Three Nights Before Christmas: A Holiday Romance Collection

by Kati Wilde

“No.” Her eyes are suddenly huge, the emotion shining from their depths dark and bruised, but her mouth is firm with resolve. “You said it yourself: You’re an asshole.”

  True. “But I’m an asshole who wants you. At my side. In my bed. Everywhere.”

  Her breath stops. Her gaze searches mine, as if she’s desperate to see whether I mean it. As if she wants to believe it. Then her eyes close and, as if want and belief don’t matter at all, she breathes, “I can’t.”

  “No?” My voice roughens. “Because I remember how it was between us. Like a fucking wildfire. You remember?”

  “No.”

  “Liar. You want a reminder? I’ll give you one right here.”

  She doesn’t need one. When her eyes fly open again, the memory is burning right there. But she’s shaking her head.

  And I know I’m pushing hard, but I can’t fucking stop. “You don’t think we’d be good together? Because we will, angel. In bed and out of it.”

  It’s as if my words strip her expression bare, revealing naked desire—and wavering indecision. I push again, gently.

  “You want this as much as I do,” I tell her softly.

  “Maybe I do.” Her chin lifts. All at once her eyes are glistening with tears, but the pale blue behind them has hardened into ice. Her voice is thick and ragged. “But I’ve spent my life wanting. I’m tired of the people who I most want to see me only seeing that I’m not what they expect me to be, and then being disappointed in who I am. And I made a promise to myself not to waste time on people who make me feel like shit—like you did. You apologized, and thank you. But I’m not taking the risk of it happening again.”

  Push too hard, something will break. I pushed too hard and it’s like seeing someone rip open right in front of me. Everything hidden is suddenly exposed. I’m not who you think I am. And she’s someone who’s been wounded over and over. Now she’s terrified it will happen again.

  Terrified of me. My angel is scared of me. Chest a solid ache, I promise her hoarsely, “I won’t hurt you, Mia.”

  Eyes glittering, she steps back. “Because I’m not going to let you.”

  And she slams the door in my face.

  6

  Cole

  I remember back in grade school, when holidays seemed like they ought to be the most magical fucking thing that ever were, that this time of year the teachers used to go around the class and make everyone say what we were thankful for. So Thanksgiving was the holiday I hated the most. Christmas, you could put your head down and claim you didn’t celebrate it and the other kids might give you shit but no one else would challenge that claim, and you got enough time off over winter break that no one really gave a fuck anyway. But Thanksgiving, you attended school right up until the day before. Then they’d ask for that thankful shit.

  And what the hell was I going to say? I’m thankful my father passed out before he started in with his fists? I’m thankful he moved his ass off the couch long enough that I could scrounge up enough change beneath the cushions to buy a fucking loaf of bread? I’m thankful my mom took off when I was little and left me behind with him?

  On some days, I was kind of thankful for that. Thankful at least one of us got out.

  Now I’m all the way out and understand why holidays seem a lot more magical. It’s just all a matter of who you spend them with—and these days I’ve got a whole list of shit I’m truly thankful for.

  My leg’s a constant dull ache that flares up into teeth-gritting, screaming agony when I go too long and too far, or twist wrong. But in a few months, I’ll be back to regular duty. A setback but not derailed. I’m thankful for that.

  I’ve got a family that isn’t blood but runs blue and true. I’ve known that since I joined the force, but it’s never been more apparent than these past weeks, ever since I was shot. And I’m thankful as hell for my partner. You trust a man at your back, that’s one thing. But Gabe Huertas has become a brother, and that’s something a hell of a lot more.

  And Mia… I’m thankful she hasn’t moved out, considering how I fucked up.

  I pushed too damn hard. I knew I was doing it and did it anyway. And it’s one thing to push when you’re up against something strong. She is strong, no doubt. But she’s like one of those packages of chips that won’t tear open no matter how hard you pull, until you finally find that tiny notch that lets you rip it wide open. I found that notch and tore her right up. So she’s strong, but she’s fragile, too. I hadn’t realized how fragile she was.

