Naughty but Nice: A Best Friend's Dad Christmas Romance

by Rye Hart

“Who are you two?” I say.

  “Samantha Washington,” she says. “You can call me Sam.”

  “I don’t want to call you anything yet, except trespasser,” I say. “And who’s your confederate here?”

  “That’s a word I don’t hear often,” she says with the hint of a smile. The absurdity of the situation is peaking, scaling with the growing intensity of the rain.

  “Mind your own business,” says the guy.

  “No, Jarom,” I say. “You don’t give me orders.”

  “This is a private conversation,” he says, staring at his shoes.

  “Do you live there?” says Sam.

  “Jarom,” I say, “you are on my land. Shrieking and carrying on. I could have shot you if I wanted. Hell, I would be within my rights to smite you with this ax here.” I grip it until my knuckles turn white and shake it at him. He blanches but she smiles behind her hand, I can tell.

  “Conversations occurring here do not belong to you, they belong to me. And now, with heavy heart, I insist that you get on back to wherever you came from before I get ugly.”

  “We can’t leave yet,” she says. “I mean, I can’t leave yet. He has to go.” She turns to him. “Jarom, I meant what I said. You have to go; I’m not doing this with you.”

  “But it’s raining?”

  I laugh so hard that it hurts. God, it feels good. It’s been a long time. It occurs to me that laughing is often something we do because of others. And not just that, when I see Sam smiling with me, trying not to laugh herself, even though she’s obviously rattled by whatever is going on with them, it occurs to me that laughing might even be something we do for other people. Maybe I can overlook the fact that she’s from the city, maybe. I feel like I would laugh all night to see her keep smiling.

  “I’ll give you an exclusive, Sam,” I say. “But not him. He’s got to go. That is my one condition. You come up to the cabin with me, we’ll talk, and then you’ll be on your way when it’s dry enough to travel. Don’t worry. I’ll help you find your way back.”

  “Deal,” she says.

  “No,” says Jarom, stomping his foot, which causes a little bit of mud to splash onto his face.

  “As for you, young Jarom,” I say, pointing right behind him, “You keep going in that direction and you’ll find your car. And I suggest finding a new name while you’re at it.”

  When he hesitates I decide it’s time for a little showmanship. I raise the ax overhead and throw it with one hand. It lodges in a tree ten feet away with a satisfying thud.

  Jarom runs so quickly that it makes me feel old. I used to be spry, but at least I’m not running from anyone like a raccoon with a pack of wolves after me.

  When he’s gone, I look at Sam. “What makes you think there’s anything important out here?”

  For an answer, she pulls her hood back up. The rain is spattering on her plastic poncho, beating a lulling rhythm into the night. “Let’s go,” she says. “I’m freezing and it’s a long story.”

  After we walk for a couple of minutes she says something so quiet that I can’t hear it. “What’s that?” I say.

  “I said thank you.”

  It doesn’t take long to get to the cabin, although she’s winded by the incline by the time we get there. Not that I think women need callused hands, but I bet she doesn’t have any.

  When I open the door and she steps across, something stirs inside me, and inside my pants. Good grief, it feels like I’m a teenage boy. Not the teenage insecurity, but the eagerness and the anticipation. There was a time when simply having a girl in my orbit felt like it bent gravity around me. How sad was this? There had never been a woman in this cabin. I had been here for years and this was the first time that the fairer sex had graced the gloomy little living room.

  I watch her look around and wonder what she is thinking. An odd thing, to try to see my space through someone else’s eyes.

  “Better or worse than you expected?” I say, setting down my tool belt and hanging up my coat. “Here, give me that poncho.” I take it from her and hang it up. She shakes her hair and a few droplets hit me. Then she takes off the coat she had underneath the jacket, revealing one of the most gorgeous bodies I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen my fair share.

  It’s obvious all over again, from the way she moves and twists as she tries to figure out where she is damp—there was a thought to make my pulse race. She has no idea of how much grace and sensuality she packs into her frame. It feels like the room has gotten smaller.

