Three Nights Before Christmas: A Holiday Romance Collection

by Kati Wilde

  Mouth full, I shake my head.

  He frowns. “Are you staying at home by yourself?”

  “Yes.” It’s what I’ve done every year since leaving my last foster home.

  “Come with me to my dad’s house.” His pale blue gaze is steady on my face. “Spend it with us. It’s just him and me.”

  Sharp yearning tightens my chest. But I shake my head. “Thank you, though.”

  “Why no?” He asks it softly.

  I poke at my eggs. “It’s just hard…being the outsider during Christmas.”

  “You speaking from experience?”

  “Yes.” And because I can see he’s not going to just let this go without an explanation, I sigh and set down my fork. “I had some great foster families. And all of them had either their own kids, or relatives who showed up during the holidays. Whenever they did, they’d tell me, ‘You must be so grateful to be a part of this great family.’ And I was grateful, but…I never really felt a part.”

  “Of the family?”

  “Yes.” I don’t think I can force down any more food through my aching throat, so I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, taking comfort in the warmth. “I was just there, looking in at what they had. But I never had it.”

  His jaw is tight. “Especially not when they said shit like that—telling you how you’re lucky to be included.”

  I nod. “So Christmas was when I was never allowed to forget that any happiness I felt was due to someone else’s generosity, and how I owe them for that.”

  His gaze is intense on mine, his voice like gravel. “It’s not true generosity if they expect something in return—even if all they expect is gratitude. You don’t owe anyone a damn thing, Emma.”

  “Well…some things I do.” I owe a lot to those families. “I guess I just don’t like it thrown in my face.”

  “Name one person who does,” he says dryly, and the smile that reply pulls from me makes it easier to swallow when I take my next sip of coffee. “What about the families that weren’t great? Did they do that, too?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t exactly the same. I wouldn’t have wanted to be a part of their families. And most of the time, they made it clear that anything I got would never have been given anyway, except as part of their obligation as a foster parent.”

  “Those gifts are the ones that came with a price?”

  “Yes. Nothing was ever freely given. It was always held over our heads. One misstep, and either we wouldn’t get it—or it would be taken away. Or they’d use it to remind us of what we owed them.”

  “If you came to my dad’s, everything would be freely given. I have a feeling it would be at Traci’s, too.”

  “I know it would be.” And I do. Just like everything that Logan’s given me here has been. “But I don’t want to be the outsider.”

  “Well, that’s a simple fix.” A smile tilts the corners of his firm mouth but the solemn gravity of his gaze doesn’t lighten. “We’ll make you part of our family.”

  Sheer longing grips my heart. Oh my god, and he said it so easily. Eyes stinging, I try to cover my reaction by taking another sip of steaming coffee.

  Gaze narrowing on my face, he leans in. “That’s the solution, right? You won’t be on the outside looking in if you become a part of a family—or if you make a new one. My dad and me, we’ll be yours. And we’ll keep you around Crenshaw’s for a long, long time.”

  Though my throat’s aching and thick, I manage a tiny smile. “That does sound really nice.”

  Eyes piercing, he regards me for endless moment. “But you don’t really trust it, do you?”

  I shrug.

  “Why?” When I don’t answer, he says gruffly, “You say I don’t know you, baby. But I want to.”

  And there’s no reason not to tell him. It’s all ancient history. Kind of ancient history, since it still affects me now. But maybe while he needs the explanation, I need the reminder—because when Logan says he’ll make me a part of his family, I want it so much.

  But I’ve wanted it before.

  I pull in a shuddering breath. “When I was little, there were a couple of times I thought I might become part of a family. Permanently a part of one.”

  “Adopted?”

  “Yes. By the time I was older, I didn’t expect it anymore. Younger kids are more likely to be adopted—and of course when I was little, I didn’t know about the statistics, but the foster parents I was with would say certain things that made me think it was a possibility, and I’d hope. But there was always some deal breaker.”

