any presents stashed away in the closet?”

  Mom stops mid-name and glares at me. “What do you mean ‘stashed away in the closet’?”

  “C’mon, Mom, you can’t think I didn’t know where you keep them.”

  “Faith Louise, you better not have been snooping around my closet.”

  I roll my eyes. “Let’s not get off track here. We don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m not off track. I’m on track. And you’ll damn well make time,
young lady. How long have you known?” Her eyes widen. “Christmas of ’07. I knew you weren’t surprised about the life-sized cardboard cutout of that movie star you liked.”

  I heave a groan. “Mom, this is not the time. Everyone has a re-gift stash somewhere. We can debate about it later.”

  She doesn’t seem to hear me. “You’d think a teenaged girl would be excited about something like that, but no, not you. Why do you always have to make everything so complicated?”

  Someone laughs behind me, making my shoulders tense. It’s a male laugh. A mocking laugh.

  “I’ll go look myself,” I say through gritted teeth before spinning around. Though the stranger is vaguely familiar, I can’t put a name to a face. I may not recognize him, but I understand the humor in his all-too-attractive warm brown eyes. Having no time for a stranger's evident joy in my humiliation, I bite out a prim, “Excuse me,” and give the guy a tight smile before scooting past him.

  I squeeze through the crowded hallway to my parents’ bedroom and push through the door. The couple on their bed springs apart, and I cover my eyes with one hand.

  “Jesus, God,” I squeak. “Uncle Melvin?”

  “Hey, buttercup.” There is a series of rapid whispers and the tell-tale sound of squeaking bed springs. “We’ll just . . .. er . . . get out of your way.”

  I ease into the room using my hands to guide myself along the wall and wait. When I’m sure it’s safe, I peer through my narrowed eyes and sigh in relief when I find the room empty.

  Mom is shouting from the living room, and it’s a testament to her desperation I can hear her over the pulsing Christmas music and the loud conversation. “Next to last for our Christmas Secret Santa . . .” she yells.

  I yank open the closet door and, just as I suspected, find dozens of wrapped gifts. There’s a pile to the right of ones yet to be stuffed in a gift box or painstakingly smothered by gift wrap, so I get to my knees and paw through it.

  There are gift sets of body washes, perfumes, and lotions. I dismiss those and reach for a likely box with branding geared toward men. It’s a gift set for flavored lubricant “for his pleasure,” which I throw as far away from me as possible. For a few horrifying seconds, I wonder who the hell bought it for my mother.

  “And our last Secret Santa . . .”

  My stomach plummets as I get to my feet and scramble back down the hallway, elbowing past relatives. I reach the living room, breathless, and try to wave down my mother’s attention, but Uncle Melvin and his lady love block her from seeing me. They couldn’t care less about what is going on around them, either. They are much more interested in the mistletoe hanging overhead.

  “Is our hometown hero, Scott Green!” Mom finishes and looks my way with an expectant expression.

  I make panicked eyes at her, but the crowd in the hallway is already parting, and I hear the dreaded steps of Scott making his way to the living room.

  Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!

  I’ve never dealt well with pressure. Public speaking gives me hives. I’m known to call in on test days or big presentations. When all eyes swing in my direction, and I look up to find the man who laughed at me after my awkward conversation with Mom, I’m about three seconds away from having a veritable meltdown.

  I didn’t get a good look at him before, because I wished he’d disappear and stop enjoying my moment of humiliation, but I get an eyeful when he draws to a stop next to me.

  He’s wearing a red-green-and-black flannel shirt with the top three buttons undone. I’d never noticed how tempting such a suggestive expanse of skin could be. Those three buttons make my fingers itch to undo the rest. A silver chain disappears into the shadows beneath, and my eyes try to see through the material. I have the sudden urge to reach in there and feel the skin-warmed metal for myself. The sleeves of the shirt are rolled to his elbows and leave his muscular forearms and rough-hewn hands bare.

  Realizing I’m staring—and so is everyone else—I flick my gaze to my mom, whose eyes are wide as she mouths, “Where’s his present?”

  Panic spears through me, and I whip back to Scott. His dark gaze studies me as if we have all the time in the world, a little smile playing around his lips.

  Uncle Melvin and his lady push me to get out of the limelight—no doubt to find another room in which to make out. My gaze lifts and my stomach clenches when the mistletoe in the doorway that inspired their kiss only seconds before fills my line of sight.

  “Faith,” I hear my mother hiss. She clears her throat. “Faith has your present, Scott.”

  Wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes as he full-on smiles. “I must have been a good boy this year,” he says in a low voice that shoots through me like a good shot of whiskey, warm and dark with a hint of heat.