  And all this week I’ve heard her come and go—avoiding me, I’m pretty fucking sure—but everything inside me is coming and going with her. Today, she left around noon. Heading to her parents’ mansion. Because despite her saying that she hopes her holidays will be better now that she’s moved out, she’s attending their Thanksgiving dinner. At least that’s what I picked up while listening to her and Childers chatting during the autopsy last Friday. Also got the feeling she didn’t want to go, but that she felt obligated to.

  Me, I’ve been invited over to Huertas’s, so I get my ass in gear around five. I’ve been resting most of the day, doing nothing more strenuous than swearing at the refs in a football game, so I’m good without crutches for a few hours. I head out of my place with a bottle of wine for Gabe’s wife and a six pack of beer for us.

  I’m locking my door when the elevator dings and opens. Carrying a canvas grocery bag, Mia comes striding out and my heart stutters in my chest. For dinner at a mansion, no surprise she dressed up. She looks like a million bucks in a long belted coat that nips in at her waist and shows off her curves, and tall boots with heels that add four inches to her height. I’d barely have to bend my head to kiss her. Her hair is in a thick, messy braid over her shoulder. And I fucked everything up, but my brain and my dick don’t care. The only thing I can think of is taking that coat off. Wrapping that thick braid around my fist.

  Her gaze catches mine and her step falters. The stuttering lightness in my chest transforms into something heavy and tight, because she smiles but her eyes have a glittery, hard shine. Like she’s angry but also real fucking hurt and one of those things has her on the verge of crying.

  I head straight down the hall toward her. She slammed the door in my face but I’m sure as hell not letting her get past me without making sure she doesn’t need help.

  Gruffly I ask, “You all right, angel?”

  The hurt shines through the anger, as if my question tips the scale further in that direction. Or maybe she just didn’t expect anyone to care. Suddenly her eyes are swimming. “Yes.” Her voice thick, she comes to a halt in front of me. “Just feeling really stupid, thinking anything would ever change with them.”

  “With your folks?”

  She nods and I see her rally, see the deep shuddering breath she draws in, the squaring of her shoulders. Her gaze flicks to the wine bottle and the beer. “You’re headed out?”

  “To Huertas’s place.”

  “Your partner’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to take a pie?”

  “A what?”

  She lifts up the canvas bag. The sides are pulled tight, as if it’s got something heavy inside—and about as big around as a pie. “I baked one but my mother didn’t want to offer it to her guests. It’s not ‘traditional’ enough.”

  “What the hell kind of pie isn’t traditional enough?”

  “Coconut lime.” She shrugs. “It seemed like it might be refreshing after a heavy dinner.”

  “Fuck yes, it does.” I tuck the bottle of wine under my arm and take the bag from her. It’s heavier than I expect a pie to be but maybe it came out of the oven like a brick. Doesn’t matter. I’ll eat it. She should, too. “Come with me.”

  Her brow furrows, as if what I said didn’t make any sense. “What?”

  “To Huertas’s place. They’ve got room at their table and his wife’s always telling me to bring someone. Sofia’s great, too. His whole family is. You’ll like them.”

&
nbsp; Something like yearning passes over Mia’s face before she shakes her head. “I’m not very good company today.”

  “Neither am I. I’m a fucking asshole, remember. But they still put up with me.”

  A soft smile graces her lips, then vanishes on a sigh. “I really can’t. I know better than to let my parents get to me…but I’m hanging on by a thread here. And I don’t want to be that girl who falls apart all over you and your friends. Jason will be over in a little while, anyway.”

  I don’t know what her parents said to her but I’m not leaving her like this. “Then I’ll stay with you until he gets here. That way you’re not alone.”

  A little laugh escapes her, but it’s not a laugh of amusement—more like she can’t think of anything worse than falling apart all over me. “No. Thank you. But I’ll be okay.”

  “Mia,” I say hoarsely. “Let me help you.”

  She shakes her head, backing away. “Please give my regards to Detective Huertas and his wife. And a happy Thanksgiving to you, Cole.”