  His eyebrows draw together in a dark frown. “What do you mean—a deal breaker? Their application was rejected?”

  “No.” That word sounds hoarse, so I take another sip before continuing. “It was always something about me. I didn’t look enough like them, so no one would ever believe I was their real kid. Or I wasn’t interested in the right hobbies or sports, and they wanted a kid who liked the things they did.”

  Those icy eyes suddenly burn with anger, and he’s staring at me with his jaw clenched. “They told you this?”

  “Not directly.” I shrug. “But I don’t think adults realize how much kids overhear. Or how much they pick up. There was one woman, I remember. I was five, and she used to take me to those beauty pageants for little girls. We were getting ready backstage, and she’s brushing my hair while she’s talking to one of the other moms—and the other woman asked her if she would make it permanent, because I was so pretty. And my foster mom said, ‘My husband and I were thinking about it, but she doesn’t really have any stage talent.’” And after all these years, I can still hear that response so clearly. After all these years, it still tastes so bitter. “Because I couldn’t sing, or play an instrument, or dance. And she didn’t think adding numbers in my head was a real talent. So that was the deal breaker. There was just always something.”

  Logan reaches across the bar and folds my hands in his. “So you’re thinking I’m going to find something I don’t like about you, and it’ll be a deal breaker for me.”

  God. And he just zeroed right in on everything that’s hurting my heart. Zeroed right in, and threw it out there in the open. Tears burning in my eyes, I try to pull away, but his fingers only tighten around mine.

  “I won’t,” he says fiercely. “I won’t, Emma.”

  I shake my head. The inside of my chest feels scraped raw. “You don’t know me. And when you do—”

  “I’ll just want you more.”

  He sounds so sure. And it hurts so much, because I so desperately want to believe him.

  But I don’t know if I can dare to hope again.

  His voice softens. “I’d put that ring on your finger now, Emma. I’d make it permanent right now. But I’m not asking that of you yet. I’m just asking you to share Christmas with us, so you can see how it might be. But you won’t have to imagine anything. You’ll see it’s real—and so good—when it’s happening. Just like last night was better than I imagined it would be. So think about coming, okay? There doesn’t have to be any gifts involved. We’ll just watch football and drink beer and then go for a walk in the snow along the creek, then sit down to dinner and eat more of my dad’s Christmas roast than we should. Then I’ll take you home and fuck you so hard.”

  A watery laugh bursts from me. Because of course it would come down to that between us.

  His eyes gleam with amusement. “That last part has almost convinced you, hasn’t it?”

  All of it sounds wonderful. But the last part is just easiest to believe in. I know he wants me sexually. I want him, too. There’s nothing to doubt there.

  “Just think about coming,” he says now, gently. “We’d love to have you with us.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I gather my courage. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

  “Then think about this, too.” His big hands cup my cheeks, keeping my gaze locked on his. “No matter what I might give you, you’ll never owe me anything. That doesn’t mean I won’t ever ask an
ything from you, because I might ask a hell of a lot. When I get that ring on your finger, it means asking for your patience and your trust and your faith and your heart. But even if I ask for all that, you don’t owe it. You should only do it because you want to give it. Because it makes you happy to give it. And everything I do for you, it’ll be because I want to. Because it makes me happy. All right?”

  His face is wavering through my tears. “All right,” I whisper, and he kisses me, his mouth so warm, his hands so strong.

  And my stupid heart begins to hope. But kissing him back makes me happy—and I want it more than anything.

  So I do, for as long as I can.

  It’s not long enough.

  Since I wasn’t wearing any shoes when he abducted me, Logan has to carry me out to his truck—then into my apartment when we reach it.

  As I’m unlocking the door, I tell him, “It’ll just take me a couple of minutes to change clothes. Do you mind giving my car a jump before you take off?”