  The crowd around me laughs, and I smile half-heartedly. All the attention is making my heart beat double time in my chest. I resist the need to rub my hands on my dress and glance again to the top of the doorway.

  Scott’s smile turns contemplative, and he follows my look up to the mistletoe. There’s a tense pause where his throat bobs with a swallow before he looks back at me, and his smile melts from his lips.

  “Faith,” Mom says, her voice leaning toward high-pitched. “Why don’t you give Scott his present?”

  “Yes,” Scott says, his eyes still twinkling at my discomfort, “why don’t you?”

  There’s a dull thudding in my ears, and my heart is beating so fast I could use some of Grandpa’s medication. Before I can second-guess myself, I take a step forward, place my hands on his shoulders, and press my lips to his.

  Scott

  The soft brush of her lips packs more shock value than the bombs that took away my life, my leg, and my future. It is also much more unexpected.

  My hands go up to her shoulders because, if I don’t hold on to something, I might stumble.

  As if I need another reason to make a fool of myself.

  With her soft lips on mine, for a split second, I’m glad I didn’t turn down her father’s invitation to join the party.

  At first, when I realized there was a problem with my Secret Santa gift, I wanted to see what she’d do to smooth it over. I thought she would offer an apology. Maybe she'd come up with a last-minute mercy gift. After all, I am just the stray they brought in for the night so I didn't have to spend the holidays alone. Then a challenging look entered her sexy cat-eyes, and for the first time in over a year, I looked forward to what would happen next.

  I imagine her nerves are from excitement. It’s been a long time since I made a woman tremble, and even longer since I managed it without taking her clothes off first.

  She didn’t seem like a person to kiss a random guy under the mistletoe. I had her pegged as more of the studious, shy type. She wasn’t a bombshell—I knew as much from the brief glance I got during her conversation with her mom. I wish I knew what she’d been talking about that made her cheeks turn such a delectable shade of pink. Her deep maroon sweater dress covered most of her body, but it also clung to it, hinting at the curves beneath. I’d laughed at her because I’d had the sudden desire to rip it right off her. Her friends and family be damned.

  I shift to take pressure off my prosthetic, and it causes my chest to brush against hers and the front of my jeans to graze her stomach. I suck in a breath at the responding shock to my nerve endings, and she breaks away with a small gasp.

  Around us, the crowd bursts into applause and raucous cheers. She takes a step backward, glancing around with those wide eyes again. I look down at her—Faith, her name is Faith—and I have the urge to brush back her soft, brunette curls and drag her mouth back to mine, the crowd surrounding us is the least of my concerns. The urge is so visceral I take a step forward, following her in her retreat. Her eyes snap back and the nervous little smile on her lips fades.

  I see a mirror of my own desire in her eyes right before a hand claps on my back, knocking me off balance. “Some present, huh, Green?” Peter says, grinning at me. His chee
ks are ruddy from too much laughter and a healthy dose of spiked eggnog. Thankfully, he’s in a good enough mood and doesn’t look like he'll rip my balls off for putting my mouth on his daughter.

  The kiss wasn’t my idea, but if I had her alone again, I’d do more than kiss her.

  Afraid he’ll see the naked truth of it on my face, I duck around him. “What do you have to drink in this joint?” I ask as I make my way down a darkened hall I hope leads to the kitchen.

  “That’s my boy!” Peter bellows behind me. “Just don’t let Grandpa get into it,” he adds.

  I nod, but my mind isn’t on his words. It’s on his daughter.

  Shit, I need a drink.

  Christmas used to be a big deal in my family. Now I’m the only one left and traditions don’t seem to mean as much when there's no one to share them with. However, it’s the time of year where people feel the need to take pity on their less fortunate neighbors. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. My mom taught me enough manners that I couldn’t turn down Peter Thompson’s offer to join his family for their Christmas party. His father served with mine, and it would have been an insult to say no.

  With the Secret Santa ordeal concluded, most of the family has gathered in the living room to watch a Christmas movie together. I heard rumblings about it when I arrived. Apparently, they all get together, some sprawled on the couches, some reclined in chairs, and all the rest camped on the floor, to pick a movie to cap off the party. Someone supplies hot chocolate or cider, popcorn, and coffee.

  Not something I want to take part in, so the kiss gave me an excuse to escape.

  The kitchen is empty, but the remnants of dinner are scattered everywhere. Hollowed out serving dishes cover every available counter space and someone left the faucet running.

  I cross the room and turn the water off, feeling out of place. I know I don’t belong here, but social convention still matters on some level. If not that, then loyalty to Peter, for my dad. All I want to do is find somewhere to escape and the mess in the kitchen provides just the right reprieve. It’s the least I can do for his family. They invited me over, even if I didn’t want their sympathy.