  Fuck. But aside from running her down and tackling her, there’s no stopping her from leaving. To her retreating back, I say, “To you, too, angel.”

  She’s getting away now. But here’s something else to be thankful for: I’ve got a pie plate to return. And a reason to knock on her door.

  Because there’s no damn way I’ll sleep again without knowing she’s okay.

  7

  Mia

  I’m a full glass into a bottle of red when Jason arrives. His dinner at his mom’s house went a lot better than mine did. No surprise there, maybe. Anything goes better than Thanksgiving dinner with my family. For most of my life, I didn’t know Jason was the reason for the tension between my mother and father—or maybe he was a symptom of that tension. I don’t know when they started hating each other. And by the time I learned that my father had a son the same age as me, I was a senior in high school.

  But everyone else apparently knew from the beginning that my father had gotten his secretary pregnant—an affair in a long line of affairs. And all the while, my mother took out her humiliation and bitterness on me. Jason’s never did on him. So he can go to Thanksgiving dinner and come away from it, and his only regret is that inviting me to join them would be too damn awkward. His mom sounds lovely but I wouldn’t ever ask her to add me to their family gathering.

  So Jason and I get together afterward. It’s been six years now. Usually we meet up at his place, but this time we did at mine.

  By the time I’ve finished with my second glass of wine, I’ve bent his sympathetic ear with every shitty thing my mother and father did and said. Halfway through my third glass, he’s passed out on my couch in a food coma.

  But it’s okay, because I’m done. I’m truly done with them. And I don’t feel sad or upset, except that I spent so much of my life trying to be what they wanted. No more. And if today is a day for feeling thankful, I’ll be thankful for that.

  And more thankful that I found Jason when I did. Thankful for Lowery’s bullets, too, in a twisted way. When I realized how close I’d come to dying, it had been almost stupidly simple to let go of everything that had hurt me for so long.

  I’m thankful for Cole Matthews, too. In a very real sense, he saved my life that day—and not just by shooting Lowery. Maybe that’s why I can’t let go of him as easily as everything else. He’s the reason I’m alive, so a part of me belongs to him. Maybe a part of me will always belong to him.

  Even if it does, it’s only a part of me. But the rest of me seems determined to hang on to him, too.

  I shouldn’t blame myself for that. I shouldn’t call myself an idiot. If I want to feel like shit and hear someone tell me how stupid I am, I could just go back to my parents’ house. And really, who wouldn’t be a little crazy about Cole Matthews? Especially after being kissed by him?

  No one. That’s who.

  Except maybe my condescending iceberg of a mother.

  More than a little tipsy, I lift my glass in a silent toast to her immensely cold heart, then carry the bottle of wine toward my bedroom, intending to find a heartwarming holiday movie to fall asleep to. I’m halfway across the living room when a knock sounds at my door. Wearing a flannel pajama shirt that hangs halfway to my knees and fuzzy red socks, I make a wavering detour and—because I’m drunk but not stupid—take a look through the peephole to see who it is.

  And there he is. The one I can’t let go. His hair’s slightly disheveled. And he’s been pushing his leg too hard again. The dumb jerk won’t use his crutches as much as he should. His lips are tight, the edges of his mouth pale with strain. He shouldn’t be on his feet at all, let alone coming to see me.

  But he’s not a robber, so I haul open the door.

  Immediately his dark gaze runs all over me, from head to toe. Funny how much he does that now. I remember just a few minutes before Lowery started shooting, that I spotted Cole walking down the courthouse steps. Of course he didn’t see me. But I thought then, Look at me. Please. For once, just see me.

  Only a few minutes later, he did see me—when he was bleeding on the ground. He looked up into my eyes with such wonder and awe that even amidst all the terror, my heart felt like it would burst. But that bullet to his head must have knocked something loose in his brain at the time, because he hasn’t looked at me like that again.

  He’s not looking at me like that now. Instead his gaze is searching and intense, his voice gruff. “You okay?”

  Because the last time he saw me, I was a mess. But I’m better now. “Mmm-hmm,” I tell him, showing him my bottle of wine. “Look. All good.”