  I lead us into the living room, which smells like cold pine—the best smell in the world, truly. But I don’t think that I’ll associate the scent with Christmas anymore. Instead I’ll think of the man who’s coming into the apartment right behind me.

  “I don’t mind giving you a jump, but since I’m flying out first thing tomorrow, I’ve got a better solution,” he says.

  “To that job in Florida?” My heart sinks a little. I’d forgotten about it—but he’ll be gone for three days.

  Right now, that seems like a lifetime. Three days is longer than how much time has passed from the moment he first kissed me to now.

  Everything has changed so swiftly in that time…and I’m terrified that in three days, everything will change again.

  “Yeah.” As if he’s just as reluctant to go as I am for him to be gone, Logan catches my hand and pulls me back for a sweet kiss before lifting his head. “Shawn’s picking me up around four in the morning so we can head up to the airport. Why don’t you stay with me tonight, then continuing staying at my place and using my truck until I get back on Thursday?”

  Using the truck makes a little sense, considering the state of my car’s battery. Staying at his house doesn’t. “Why?”

  “You need a reliable rig. I need someone to look after Lucy.”

  “Like house sitting?”

  “Yeah. Like house sitting.”

  He says that as if he’s just agreeing with me—not as if house sitting was how he was thinking of my stay there until I mentioned it.

  Suspiciously I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t make arrangements for Lucy already? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Of course I did. Patrick looks in on her, but he can’t stay overnight. I’d rather have someone there.” His voice deepens and he cups my face in his warm hands. “And I like the thought of you sleeping in my bed, Emma—or reading on my couch. And you can find out a lot about a man by being in his house. While you’re there, you could look through anything. I don’t care. Search my closets, my drawers. Poke around in my workshop. Dig through my computer. I’ll give you all my passwords. I’ll leave my tablet so you can read all my books. And I’ll call you every night and whisper dirty things in your ear before you go to bed. All right?”

  I don’t know how I can say no to that, though I should. The more time I spend at his place, the more clearly I’ll be able to imagine myself staying forever—and the harder it will be when this is over.

  Not that it matters. It will be hard no matter when it ends. Today, tomorrow. Next month. It will always be harder.

  So three days of harder is nothing.

  “All right,” I agree softly.

  When he kisses me again, it still makes me as happy as it did before. I still want it more than anything. And it still doesn’t last long enough.

  I don’t think it ever will.

  7

  Emma

  It feels like much longer than three days—and two nights.

  Two nights spent warm and cozy in Logan’s bed, reading his books, and talking with him over the phone—calls that end with his voice rough in my ear, telling me to come hard for him.

  Two nights of coming for him, so hard.

  Thursday seems to stretch out even more endlessly than the other two days did. I try to focus on work, hoping that the minutes will fly by more quickly. But the minutes begin dragging by even slower when Shawn calls into the office to let us know that a weather delay and traffic will put their arrival about an hour behind schedule.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m staring morosely at the clock on my computer when Marianne swings by, as cheery as ever. “Our Christmas party guests will be arriving soon, so go ahead and pack this up, hon—then run in to Bruce’s office for a few minutes. Oh, and here’s your Christmas bonus.”

  I stare at the envelope she drops on my desk. “A bonus?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” A concerned frown suddenly etches a line between her brows, and she leans in, her voice lowering. “You’re going to see everyone’s bonuses when they clear the account, so when you see the amount, I hope you don’t feel as if you are appreciated less than anyone else. It’s just that it’s your first Christmas with Crenshaw’s, so it won’t be as much as some of the others.”

  “Oh, no—I just wasn’t expecting a bonus at all.” They hadn’t been mentioned when Marianne and I ran the payroll this week.

  “It’s a little something that Bruce always writes up at the end of year. He considers it profit sharing, and he puts aside a percentage of his earnings to split up every Christmas—and the employees who’ve been here longest get the bigger share. So an employee who’s put five years into the company receives five times as much as someone in their first year.”

