Christmas with a SEAL

by Tawny Weber

  Head tilted to one side, she asked, “Why?”

  “I’d like to take you to dinner.”

  * * *

  “DINNER?”

  Phillip wanted to take her out to dinner?

  Seriously?

  Frankie considered doing a little happy dance, right then and there. The only thing that stopped her was the fact that she knew she’d look ridiculous.

  That, and the chance that she had misunderstood. She hated getting her hopes up, since the inevitable fall always hurt so badly.

  “Dinner. The meal at the end of the day,” Phillip confirmed.

  “The two of us? You and me?” she said, her hopes tentatively rising.

  What would they talk about? More important, what would she wear? Did he mean dinner in public? Or here? Frankie bit her lip, irritated at the surge of self-doubts. A hot, sexy, fantasy-inspiring guy was asking her out and all she could do was worry? What was wrong with her?

  “I assume there might be a waiter, a chef, maybe other restaurant patrons,” Phillip mused, his tone serious. But there was amusement in his eyes.

  It was that humor, more than anything else, that relaxed her.

  He was so cute, how could she say no?

  “Friday would be lovely,” she agreed, trying to sound gracious instead of giddy with delight.

  “Seven?”

  “Seven,” she agreed, smiling. Then, realizing that there were less than four days for shopping between now and then, she realized she’d better get it in gear. “I should go.”

  “Would you have thrown that?” he asked before she could leave, nodding toward her hand.

  Frankie frowned at the plate, surprised the china hadn’t melted from her body heat.

  “Of course not,” she said, a little horrified at the idea. Throw his own plate at him? How rude would that be? Besides, her grandmother would kill her.

  So why did he look disappointed?

  “You don’t throw plates?”

  “Not a Meissen, for crying out loud. And in the Banks house?” The image of her grandmother’s reaction flashed through her mind, and Frankie shuddered. “Never.”

  His eyes glinted.

  “Other plates? In another place?”

  She wanted to say no. Tossing plates, throwing fits, it was so unladylike.

  But she couldn’t lie to him.

  “Sometimes. But only if I’m really angry.” Or frustrated. Or if her creativity was blocked. Or there were no cookies left in the cookie jar.

  But there was no need to overshare.

  She waited for him to rescind his dinner invitation.

  Instead, he grinned.

  The smile lit up his face, his green eyes glowing with something—Frankie didn’t know what. But it made her want to strip off her clothes and climb on top of him. Or maybe that was just a residual effect from his kiss.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured.

  She didn’t understand him.

  She knew he was right, that the choices they’d made before might not have been the best ones.

  It had been easy to write that night in Vegas off to creativity-inspired lust. A mission to break her artistic block. Even a chance to live out a long-lived fantasy.

  But that had been one night. In Las Vegas. Thousands of miles away. Things didn’t count the same there.

  Here?

  Here, they not only counted, they’d have a lasting impact on every part of her life. And she remembered the aftermath of their lovemaking. The intense need to hold him close and heal all of his hurts.

  Here, their decisions could have a very scary effect on her heart.

  Frankie opened her mouth to tell him dinner was a bad idea.

  “Dressy or casual?” she heard herself asking instead.

  God, what was wrong with her mouth? It had to be that kiss. Her lips were still under the influence.

  “Does dressy mean sexy?” he wondered, his eyes skimming her body like a caress.

  “It can if you want it to.”

  “Dressy, then.”

  Her head filled with dreamy visions of what she’d wear and how he’d react, Frankie could only nod. It took her two tries to get through the door and down the hall to the kitchen, but she finally made it.

  “How’d Mr. Phillip enjoy dessert?” Nana asked, looking up from the vegetables she was chopping when Frankie set the plate in the sink.

  “Good enough that he wanted more.” Then, since she knew Nana didn’t mean the same kind of second helping Frankie did, she crossed over to sneak a carrot curl and give her grandmother a smile. “He loved the pie. He said something about pumpkin, if you’re up for making one.”

  “Definitely,” Nana said with a smile.

  “Do you need help with anything?” she asked her grandmother. Better to get out of Nana’s range when she was thinking such thoughts, in case she blurted one out.

  “No, no. You go work. I’ll be busy here for a while. I want to get started on the soup for tomorrow plus some other things.”

  Frankie hesitated. But it didn’t take more than a glance into Nana’s eyes to assure her that her grandmother was happy. She’d been in a good mood ever since she’d heard the Banks house would once again be occupied.

  Maybe that was it, Frankie decided, brushing a quick kiss over her grandmother’s cheek before heading out the door. Maybe Nana just needed to be busy, to feel needed. She made it through the door and halfway to the housekeeper’s quarters without breaking into a dance.

  Then she couldn’t help herself.

  She gave a hip-wriggling, fist-pumping, heels-in-the-air happy dance.

  She had a date.

  With Phillip Banks. The Phillip Banks, of her many and varied fantasies.

  And this time, she hadn’t even gotten him drunk first.

  Frankie hugged her arms around herself, twirling in a circle.

  Oh, it was going to be wonderful.

