Christmas Kisses with Her Boss

by Nina Milne

  ‘That sounds like a lot of work for you.’ Ethan hesitated; he didn’t want to hail on her parade or dim her enthusiasm, but... ‘You do know that these kids...they may not appreciate your good intentions.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I know I’m coming across all Pollyanna, but I have kept a reality check. I’ve got in extra fire extinguishers, plus I’ve cleared out all the sharp knives, though I’ve decided cookie cutters won’t be lethal. I know there is a chance none of them will engage. But...’ Reaching up, she attached a gold bauble. ‘I’ve got to try. Because if we get through to even one of these kids and create a happy memory of Christmas then it will be worth it. Even if they aren’t in a place to show their appreciation.’

  ‘The “dilute the tainted memories” approach?’ he said.

  ‘Yup.’

  For a second Ethan wondered if that were possible—then knew he was deluded. It wasn’t. He wasn’t even sure he wanted it to be.

  Once he’d believed the best thing to do was obliterate the chain of memories with mindless anger. Beat them into oblivion. Especially the memory of the Christmas after Tanya’s death. His mother, him, and the ghost of Tanya. In the end rage had overcome him and he’d hurled the microwaved stodgy food at the wall, watched the gravy trickle and blend in with the grungy paint. Once he’d started he hadn’t been able to stop—had pulled the scrawny tree from its pot, flung it down. Stamped on it, kicked it—as if the tree had been the bully who had driven Tanya to her death.

  His mother hadn’t said a word; then she had left the room with a curt, ‘Clean it up.’

  Seconds later he’d heard the sound of the television and known that it was the end of Christmas. By the following Christmas she’d consigned him to social services and he’d taken to the streets, consumed by grief, anger and misery. Then finally he’d decided to take control—to leash the demons and channel his emotions in order to succeed.

  With an abrupt movement he stood back. ‘I’m done.’

  Seeing the snap of concern in her blue eyes, he forced his lips into a smile. Ruby’s way wasn’t his way, but that wasn’t to say it wasn’t a good way—and she was right. If her way could help even one of these teenagers then it was worth every moment.

  ‘It looks spectacular.’

  That pulled an answering smile, though her eyes still surveyed him with a question. ‘It’s a work of art.’

  It was definitely a work of something—though Ethan wasn’t sure what.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘We need to do the star. It’s the pièce de résistance.’ She walked across the room and rummaged around in a box before twirling round. ‘What do you think?’

  Ethan blinked, all darkness chased away by a star that could only be described as the Star of Bling. ‘Wow. That’s...’

  ‘Eye-catching?’ Ruby handed it up to him. ‘I think you should do the honours. Really.’ Her voice softened. ‘This is your scheme. I know I’m banging on about the magic of Christmas, but without you these teens wouldn’t be going anywhere. So I think it’s right that you should put the star on top.’

  Ethan hesitated, a frisson of discomfort rippling through him at her tone. Too much admiration, too much emotion...best to get this whole interlude over with.

  In an abrupt movement he placed the star on top of the tree, nestled it into the branches and jumped down off the stepladder.

  ‘There. Done. Now, how about we get some work done?’

  ‘Sure...’

  Ethan frowned at the note of hesitation in her voice, saw her swift glance at her watch and sighed. ‘Unless you have more Christmas magic to sort?’

  ‘Not magic...just something I need to do. But I can do it later. It’s not a problem.’

  Curiosity warred with common sense and won. ‘Okay. I’ll bite. What needs to be done?’

  ‘Now I’ll sound like Pollyanna on a sugar rush. I’ve bought them all gifts. Out of my own money,’ she added quickly.

  ‘The money’s not an issue.’ Affront touched him that she’d thought it would be.

  ‘I know that! I just wanted to make it personal. I’ll sign the tags from you as well. Though it would be better if you—’ She broke off.

  ‘If I signed them myself? I can do that.’

  ‘Fabulous. I’ll run up and get all the gifts now. Maybe we could wrap them whilst we discuss the seating plan?’

  Ethan opened his mouth and then closed it again. What he’d meant was that Ruby could give him the tags to sign. No need for him to see the presents—presumably she’d bought them all chocolates or key rings. But she looked so pleased...

  ‘Sure,’ he heard his voice say.

  ‘I’ll be back in a mo...’

  ‘Bring them to my office.’ At least that way he could pretend it was work.

  Ruby toted the bags out of her bedroom and paused on the landing. Time for a pep talk. It was wonderful that Ethan had bought into her ideas, but she had to grab on to the coat-tails of perspective before it disappeared over the horizon. Sure, he’d helped decorate the tree, but that was because she had given him little choice—he’d done it for those teens and so that she could resume her restaurant manager duties more quickly. Not for her.

  It was time to get these gifts wrapped and get on with some work.

  So why, when she entered his office, did she feel a small ripple of disappointment to see Ethan behind his desk, intent on his computer screen, exuding professionalism?

  His glance up as she entered was perfunctory at best.

  She hesitated. ‘If you want to get on with some work I can wrap these later.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ One broad hand swept the contents of the desktop to one side.

