This sounded like something that Isla didn’t want to give a name to. If she named it, even in her head then she might jinx it and make it not real.
“Do you know what I’m getting at?”
Isla’s heart banged around in her chest like it was trying to escape. “It sounds almost like you want to propose to me, but I don’t want to say that because it might sound a little too weird.”
Which made it too late to keep her mouth shut because she stupidly let the cat out of the bag.
And Arturo was smiling at her, but not in that sexy way that told her how much he wanted to get her naked. This was different. This was a look Isla had only ever once before seen on Arturo’s face.
The look of excitement and nervous tension. Arturo was a billionaire used to getting what he wanted, and this was something he might not get.
“This place was always home, in a weird, twisted sort of way. Even when my mother was alive and my father was out of prison. This place was fucked up, but it was home. I never realized how dark it had gotten, despite the security lights and cameras everywhere. I never needed them. You came here and you made everything better. My brothers were here eating Christmas dinner, it’s a late Christmas dinner but I don’t care. Martina was with us, and that means more to me than you could possibly know, that she was actually part of the dinner instead of cooking it. I never thought that was going to happen, and then it did.”
“It wasn’t that hard. We just, kind of steered her towards the seat and Silvio held her hand.”
Arturo smiled at that, as if it was the most heartwarming thing he’d ever heard in his life. “I want you here. I want you to live here with me, permanently, and I want you to have my last name, and my kids.”
Isla wanted to say something, anything, but the only thing that came out of her throat was a hard gasp. Her eyes burned and holy shit, she was going to start crying. She was going to cry because Arturo had said he’d wanted her to have his last name. That meant one thing. That meant one very important thing that could not be overlooked.
When Arturo reached into his back pocket and pulled out a ring with an enormous pink diamond on it, Isla’s knees started to shake.
“Oh my God. Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with her hands. She couldn’t stop herself from crying and her tears poured over her fingers as she looked at the ring, and then up at Arturo.
Arturo seemed to realize that he was still standing as Isla looked up at him, and he dropped to one knee.
Isla laughed at that, because it was too perfect. He was too perfect, and there was nothing that could make this better right now.
Except for when Arturo made the proposal a little more formal. “Isla King, will you do me the amazing honor of being my wife?” he smiled and shrugged. “Of making a real arrangement with me, for the rest of our lives?”
Isla laughed. “A proper contract?”
“Fifty-fifty,” Arturo promised.
“That’s…” Isla’s voice croaked. “That means absolutely everything to me.”
Arturo looked at her. Isla looked at him.
Which was when Isla realized she hadn’t given him a proper answer. “Yes!”
“Yes?”
“Yes!”
“Yes!” Arturo grabbed her around the knees and pulled her into the air. Isla squealed when she was suddenly over Arturo’s shoulder, and he was spinning her around in circles.
She couldn’t stop laughing, but she was also getting dizzy as all hell. “Stop! Stop!”
“I don’t want to!” He still put her down, took her by the hands and lifted her wedding finger. “I’m putting this on you right now. Hold still.”
“I’m holding still!”
No she wasn’t. She was totally jumpy and trembling and barely able to hold herself together while that ring was slid onto her finger.
Isla choked on her breath, looking at it. Only then did she notice that the pink diamond was in a heart shape. A couple of smaller stones accented it, making the design that much more spectacular. She wished she’d been the one to design it.
Then she frowned at it, noting it did look kind of familiar.
“Don’t get mad,” Arturo said. “I went through your design book and picked out a couple of things. The heart shape on one, the accents on another.”
“You did?”
“I didn’t know what to get for a woman who designs jewelry for a living, and I needed it to be perfect.”
Isla nodded. “It is perfect. Fuck, I’m going to start crying again.”
It was seriously the most romantic thing Arturo had ever had done for her. Her husband to be had pilfered through her books to find the perfect design, meaning he thought only she could design the perfect ring.
“I love you so much.”