  That doesn’t seem to reassure him. He frowns. “You drank all that yourself?”

  “I did. But don’t worry,” I add, suddenly realizing why he’s frowning. “I don’t make it a habit. I’ve seen waaaaaay too many livers.”

  “I bet.” He glances past me. “Your brother’s here, too? You’ve got someone with you?”

  “My brainless frat boy boyfriend.” I grin at Cole when he winces. “Jason thought that was hilarious. Before he passed out. Not from this”—I lift the bottle again—“but from all the stuffing and mashed potatoes. Everyone blames the turkey but tryptophan only gets to your head so easily because your body’s busy digesting all the carbs. Though the wine probably helps a little, too. Did you eat a lot?”

  “Yeah, I did. Too much.”

  “Did you have to loosen your belt? But you have really hard abdominal muscles. I bet you didn’t have to. While I was in training, I assisted during an autopsy on a guy who’d just finished Easter dinner. And he had a dozen eggs in his stomach. That wasn’t what killed him—he was stabbed in the neck—but a dozen eggs! Did you eat that much?”

  “Not quite.” Laughter lights his dark eyes as he braces his shoulder against the door—taking the weight off his leg, I realize—and he holds out a small plastic container. “I brought this back for you.”

  I stare blankly at the little food storage tub. “What is it? Are those leftovers?” Excitement zips through me. “I’ve never had Thanksgiving leftovers before.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s a piece of your pie. Didn’t seem fair that you didn’t get any. So I saved you some. Heroically, I’ll add. I had to fight off Huertas and his kids when they went back for seconds—and his little girls are vicious. I barely survived.”

  Touched, I take the container. “So they liked the pie?”

  “It was fucking amazing. To tell the truth, I almost ate this piece instead of giving it to you. But Sofia wanted to wash your dish before returning it, so Huertas will bring it to work with him in the morning. And since I didn’t bring your pie plate back, I had to bring something. ”

  I don’t care about the dish. “You should come in, then,” I tell him, stepping back and opening the door wider. “We’ll share this piece of pie and the rest of this wine, and you’ll sit and rest your leg like you should.”

  He doesn’t move right away. Instead he stares at me, the
n groans and drags a hand though his hair. “I shouldn’t. You’re drunk.”

  I frown at him. “What does that mean? Should I be afraid of you? Are you going to have sex with me while I’m impaired? That’s gross. And not heroic at all.”

  His expression darkens. “Fuck no. But sex isn’t the only way a guy like me can take advantage of someone who’s drunk.”

  “A guy like you?”

  “I want to get into your head even more than I want to get into your panties, angel.”

  Is that all? Joke’s on him, then, because there’s nothing in my head right now. Just mushy mush. “Jason’s here and can protect my secrets,” I remind him, then grab his hand when he still hesitates. “C’mon, Detective Matthews.”

  I pull him into my apartment—somehow I’ve only got hold of his forefinger, but that’s apparently enough. He mutters something like, “I’m going to Hell,” but kicks the door closed behind him and lets me lead him into the kitchen…though he probably knows where it is.

  “Does your apartment look just like this?” I ask. “Same layout?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I guess I don’t have a reason to keep hold of his finger then. Sadly I let go, then head across the kitchen for plates and forks. “Since Jason’s taking up the sofa, we’ll have to stick to these barstools. I haven’t put the dining set together yet.”

  “Works for me. I don’t even have a dining set.”

  No dining set? I blink and look back at him. “Do you want one for Christmas?”

  “No.” With a laugh, he settles onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Shit. Is this what happens when you drink too much? You become generous?”

  “I’m always generous.” I set the dessert plate in front of him. “It’s a good thing, though. One day I’ll run the Bennet Foundation and give away lots of money for the betterment of the city. Whenever my father asks why I’m wasting time in the medical examiner’s office, I tell him that the best way to learn how we can improve every citizen’s life is to be intimately familiar with what’s killing them. Which is true, but not the only reason. And he thinks it’s a stupid reason, anyway, but I don’t. Do you want red wine or white or something else?”