  “I’m not sure,” she says.

  Her obliviousness to her appeal could only mean one thing: she hadn’t been with anyone who appreciated her. Beautiful women who have been with a few men are used to being worshipped. She sure as hell wasn’t getting what she needed from Jarom; although from their interaction there was no sense that they had ever had more going on than cavorting in the forest together.

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” Although, if I disappointed her, maybe she’ll leave quicker. But it doesn’t seem like that’s what I want. Not yet.

  “I’m not disappointed. She sits in a chair by the fireplace. “Can we light that? It’s been a long time since I’ve sat by a fire.” Then her eyes go wide and I can’t tell if it’s fear or confusion or both. She stands up and jogs across the small room, gaping at what she sees in the next room.

  It was only a matter of time before she saw my dark secret, I suppose.

  I toss some kindling into the fireplace, strike a match, and have a fire going in less than a minute. Then I follow her into the next room.

  CHAPTER FIVE : SAM WASHINGTON

  Outside of a library, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many books in one place. Although I suppose that makes this place a library. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling. The cabin is narrower than it looked like from the front, but much deeper. It’s more like a hallway than a nice square, but it makes for an impressive sight when covered in books.

  And not just any books. It appears that my mysterious fighter—I’m already thinking of him as mine—is a history nut. And not just a history nut, but one that, from his collection, is far better versed than I. I’m intrigued. And jealous. I want all these books.

  “How many do you have?” I say when he walks into the room. He looks like a larger—only slightly—and wetter version of Paul Bunyan. It’s like I ordered a lumberjack from one of the catalogs that Lacey was talking about. I’d never seen a man look so handsome, while also being rugged at the same time. Being from the city, there were very few men characterized as rugged, unless they were the poor brutes collecting coins at the train station. His moustache was dark and trimmed neatly above his mouth. His beard was dark and only slightly thick.

  “How many what?”

  “Books! History books!”

  He folds his arms and laughs, deep within his chest. Before he can answer the rain comes down in such a torrent that it washes away anything we can say while standing so far apart. So he steps closer. He could reach out and touch me, which seems like the thing I want most, and what I am most afraid of.

  Well, I said I wanted a real man. Or was it Lacey who said I wanted a real man? Either way, I had one here now.

  “I stopped counting at three thousand,” he says.

  “Have you read them all?”

  He laughs again. “Afraid not, but as Umberto Eco said, who wants a library full of books they’ve already read?”

  I can’t believe I’m thinking it, but this appears to be a man after my own dorky heart. “I don’t know Umberto Eco. I’ll put him on my list.”

  “I love him. When he died last year I would have called in sick at work, if I still had a job, that is.” He smiles and turns to look at the books again.

  I like the idea of him hearing that an author he loved died and then taking a day off from chopping wood or skinning rabbits or whatever he spent his time out here doing. It showed character.

  Another sheet of rain slapped against the ceiling. “Let’s go back
in by the fire,” he says.”

  “Hey, I don’t even know your name,” I say when I sit in a chair across from his in front of the fire.

  “You don’t.”

  “I think I should.”

  “I believe you. I’m not sure that’s going to happen. But if you think about it long enough, you’ll probably figure it out.”

  Wait, what is he talking about? I realize that something about him has been nagging me since I showed up here. There is something familiar about him. Have we met? No, I would surely remember that.

  He’s grinning, watching me try to place him.

  “I’ll figure it out,” I say.

  “I’ve no doubt.” He reaches behind him and when his hand emerges it’s holding a bottle of bourbon. He holds it out to me and raises his eyebrows.

  “I shouldn’t,” I say. “I’m on a job.”

  “I’m not going to believe you until you tell me what the job is.”