  ‘Right. Here goes. I’ve got a list that details each person and their gift.’

  His body stilled. ‘You bought individual gifts?’

  ‘Yes. I called the social workers, got a few numbers for foster carers and residential home workers and chatted to some people. Just to find out a bit about them all, so I could buy something personal.’

  His eyes rested on her with an indecipherable expression.

  ‘Hey... Like you would say, it’s no big deal.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘No—really. To be honest, it’s kind of therapeutic. In a weird way I feel like I’m doing it for myself. The me of all those years ago. Because I can remember what it was like in care, being the person with the token present. That was the worst of it—having to be grateful for gifts that were impersonal. Don’t get me wrong—some carers really tried. But they didn’t know me well enough to know what I wanted. Others couldn’t be bothered to get to know me. So I’d get orange-flavoured chocolate when I only liked milk, or a top that I loathed and that didn’t fit.’

  For heaven’s sake!

  ‘That all sounds petty, doesn’t it? But I want these kids to get a gift they want—not something generic.’

  ‘Like a key ring or a chocolate bar?’ he said, and a rueful smile touched his lips.

  ‘Is that what you thought I’d bought?’

  ‘Yes. I guess I should have known better.’ Ethan rose to his feet. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Let’s do this properly. We’ll wrap in the bar and you can show me what you bought everyone and brief me on what you found out about them. I’ll light the fire and we’ll have a drink.’

  ‘What about work?’

  The rueful smile became even more rueful, mixed with charm, and Ruby concentrated on keeping her breathing steady.

  ‘I think we have done all we can do. The seating plan looks fine, the food is sorted, the wine is sorted, the auction is sorted and the band is booked. The banqueting hall furniture arrives after the Christmas period. All in all, I think we may have run out of work.’

  He was right—and s
he knew exactly why that smile was now packed with regret...because without work to focus on what would they do with themselves?

  She looked down at the presents she carried. The answer to that problem was to wrap fast, then flee to bed. Alone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  RUBY WATCHED AS Ethan lit the fire, his movements deft, the tug of denim against the muscles of his thighs holding her gaze as he squatted by the flames.

  Stop with the ogling.

  She forced herself to lay out the silver paper patterned with snowflakes and the list of gifts on the table. A sip of the deep red wine Ethan had poured for them both and then she waited until he sat opposite her.

  ‘Here,’ she said, and handed over the first present. ‘This one is for Max: he’s one of the boys in residential care and he’s really into music—specifically rap, which I have to admit I know nothing about. So I did some research, conferred with his key worker at the home, and we came up with this T-shirt. It’s the right size, and it’s a cool label, so...’

  Ethan shook the T-shirt out and nodded approval at the slogan. Folding it up again, he kept his eyes on her. ‘It must have taken a fair amount of time to research each and every one of them and then find what you wanted. You should have told me. I’d have lightened your workload.’

  ‘No way. I was happy to do it on my own time. Plus, you’ve hardly been idle yourself. You’ve briefed the surf instructors, sourced the caterers, the billiards table, co-ordinated all the paperwork—and you’re also running a global business.’

  Ruby frowned, wondering why he never seemed to realise just how much he did.

  He broke off a piece of tape with a deft snap. ‘What I’ve done is generic—I could have set this up for any group of teenagers in care. You’ve made it personal.’

  ‘Yes, I have. But I couldn’t have done that if you hadn’t set it up in the first place. Plus...’ She hesitated. ‘What you’ve done is personal too. You’re giving them what helped you. The opportunity to surf, to do other water sport, to expend energy and vent frustration in a positive way. So what you’ve done isn’t generic, and I won’t let you believe it is. You care about these kids.’ With a sudden flash of insight she blurted, ‘Did you grow up on an estate? Like the one some of these kids are from?’ The one he’d described as ‘notorious’.

  For a second she thought he wouldn’t answer; the only sound was the crackle of the logs. Then he dropped the wrapped T-shirt into a bag and lifted his broad shoulders in an I-suppose-there’s-no-harm-in-answering shrug.

  ‘Yes, I did. So I relate to where these kids have come from—a tough background, maybe abuse, neglect, parents on drugs and alcohol or in prison. It’s easy for them to get into trouble, join a gang, because there’s nothing else to do and no one to stop them. And then they do what their parents did—steal, deal...whatever it takes. All these kids are in that cycle, and I’d like to show them there are other choices. Not just by giving them Christmas, but by giving them incentive. If they can go away from here and stay clean for a few months they can come back and take other opportunities if they want to. I want to give them a chance to get off the wheel.’

  ‘Like you did?’

  ‘No.’

  His voice was harsh now, and the dark pain that etched his features made her yearn to reach out.

  ‘I didn’t have their excuse. My dad was a lowlife—apparently he yo-yoed in and out of prison—but my mum tossed him out when I was tiny. The time he went down for armed robbery she said enough was enough. Mum didn’t drink or do drugs, and any neglect was because she was out at work all day so she could put food on the table. God knows, she did her best—but it wasn’t enough. I jumped onto the wheel all by myself. Like father, like son.’