  That last time had been all about sex. Which was all she’d wanted. The night had been amazing, the sex...well, oh, my God. A night to go down in history.

  But Friday night?

  A date might lead to sex, but it was about more than that. It was about romance.

  Frankie stopped twirling so fast, she almost landed on her butt.

  Romance?

  Oh, wow.

  Breathless and light-headed, she sat down on the lawn and buried her face in her hands.

  This was it.

  Frankie was sure divine intervention had sent Phillip here—in the guise of some highfalutin’ muckety-muck in the Navy.

  He was her fantasy guy.

  He was her favorite distraction.

  He was her inspiration.

  And he was now available to inspire and distract her with fantasies for many weeks to come.

  She shivered, her body getting tingles as she wondered how many positions they could try on how many surfaces in that length of time.

  And, in between, how much jewelry she could make.

  Was this it? The answer to her creative block?

  Maybe the answer wasn’t just adding another fantasy—albeit an incredible real-life one—to the playlist in her mind.

  Maybe the answer was romance.

  Tiny fingers of terror climbed her spine, whispering warnings of all of the emotional pitfalls and heartbreaking possibilities.

  Frankie managed to ignore them, though.

  All she had to do was focus on two simple things.

  One, Phillip Banks had asked her on a date.

  And two, if this worked, she would never have to make another Christmas ornament again.

  7

  “WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE?”

 
; Frankie held up a simple black sheath, the soft fabric draping over the hanger. It screamed tasteful country club dinner, didn’t it? She’d never been to the country club, but she imagined this was the kind of thing they wore there. Phillip hadn’t said that was where they’d be going. But that was where he’d always taken dates when he’d lived here, so she figured it was a safe bet.

  And so was this dress.

  “Meh.”

  Meh?

  Frankie held the dress out farther, squinting as she tried to imagine herself in it. It was a panty hose kind of dress, but she could buy those. It might be cute with some fuchsia stilettos or red patent pumps, but those would probably be out of place at such a classy restaurant.

  “Maybe with the right jewelry?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. Something edgy, maybe geometric shapes chained at alternating lengths, draping to the waist?

  Her heart danced at the idea, excitement curling in her belly. She could make that. She knew she could.

  “Even the right jewelry won’t fix that meh” came the bored response.

  So frustrated her teeth ached from clenching them, Frankie glared at her friend. From the tip of her blue hair to the toes of her black Converse, Shayla dressed as if she had a religious objection to meh.

  Which was why she’d brought her, Frankie reminded herself. It was a known fact that a woman’s most vulnerable shopping times were after a breakup and before a first date. The only defense against ugly, tacky or slutty was an honest friend with a good eye.

  Ugly, tacky, slutty and, apparently, meh.

  Frankie looked at the dress again, then wrinkled her nose and put it back on the rack.

  Shayla was right. It was totally meh.

  Between the pushy saleswomen, the other shoppers and her lack of success finding a dress, Frankie had a serious headache. Of course, it might be from the cloying—and clashing—scent of each store. She walked out of each one with a new layer of fragrance clinging to her. A few more stores and she’d go home smelling like a whorehouse.

  At least it would be an expensive, upscale one.

  Frankie shuffled hangers on yet another clothes rack, trying to find something that said elegant chic. Something that would make Phillip drool, yet still be appropriate anywhere he took her, no matter how fancy.

  “What am I going to wear?” Frankie groaned.

  “Nothing in this place,” Shayla told her, wrinkling her nose and waving away a saleswoman. “Unless you want to impersonate a complete bore.”

  Ignoring the saleswoman’s offended huff, Shayla moved to a display of belts. Choosing one of supple black leather, she held it up to the light, then stepped in front of a mirror. Instead of wrapping the belt around her waist, though, she tied it like a choker around her neck.

  “Why do you want to ditch your own style to dress like a cookie-cutter snob anyway?”

  “I’m not ditching my own style.” Much. “It’s not like I’m changing my hair or getting a boob job, for crying out loud. I just want to find a suitable dress for the occasion.”

  “Thanksgiving is an occasion. My niece’s bat mitzvah is an occasion. The half-yearly sale at Victoria’s Secret is even an occasion.” Shayla tilted her head to the side, then shifted the knot in the belt so the ends draped over her shoulder. “This is a date.”

  “Occasion. Date. Whatever. I need a dress.” She’d gone through everything in her closet, and nothing was suitable for a formal Friday-night-at-seven-o’-clock date. Nothing.

  Then she’d gone through Shayla’s closet. She’d found a few things she loved, some that made her wince—who needed spikes on their bra?—and some that were an ode to ugly. But nothing she could wear Friday.

  “You need to get past this,” Shayla advised. “You are into the guy enough to date him, so date him as yourself.”

  “Get real.” Frankie flipped through the size twelves hoping maybe something perfect in her size had been hung there by mistake. “If I’ve got the hots for the guy—and I seriously do—who else would I go as other than myself?”