Arturo’s eyes blazed, desire and so many other things in his eyes that Isla couldn’t keep her hands off him. She pulled at his shirt, eager to get it off him, to touch his skin. Arturo followed her lead, taking the hem of her sweater and lifting it above her head with a low, sexy growl.
“After you sent me those pictures, I think I’m going to need to see the real thing.”
“Did it make you uncomfortable in your meeting?”
Arturo sighed. “You’d better believe it.”
Isla laughed as Arturo unhooked her bra, but she was the one who pushed him towards the bed. It was time for them to have their celebration, Christmas sex.
The End
The Dog Who Stole Christmas
Amie Stuart
1
Matilda
“It’s a toy—”
Somebody snorted.
“—for your pet.”
Nobody said a word. Especially not me. We just all stared at the large, orange…dog toy. At least, Mrs. Swift said it was a dog toy and, well, the tag said it was a dog toy. I was skeptical, and judging by the snickers that randomly punctuated the silence, I wasn’t alone.
God love her, Mrs. Swift had managed to bring the Bluebonnet Book Club Secret Santa Gift Exchange to a screeching halt with a 12-inch long piece of latex —I slowly wagged it back and forth, mesmerized as it swayed in my hand—or whatever, that looked a lot more like a dildo than a dog toy.
“Do I even want to know where she found that?” Betti Boudreaux muttered from my right.
“No,” I replied, keeping my voice low, “and neither do I.” For the love of football, it was even Longhorn fucking orange. My least favorite color. Furthermore, and most importantly, I did not own a fucking dog, or a cat, or a bird, or even a gerbil.
I sat there for the rest of the party silently praying somebody would steal the doggie dildo thing. A pained smile firmly in place, I kept telling myself that maybe someone would want to use it as a gag gift. Luck was not on my side and I said my good nights an hour later amid pitying looks and knowing, smirky grins from some of the other ladies. Including my sister-in-law, Louisiana.
“Enjoy that…dog toy,” she said as we walked down the sidewalk not an hour later.
“Better a dog toy than a teething ring,” I muttered under my breath. My nephew Moses was teething, and during the party, Louisiana had gone into very graphic detail about how many times he’d bitten her this week. Then a few of her friends had pitched in with their own baby biting horror stories. It was enough to make me want to double up on my birth control pills. When I suggested she stop breast-feeding, the Mommy Mafia had stared at me in horror. I might as well have suggested giving my six-month-old nephew Kool Aid, what with its sugar and Red Dye number 666.
“Oh,” she groaned dramatically and clutched at her chest, “I’ve got to get home and feed Moses before my boobies explode.”
We should be so lucky.
She circled my brother Marsh’s truck and unlocked the doors. “You coming, Matilda?”
“I’ll walk, thanks.” I turned left, away from her and the rest of the departing partygoers.
“Oh, Mattie, don’t be like that,” she shouted.
“I’m no
t being like anything,” I called over my shoulder. One would think the Mommy Mafia would appreciate the fact that I was walking the two blocks home, instead of wasting gas and trashing the environment their little monsters would inherit one day. “Good night, Louisiana,” I said, saluting her with the, ahem, dog toy, that I planned on ‘losing’ in someone’s bushes along the way.
Yeah, that was my real reason for walking.
The truck rumbled to life behind me and took off, circling the block. My brother liked to joke that you could hear him coming a mile away. I didn’t bother texting him to let him know that Louisiana was on her way home. Instead, I just kept walking, snug inside my North Face jacket, my boots scuffing on the sidewalk and occasionally crunching a leaf. Two weeks till Christmas and it’s forty-five degrees out. Welcome to Texas.
I was almost halfway home when Louisiana, who’d circled the block, turned and zipped past me, pulling into my brother’s driveway with a bounce and a grinding sound that came from a truck that probably need new shocks. Or brakes. Or both. I wasn’t a mechanic. Neither was my brother, and on a teacher’s salary, and with a new baby, he’d put off the repairs. Guess what he was getting for Christmas from yours truly? I’d already made all the arrangements with Petey, our local mechanic.