  She says that last part with an apologetic tone again—as if still explaining why mine might be smaller. But I don’t care how big it is. My throat’s a burning lump as I say, “That must be a good incentive to stay.”

  Marianne gives me a look as if I just said the understatement of the year. “This is my tenth year—and that bonus is part of the reason it’s so hard to leave.”

  “I can imagine.” Thickly I say, “Thank you.”

  “You thank Bruce.” She winks at me. “And it’s past five o’clock somewhere in the world, so why don’t you take him a little eggnog when you go in.”

  Nodding, I slide the envelope into my purse. Despite my curiosity, I won’t tear it open and look. No matter how much it is, it’s more money than I had before. Even if it’s only twenty-five dollars, it means I can budget in a little host gift for Bruce when I go with Logan to his dad’s house for Christmas.

  It doesn’t even occur to me until I’m knocking on his office door that I’ve officially made the decision to go.

  Bruce calls for me to come in, then rises out of his chair with a broad smile when he sees the cup I’m holding. “Thank you, Emma. You didn’t get one for yourself?”

  Remembering how one glass of wine put me to sleep, I shake my head. “Probably better if I don’t.”

  My boss grins, and it looks so much like his son’s grin that my heart aches from missing him. “Well, if you decide to indulge, let me know if you need a ride home.”

  Hopefully I’ll be getting a ride from his son. But I simply say, “Thank you. And thank you for the Christmas bonus.”

  He waves that off. “This company wouldn’t be where it is without everyone putting their effort in. So I’m always happy to give something back. Did you pick up your Secret Santa gift off the party table yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  His blue eyes are twinkling. “I think he got you something that you’ll really enjoy.”

  Remembering the note and the mask Logan left at my door, I can’t stop my blush. I know that’s not what Bruce is referring to, but I can’t help thinking that a Secret Santa did give me something I really enjoyed.

  If Bruce notices my blush, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead he gestures to the seating area by the window. Outsid
e it’s snowing again, fat flakes slowly drifting down. “Come chat with me for a minute, Emma.”

  This sounds more serious than I anticipated. Anxiety twists in my stomach as I sit.

  He settles in and says, “Logan says you might be joining us at my place for Christmas.”

  My heart’s pounding. “I think I will. If it’s all right?”

  “You’ll always be welcome at my house, Emma. Not just Christmas. Anytime you like.” And that’s just like his son, too—offering it so easily and so sincerely, it makes my throat tighten and eyes sting. “Now, tell me how you’re getting on here. Marianne says you’re not having any problems and that we’ll be in good hands on Monday when you start going it alone, but I want to hear it from you. Are you enjoying the work?”

  “I am.” I put all the truth of that in my voice.

  “Logan tells me you like numbers but don’t like the phones.”

  Every muscle in my body tenses. “Phones are all right, too.”

  On a sudden laugh, Bruce rocks forward in his chair. “Look at you. You just jumped to the worst possible conclusion, didn’t you? Maybe worrying that you not liking phones will lose you this job.”

  I’d like to join in his laughter, but I can’t. Because he’s right. I’m terrified.

  “Let me reassure you, then.” He sits back again. “After that HGTV show, when we began expanding, I hired Marianne to help with the bookkeeping and the front office, while I took care of the back office here. Our catalog was taking off, Logan was making our custom shop into something special, and so she took the administrative pressure off me, seeing that payroll and bills were taken care of. While back here, I made sure everything was running smoothly in our shops. Because that takes up most of my time—coordinating shipments, managing inventory, all that.”

  He pauses as if waiting for a response. I’m not sure how this is supposed to reassure me yet, but I’m following along. Nodding, I tell him, “All right.”

  “Now, there’s a reason I hired you specifically, Emma. That construction company you were with—you didn’t just do their bookkeeping. When they started shedding their staff, you handled all their purchase orders, coordinated all of their material deliveries, the scheduling. Yeah?”