  Thunder crashes again and suddenly I’m worried for poor dumb Jarom, stumbling around in the dark. Surely he made it back to the car – I hope. He may have been a complete weirdo, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

  “He’ll be fine,” says the lumberjack, as if he’s telepathic as well as enigmatic. He tips the bottle back and drinks two big swallows before offering it to me again. Oh, why not? I take the bottle from him and take as big a sip as I can handle. I feel like I’m in high school, trying to impress a boy at a party. Although it took far less than that to impress Owen. He thought it was the thrill of a lifetime when I showed him that I had a slightly double jointed thumb.

  Might as well come clean. “I was sent out here from New York to research a story for my editor.”

  “Let me guess. You don’t write for The New Yorker?” It would be a hook in someone else’s mouth, but he says it kindly, as if we’re both in on the joke.

  “Ah, if only. No, I’m afraid not. Jarom and I are here at the bidding of The Inner Eye.”

  He literally slaps his knee, which is something I thought people only did in books and movies. But there’s more. He throws back his head and roars with laughter, making the cabin seem smaller than before. “I knew that someone would find me eventually,” he says. “I suppose The Inner Eye is as fitting as anything. But what’s the story? What does your editor think she knows?”

  How are we already talking so easily? I find that I can’t wait to confide in him, gossip with him, to share and laugh with this burly stranger.

  “She says that people are talking about an ex MMA fighter who lives out here. Apparently he’s a recluse with a dark secret, or so my boss would like to believe.”

  He’s quiet for a few moments. He takes another swig from the bottle and then offering it to me. “What does this guy supposedly want? Or need? What does your all-knowing boss say?”

  I take another drink and fight the urge to cough. “She doesn’t know. No one really knows,” I say in a theatrical voice, leaning forward as if we’re telling stories around a campfire. “And that’s the greatest mystery of all.” I sit back, incredibly pleased with myself. Was he this hot when we walked in together? Maybe it’s just the whiskey, but with every passing second I’m more aware that a giant man is in a cabin with me in the midst of a violent rainstorm and it’s all just as cozy as could be.

  What would Lacey do?

  Well, I already know the answer to that. But what would someone slightly less raucous than Lacey do?

  “My name is Hugh,” he says. “And I’m not that mysterious. I just needed to be alone for a while. A while turned into years.” He sets the bottle on the floor, takes up a poker, and stirs the fire, breathing new life into it.

  “Hugh,” I say, and now he seems more familiar than ever, although I still can’t place him.

  “Yes, and you’re Sam,” he says. “And now, Sam, I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?”

  Is this the part where he takes another ax and I become another naive girl in a horror movie?

  “The bad.”

  “When it rains like this, it usually doesn’t let up for a few days. You might be stuck here for a bit.”

  Could be worse, unless that’s also just the whiskey talking. “It takes time to do a good story, as long as you’re willing to answer my questions. Whether it works for the piece or not, I have to say that I really, really want to know what you’re doing out here and who you are.”

  It is obviously the wrong thing to say. Something dark flickers across his face and he gets to his feet. “I’ll show you where you can sleep,” he says roughly. He grabs my suitcase and heads up a small staircase by the doorway. I have no choice but to follow him unless I want to go back out into the rain.

  By the time I get to the top of the stairs he is already exiting the room where it looks like I’m going to sleep, or try at least. “Good night,” he says, walking down the hall and shutting a door behind him. He doesn’t quite slam it, but it’s close.

  I sit on the edge of my bed and check my phone. Still no service. What have I gotten myself into?

  Who is Hugh?

  I lie back on the bed, sinking into the flannel covers and the soft mattress. Sleep finds me before answers do.

  CHAPTER SIX: HUGH MADDOX

  I am such a fucking idiot.

  What is wrong with me? I come all the way out here to hide, to get away to forget what happened, to make sure no one can ever bring it up again, and here I am almost daring some stranger to guess who I am. Need a clue? Here’s my name! I offered it up as soon as I could tell she thought she knew me from somewhere!