In the meantime, I still had to find a yard to re-home my little, ugly, orange friend in. Thanks to the Christmas parties, Christmas lights, and Christmas shopping, there were more people out and about in the evening than normal. I damn sure didn’t want to get caught tossing a large orange piece of latex into somebody’s yard. Luckily for me, the lovely Mrs. Echols, who lived three houses down from me and who was creeping up on eighty, had this Yorkie…
Merry Christmas, Dexter.
I tossed it between an oak tree and the line of shrubs that separated her front yard from Jeannie Latimer. Jeannie had a dog, too. A pitbull named Jupiter. She was sweet as the day was long, and had, on occasion, made me wish for a dog to keep me company. Then one morning I’d woken up to the sound of Jeannie’s screams.
Cell phone in hand, I’d dashed out of the house in my boxers and tank top while hollering at the 911 operator that my neighbor was being brutally murdered and to send help now. Imagine my embarrassment when I’d burst into Jeannie’s house and discovered that Jupiter had eaten one half of a brand-new pair of very expensive winter boots.
Thus the screams.
I’m not sure who’d been angrier, me, Jeannie, the cops who’d shown up four minutes later, sirens blaring and tires squealing, or Louisiana, who’d given birth to Moses just two weeks prior. Marsh, as usual, had taken it all in stride, choosing instead to focus on me in my boxers, clutching my cell phone. He’d asked with his usual silly grin in place if I’d been planning on taking pictures of the murderer as he ran away. I’d flipped him the bird and taken my embarrassed self home. I’d also decided I was never going to own anything big enough to chew up a boot.
No sooner had I discreetly rehomed Big Orange, than I spotted it parked in front of Marsh’s house. The biggest, shiniest, fanciest, motherfucking pickup truck you would probably ever see in Bluebonnet, Texas. As if driving a pickup truck somehow made him blend in. What a complete and utter load of BS that was. I sneered at the truck as if it had personally offended me. A couple years back People magazine had done an article on the great Boomer Kendall, star running back of the Houston Texans, hottie Texas bachelor, blah blah , gag, and featured his home just outside of Houston. He had a six car garage that held the truck, four very expensive looking sports cars, and a black Chevy Tahoe with fancy oversized rims—that just so happened to match the rims on his stupid truck. My pace slowed and I kicked at some errant leaves. I fucking hated Boomer Kendall. Hated him in the most juvenile, childish, stupidest way possible.
And I did not care. Not one bit.
I hated his fancy house. I hated his fancy girlfriends. I hated his fancy sports cars. I hated his face. I hated his name. I mean, really, who the hell named their kid BOOMER?
But most of all, I hated him.
I guess you could say I held a grudge. Truth be told, I held many.
I’d almost made it into the safety of my own little home when the sound of laughter and a screen door slamming reached me from across the street. Color me surprised, Louisiana wasn’t standing on the front porch, whining about Boomer and Marsh waking up precious baby Moses. It was a universally acknowledged fact that once my sister-in-law got to bitching, you could hear her all over town. Then again, she loved Boomer possibly even more than I hated him, and would never ever say anything against him. Sheesh! Between Marsh kissing Boomer’s ass and Louisiana shining up his halo every time he came home, I couldn’t even begin to imagine how exhausting it was being Boomer Kendall.
“Hey, Mattie!”
I took a deep breath and shoved my hands deep in my jacket pockets, taking a moment to clench and unclench them. I’d spent the weeks since Thanksgiving preparing for Boomer’s imminent return—for this moment right here. I held up my middle finger and kept walking. “Welcome home, Boomer!”
And merry fucking Christmas, you asshole.