  “You always do this. You fixate on an image and try to fit into it like you’re some kind of contortionist. Then when you get tired of being tied up in knots, you give up.” Shayla pursed her lips, giving the leather belt one last look before unknotting it from her throat. “You usually throw a big fit when you give up, though. Which is what I stick around for. Nobody does tantrums like you, Frank.”

  Frankie rolled her eyes. One, maybe two justifiable outbursts in how many years and her own best friend labels her a tantrum thrower? What was she, in kindergarten?

  She pulled a promising-looking dress from the rack. Pale blue satin with a fitted waist and three-quarter-length sleeves, it was pretty and the blue would suit her coloring.

  “What about this? It reminds me of winter.”

  “Cold, icy and stiff?”

  That might not be a bad thing. It brought to mind warming up, melting and, well, stiff spoke for itself. Frankie turned over the price tag and winced. Now, that was stiff.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she decided, not sure if she was more irritated over not finding a dress or Shayla’s assessment of her personality. She didn’t change her personality to fit other people’s expectations. She was who she was. So what if she changed her style from time to time to fit her interests?

  And her current interest happened to be Phillip.

  “There’s nothing wrong with dressing appropriately for the occasion,” she defended herself to Shayla as they buttoned themselves back into their coats to walk to the car. “If I took Phillip to a hoedown, I’d expect him to wear jeans, not a tuxedo.”

  “Have you ever gone to a hoedown?”

  Frankie wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t even sure what a hoedown was. But that wasn’t the point.

  “Okay, so if he attended an upscale art showing with me, I’d be justifiably embarrassed if he showed up in sweatpants.”

  “Sweatpants? Does Phillip Banks even own such a thing?”

  He had to. The military was big on push-ups and other bodybuilding exercises, wasn’t it? She’d seen his body. Yeah...he’d done some push-ups in his lifetime. Probably in sweatpants. Shirtless, though. So those muscles gleamed.

  Whew. Her mouth was watering.

  “What would he wear if you took him to a strip club?” Shayla pondered as Frankie unlocked her car.

  “Is he going to be on stage?”

  Shayla laughed, then grabbed the keys and, with a hip bump, nudged Frankie aside. “I’ll drive. You’ve got lust in your eyes.”

  That wasn’t the only place she had lust. Frankie settled into her passenger seat and imagined Phillip stripping. Would he start from the top or the bottom?

  “Listen to Shayla,” her friend advised. “You’re doing the exact same thing with this date that you did with your jewelry business.”

  And just like that, her lusty bubble burst.

  “Failing?” Frankie asked, starting to pout.

  “Trying to force yourself to fit some preconceived image of what you have to be to succeed. One day you’re creating funky, out-of-the-box designs, the next you’re following an uptight, boring business plan. That’s what messed you up. That’s why you’re having so much trouble with designing,” Shayla lectured. “Replace yawn-worthy dress for business plan, and here we are again.”

  “It’s smart to go into business with a solid plan and set goals,” Frankie defended herself, directly quoting the business counselor she’d seen when her custom jewelry had started taking off. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to succeed.”

  “Nope, nothing. Unless the pressure of trying to fit that ideal blows your creative juices all to hell.” Shayla gave her a sideways glance. “I keep telling you, be yourself, do things your way. You’ll be a lot happier.”

&nb
sp; “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Believe me, there is no business plan, monthly quota or long-term contract involved in creating personalized silver and gemstone Christmas ornaments. The most pressure I have is counting correctly to make sure I have enough bells, trees and stars to get me through the week,” Frankie said, tired of discussing her career. “So I should be ecstatic, right? After all, I’m about as low pressure as I can get and still pay the bills.”

  Shayla winced.

  “Frankie—”

  Time to change the subject.

  “Where are we going?” she interrupted.

  “Little shop I know. They’re having a one-day sale.”

  The little shop turned out to be a funky retro consignment boutique.

  “This is hardly the place to find an elegant dress for a fancy dinner date,” she muttered as Shayla dragged her into the store.

  But after three minutes inside, oh, how she wished it was. Edgy, chic and loud, the boutique was exactly the kind of place Frankie would normally shop at for herself.

  But not for Phillip.

  Since she couldn’t say that without inciting another of Shayla’s individuality lectures, Frankie made a show of looking through the clothes.

  “Cute. Cute. Not cute. Darling. Perfect for summer,” she muttered as she shuffled from one hanger to the next. The dresses were great, but too casual for her date.

  “Found it,” Shayla called, her voice raised to be heard over the pounding rock music.

  Frankie turned to see what it was.

  “Here,” Shayla said, holding up a dress.

  It was definitely a little black dress.

  It had cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, a tucked waist and a pleated skirt that fell a few inches shy of the knees.

  Frankie felt the buzz.

  The sister of sexual awareness, the shopping buzz carried a lot of the same symptoms.

  Frankie’s heart raced. Her pulse skipped. She had to wrap her fingers into her palms to keep from reaching out to stroke the dress, certain she’d purr if she did.

  “It’s leather,” she said, trying to talk herself out of her instant lust.

  “So?” Shayla took it back, holding it in front of Frankie to see how it would look. “It’s you.”