  Time to dial it down. Easier said than done around a lovely woman of perfect proportions. Not just that, her personality! It was like someone had made her for me in a lab! The look on her face when she saw my books was priceless. I never understood where the stereotype that strong and tough men couldn’t also be brainy bookworms came from. Even when I was fighting in New York, it’s not like the guys finished sparring and training and then went home to their Xboxes. Most of them craved something mentally stimulating after a day that took such a brutal toll on the body.

  Andrew in particular had been a brain. He made me look like I barely even knew how to read. That was the fine line I meant when I talked about inspiration versus intimidation. I would probably never have caught up to Andrew’s formidable intellect, but I was sure as hell going to try.

  Then came the fucked up day when he died and there was no way to chase him anymore.

  Fast forward a few years and I’ve got some beat reporter in the bed down the hall, falling all over myself to answer my questions. Did I want to get caught? Found out? Revealed? Whenever I stepped out of the octagon I prided myself on how analytical, objective, and empirical I had trained my mind to be.

  It’s not doing me much good tonight. All I want to do is rush down the hall, crawl into that bed with her, and take my chances. Maybe she would kick me out, but maybe not.

  It’s been so fucking long. It’s an old cliché: I’m a man. I have needs. Boo hoo. Still true, though. Clichés don’t spring up out of nowhere and they sure as hell don’t stick around for centuries because they’re completely false.

  There are other ways to meet my needs. I’ll see whatever happens with her tomorrow, and the day after. She really can’t go out in this storm, and it looks like it’s going to be a historic screamer. All I have to do until I can get her out of here is keep my mouth shut. She wants a story? I’ll invent one for her.

  I realize that, whatever story she writes, if it gets published, people are going to know someone is out here. The folks down in Wahay already do, of course, but they respect privacy and there’s no way any of them are going to put people on my trail, not without my consent. Consent, which I am now basically giving this beauty by the name of Sam on a silver platter!

  Again, I am a fucking idiot.

  Before I knew it I’m wrapping my wrists, the old familiar criss-cross pattern that I have done a million times. I’m open
ing my door and heading down the hall, down the stairs, out onto the back porch in the rain where the heavy bag is hanging from the rafters.

  I settle into the old violent rhythm, something I’ll never forget, even if I never threw another punch in my life. Boom, boom, boom. In time with the rain, the thunder, the tumult of the night. Within a minute I’m sweating so badly that I take off my shirt despite the cold.

  There is always peace in familiarity. I’ve spent my whole life trying to find out what I should be doing - what I was born for. When I found fighting I knew that was it. Time to call off the search. Even now, I know it as my fists pummel the bag. I begin to mix it up, elbows, knees, shins, palm strikes. This is elegance and mastery of the most brutal sort. But, where I once practiced my art in front of thousands of screaming fans and attracted sponsorship offers like blood attracts sharks, I was now a shirtless no one in a forest, trying, forever trying, to drive the thoughts away.

  Andrew stepping into the octagon for the first time, smiling as his name was introduced.

  I punch faster and faster. My wrist wraps are coming undone and my wrists are going to be unsteady if I don’t ease up, but I can’t.

  Andrew taking the center of the octagon as soon as the opening bell blew. We had prepared for nearly a year for his debut fight. He was more than ready.

  I feint, bob, weave, and then slam a shin into the bag so hard that it swings up and nearly hits the rafter to which it is chained.

  I can’t think about Andrew anymore. It never leads anywhere good, although it did lead me here to whatever this is...my so-called sanctuary. But I’m still haunted by it, every fucking bit of it. It is hard to find refuge from yourself …. unless you have someone to take you out of the shit hole you created for yourself.

  Now this is a welcome train of thought. Sam. Upstairs in bed. I slowed my pace and focused on her. On the way her body had looked as she had twisted her way out of the poncho. On the delicate movement of her throat when she tipped the bottle back. On her insistent but somewhat unsure flirtiness, and how good it had felt to know that she was both interested in her story and in me.