Santa's on His Way

by Lisa Jackson

  He was right. Even the tops of her socks were soaked. She grabbed the blanket and started to walk out.

  “Where you going?”

  “To find a bathroom to take off my clothes.”

  “Suit yourself, but why leave the warmth of the fire? I’ll turn my back for God’s sake.”

  “Maybe I have to go. You ever think of that?”

  “You always have to win, don’t you?” He handed her the flashlight. “I think there’s one right down the hallway.”

  She made a detour to the kitchen and grabbed her tote bag with her change of clothes. It was a bit formal for sitting around a fire in a blizzard, but it would be warmer than just the blanket. And, frankly, Boden and his proposition were a little too tempting. Better to keep a couple of layers of fabric between them.

  The last man she’d been with was Jeremy, nearly three years ago. Since then, it had been quite a dry spell. And if she had to guess, Boden was well practiced when it came to women.

  By the time she returned to the great room, Boden was wrapped in the afghan. His pants, sweatshirt, jacket, and socks had been draped over the hearth to dry. She tried hard not to visualize his body parts under the blanket.

  He eyed her up and down, amused. “Your catering uniform, huh?”

  “Yep.” She looked down at her black pants and white tuxedo top and realized how ridiculous she must look. “It’s warm.” It really wasn’t, but it was dry. And it covered her from her neck to ankles. Her feet, now bare, were freezing.

  She lined her wet clothes up next to Boden’s. As soon as her socks were dry she planned to put them back on.

  “I spotted a basket of slippers in the mudroom.” Boden got up. “I’ll get you a pair.”

  He took the flashlight and disappeared. She glanced around the room, letting her eyes adjust to the firelight. It really was a beautiful space. Mammoth rough-hewn beams. Polished wide-plank floors. A fireplace mantel carved from an ancient pine log. And the holiday decorations looked like something from a magazine.

  There were worse places to be held hostage by the weather. And worse men to be stuck with, she supposed. If she wanted to be honest, Boden had not only been resourceful; he’d also been a perfect gentleman. Okay, maybe not so much if she considered him propositioning her. But there’d been no pressure, and not once had she felt unsafe with him. Just the opposite in fact.

  “I didn’t know what size, so I brought a couple of pairs.” He tossed her two different pairs of shearling slippers and she tucked her feet into the larger pair.

  She hummed with appreciation. “I’m getting a pair of these when I get home. Thank you, Boden.” She glanced down at his still bare feet. “You didn’t find a pair for yourself?”

  “I wear an extra-large.” He winked and she rolled her eyes. “You want some brandy? I’ve got a few good bottles in the bar. It’ll warm us up.”

  “I was thinking of making tea.”

  “Nah, brandy is better.”

  She fixed him with a look and had to laugh at how absurd he looked in the blanket, which he wore poncho-style. It was red, white, and green and looked as if it had been hand crocheted. “You trying to liquor me up?”

  “I’m trying to liquor myself up. You’re free to have tea, though.”

  She followed him onto the porch. Without the heat lamps on, it was like the frozen tundra. He ducked behind the bar and found a bottle of Courvoisier, poured it into a snifter, and swirled the glass. Somehow the refinement of it all seemed at odds with Boden’s blue-collar biker image. Then again, the huge Christmas doily he had wrapped around him didn’t exactly fit in with that persona, either. She supposed that even if Boden tried, he couldn’t escape the art of being manly.

  Honest to goodness, she couldn’t think of a more manly man.

  “You sure you don’t want one?” he asked.

  “Okay, you talked me into it.”

  His mouth curved up. “It’s good stuff.” He poured another balloon glass, handed it to her, and raised his drink in a toast. “As the great Tom Waits says, ‘You can learn a lot about a woman by getting smashed with her.’ ”

  “You get a lot of women smashed, huh?”

  “I’m a bartender, Rachel.”

  She held his gaze over the rim of her glass, then took a slow sip, letting the warm liquid wash down her throat.

  “Let’s go drink by the fire.” He grabbed the bottle by the neck, came out from behind the bar, and led the way with the flashlight.

  She wondered how he managed to keep the blanket from slipping off and kind of hoped she could get a peek at that fine backside of his. No such luck. He spread out on the sectional and she took the seat next to him.

  “How long you think this will last?” She stared out the French doors where the snow continued to come down in sheets.

  “Who can say? In the meantime, we’ve got food and heat and good company.”

  She studied him to see if he was being facetious. Nope, he seemed to mean it, which surprised her. She’d always gotten the impression that he disliked her as much as she distrusted him.

  “What plans did you have for Christmas?” she asked, curious. Perhaps one of the Garner brothers had invited him for dinner. He was friendly with all of them and without family . . . well, she hoped someone had thought to include him.

  “Work on my books.” He propped his heels up on the coffee table and she couldn’t help note that he really did have big feet.