  The words sounded like a quote, the derision in them painful, and Ruby tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. ‘I’m guessing you got into trouble—but it’s like you said yourself. In an environment like a troubled estate that’s understandable. The point is you got off that wheel and out of trouble. Look at you now—your mum must be proud.’

  It was the wrong thing to have said; his face was padlocked and his eyes flecked with ice. Surely his mother hadn’t been the one to make the father-son comparison?

  Disbelief morphed into anger as she saw his expression. ‘You are not a lowlife.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’ His eyes were dark now, his voice vibrating with mockery, though she wasn’t sure if he was mocking her, himself or the world.

  ‘I don’t care. Opinion doesn’t make you into your father. It doesn’t work like that. I know that because I am not my parents. Not either of them. And I never will be.’

  Her fingers clenched around the edges of the table as she faced him.

  ‘My parents were addicts. Booze, heroin—whatever they could get their hands on, whenever they could get their hands on it. At whatever cost. Food and paying bills and shoes were all irrelevant.’

  She gestured down to the reams of Christmas wrapping paper.

  ‘For them the festive period was an excuse to justify extra excess—which led to extra verbal violence or extra apathy. Turkey, decorations and presents didn’t feature.’

  For a moment she was back there—in the past. Feeling the tingle of childish anticipation that scratched her eyelids as she lay on the verge of sleep. The twist of hope that Santa was real...that she’d open her eyes and see four stuffed stockings for her siblings and herself. More importantly her parents, groomed and sober, would watch them opening them with love. Then reality would touch her with the cold fingers of dawn. The smell of stale cigarettes and worse would invade her nostrils and she’d know it would be another Christmas of playing avoid-the-abuse and hide-from-notice, ensuring her siblings stayed out of the line of fire.

  The memory gave steel to her voice. ‘I am not like them. I won’t ever let addiction become more important than my children. Ever.’

  His hands clenched on his thighs and his whole body vibrated with tension. His foot jumped on the wooden floor. As if he wanted to somehow change her past for her.

  ‘Ruby. I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say—except that it sucks that you had to go through that.’

  She gave an impatient shake of her head. ‘It did suck, but that’s not the point. The point is I am not my parents and you are not your father.’ His jaw was set and she could almost see her statement slide off him unheeded. ‘I mean, do you even know where he is now?’

  ‘No. My guess would be in a prison cell.’

  ‘Well, you aren’t. You are here, trying to make a difference and do good.’

  ‘In which case I’d better get on with it.’ His tone was light, but with an edge that emphasised the end of the subject. ‘But first...’ and now his gaze was filled with warmth and compassion ‘... I can’t imagine what you went through, but I am full of admiration for the wonderful woman that child has become.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Frustration mixed with a yen to get close to him—to make him see that his achievements deserved kudos just as much as hers. Yet already she could see the shutters had been pulled down to hood his eyes as he picked up the tape again.

  ‘We’d better get a move on,’ he said. It’s a big day tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait.’

  Something—she had to do something. Loathing touched her soul at the idea that Ethan had such a deep-rooted, downright skewed vision of himself. Without allowing herself time to think she moved round the table and took his hand, tugged at it to indicate she wanted him to stand. He rose to his feet and she kept her fingers wrapped around his, tried to ignore the frisson that vibrated through her at the feel of his skin against hers.

  ‘Come here.’

  The small frown deepened on his forehead as she led him to the ornate gold Victorian mirror—an oval of gilt curls and swirls.

 
‘Look at yourself,’ she said firmly, ‘and you will see you. Ethan Caversham. You are you. You may look like your dad, but you are not like him. This I know.’

  His reluctance palpable, he shrugged. But he complied, and as he glanced at his reflection she hoped against all hope that he would see what she could. It was an optimism that proved foolhardy as his jaw hardened and a haunting mockery speckled his blue-grey eyes.

  She stepped forward and turned so that she faced him, stood on tiptoe and cupped his jaw in her palms. The six o’clock shadow was rough against her skin as she angled his face and met his gaze.

  ‘You are a good man,’ she whispered, and reached up to kiss him.

  Heaven knew she’d had every intention of pressing her lips to his cheek, but instinct overcame common sense and the burning of need to imprint her sincerity onto his consciousness prevailed. Her lips brushed his and she gave a small sigh as desire shimmered and sizzled, and then his broad hands spanned her waist and pulled her against him.

  For a second she thought he’d kiss her properly, deepen the connection that fizzed, but as if he’d suddenly caught sight of his reflection he gently moved her away and stepped backwards instead. He lifted a hand and ran a finger against her cheek in a gesture so gentle she felt tears threaten.

  ‘Thank you, Ruby. I appreciate the endorsement.’

  A smile redolent with strain touched his lips and then he turned and headed back to the table, sat down and picked up the scissors.

  This was a good thing, right? Of course it was. Kissing Ethan was a bad, bad idea—that was an already established fact. So she needed to crush the absurd sense of disappointment and follow suit.

  * * *

  Two days later Ethan watched the busload of teenagers depart round the curve of the driveway. A sideways glance showed Ruby still waving, a smile on her face, though he knew she must be exhausted.