2
Boomer
“I see your sister still hates me.” I stared at Matilda’s curvy backside, choosing to focus on that, rather than the stubby middle finger she held in the air. When she was nine she’d asked to play football with us. We’d let her, only because my mom had given us the stank eye. Then I’d made the mistake of pointing out how short her fingers were, and that so, she’d have trouble catching the ball. Apparently, even at nine, Matilda had been sensitive about her stubby fingers, as well as her height, because she was, in a word, short. Something she hadn’t appreciated me pointing out to her—even accidentally. So from that point on, I’d made sure to do it often.
“Aw now—” Marsh sucked in air, preparing to spit out his usual excuses.
She may be short, but Matilda Lucile Johnson was also lethal. A freckle-faced brunette who came equipped with an ass that could stop traffic and a temper that could set the town on fire.
I waved it off with a laugh I didn’t feel and descended the porch steps. Twenty years of mud pies and verbal arrows later, I was glad the poorly lit porch light hid my sad smile. “I know I’m really home when I’ve choked down Mom’s meatloaf and gotten shit from your sister.”
“She’s been having a hard time at work.”
“She wouldn’t be having a hard time at work if she worked for me.” A year ago I’d asked Matilda to come on board and help me run my charity. She turned me down in no uncertain terms, then informed me that she didn’t need charity. Her words had stung so much, I hadn’t bothered telling her that I was in over my head, that I needed her help, and that it wasn’t charity. Plus the added bonus of getting to see her a couple times a week. “For that matter, you, too. You know I’d love to have you.” Plus I paid a hell of a lot better than the school district. But it was an old discussion: I’d ask and he’d say no.
Marsh shoved his hands deep in his pockets and shuffled backwards with a slightly pained grin. “I can’t leave my kids, man. You know that.”
From inside the house came the sound of Moses fussing and Louie blathering about baths and bedtime. Even with the haphazardly hung Christmas lights along the eaves and around the windows and the porch that needed a fresh coat of paint, the outside seemed just as cozy as I knew the inside was. For a second, a long, deep, dark second, I was jealous. I acknowledged my jealousy for what it was, and then stuffed it back down where I wouldn’t have to look at it for a while or deal with the anger that inevitably followed. I nodded and said, “I should get before Mom sends out the Sheriffs.”
We nodded at each other and exchanged a few more awkward words before I took off with one final wave and one last glance at Mattie’s house. “See you in the morning!”
Ten minutes later I pushed open Mom’s kitchen door, wincing as it scraped against the linoleum floor. It was her early warning system. Needless to say, I’d rarely gotten away wit
h breaking curfew while growing up. She was sweet, as sweet as Mattie Johnson was sour, but not much got past her. It’d taken me until my early 20s, but I’d finally figured out that Mom’s sweetness was her special superpower. She used it to get what she wanted from Dad, for me, from life, but—and this was the important thing—she never abused it. She only used her powers for good. And the occasional guilt trip.
Other than Marsh and Maddie, who I’d grown up with, I’d never admit this to a living soul, but even at 29, I’d rather take an ass-whooping from my dad—with the belt—than have to hear my mom say those four magical words: I’m so disappointed in you, Boomer. Okay, so that was six, but you get the point.
“I’m still up.” Mom stepped into the dimly lit kitchen, tucking her robe around her.
“You didn’t have to wait up.”
“You know better than that, Boomer.” This was the same conversation we’d been having since I’d gotten my driver’s license.
I crossed the kitchen and hugged her, inhaling the scent of Dove soap mixed with hairspray. She hugged me back, hard enough to raise a lump in my throat. I swallowed hard and exhaled, releasing some of the tension I’d been holding in since I’d left Houston early this morning. I’d gone to college, gotten a degree, won a football championship, been drafted to the NFL—in the first round—and won two Super Bowl championships, and my mom still waited up for me whenever I came home to visit. I wasn’t sure who appreciated our routine more, her or me.
“Where’s Dad?”
“In bed.” She patted my back and said, “How’s Marsh?”
“Fine.” Better than me. I kept hanging onto her, not ready to let her go.
“That Moses is getting so big. Before you know it, you and Marsh will have him out there throwing footballs.”
Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology Page 68