  “For Old Glory?” That was no way to spend the holiday.

  “Yep. I don’t know about you, but there never seems to be enough time in the day for bookkeeping.”

  “Don’t I know it. But on Christmas?” She mentally kicked herself once the words left her mouth. It was an insensitive thing to say.

  “Why not? The bar’s closed.”

  This time she held her tongue and just nodded. “It looks like there’s a good chance we’ll be here.”

  “Yep.” He got up, walked to the hearth, and felt his clothing. “Still not dry.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. The blanket’s a really good look for you.” He bobbed his head at her. “I’m only wearing it to protect your delicate sensibilities. Otherwise, I’d sit here in the buff, drinking my cognac.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.” But when he started to take off the afghan, she grabbed his hand away.

  “What, are you worried you won’t be able to control yourself?”

  “Something like that.” She tried to go for indifference, but the truth was her thoughts were running along the same line as his. Why not? It was Christmastime and a night with a man as virile as Boden would be a superb way to spend it. Just as quickly she tried to convince herself that a one-night affair with the enemy was reckless. Her brain got it, but her body was having trouble saying no. “Why don’t we see if the Canadells have any board games or a deck of cards?”

  “Seriously, you want to play Monopoly now?”

  She didn’t really, but it seemed safer than the alternative, getting naked on the bear rug with Boden and doing something she’d later regret.

  CHAPTER 8

  The frigid temperature had done nice things to Rachel’s breasts and Boden tried with all his might not to laser in on them. Why was she cold when he was hot? The fire was throwing off enough heat to make him tight and uncomfortable. Hell, who was he fooling? It was Rachel making him feel that way.

  Just drink your brandy, asshole.

  “So tell me about your parents.” It was a neutral conversation topic and, frankly, he was interested. “Both lawyers, huh?”

  “My dad’s an appellate court judge and my mom is a corporate attorney. My sister, Kate, and her husband are both medical malpractice attorneys. Nothing more to tell really.”

  “What’s with Trial Lawyer of the Year? Is it some kind of family tradition?”

  She laughed and moved closer on the couch so that their shoulders were touching. “No. It’s a long, boring story,” she said, and waved him off.

 
; He leaned back and stretched out his feet on the coffee table. “Seems to me that we’ve got nothing but time.” He wanted to know what her earlier reference was about. She didn’t strike him as someone who was low on the confidence scale, but the way her face had dropped when she’d mentioned the subject made him wonder. Did Miss Perfect have an Achilles’ heel?

  She let out a sigh. “A guy I used to date was recently named Trial Lawyer of the Year. That’s all.”

  “And your parents wanted you to marry this guy?” For no understandable reason he felt a wave of envy pass over him.

  She did a double take. “Where’d you get that? No. They didn’t even like him. He was a back-stabbing jerk.”

  “Back-stabbing?” He turned to face her. “What’d he do?”

  She hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “He pretended to be in love with me and used my knowledge of Dole to steal my job.”

  “What do you mean he stole your job? He got you fired?”

  “No. He was outside counsel. We hired his firm to take on the extra caseload. At the time, my boss had put in his resignation and I was the heir apparent to take his job. It had all but been promised to me. While I was dating Jeremy, I told him my plans for taking over the legal department, the changes I wanted to implement. Then he went behind my back and applied for the job, proposing all my ideas at the interview. And he got the position.”

  This Jeremy dude sounded like a real douchebag “You dumped him, right?”

  “I would’ve if I’d had the chance. He sent me a text the minute he was named general counsel, saying that as my new boss we could no longer be romantically involved. Can you believe it?” She shook her head. “Needless to say, I quit the next day. I’m over it now, but that’s what I get for trusting someone like him.”

  Jeremy sounded like he needed to have his ass whupped. And as far as being over it . . . Boden didn’t think so. “Did he initially give you any reason to believe he wasn’t trustworthy?”

  She thought about it for a second. “No, I guess I’m just gullible. Not anymore, though.”

  Boden got up and put another log on the fire. “Or maybe Jeremy was a con man who you didn’t see coming. It happens to the best of us.”

  “He’s unscrupulous, that’s for sure. And yet, he’s Trial Lawyer of the Year.”

  “Were you in love with the guy?” Boden sat back down and again Rachel inched closer.

  “No,” she said, but Boden didn’t believe her. And once more, he felt an unexpected jolt of jealousy. Jeremy was a jerk-off, but he had the kind of pedigree a woman like Rachel went for. Well educated, professional, a lawyer.

  He refilled their brandy snifters and raised his glass. “Screw Jeremy.”

  She laughed. It was a nice musical sound. And she looked so pretty sitting there with her feet tucked under her butt, her cheeks rosy from the heat of the fire, that Boden couldn’t help himself. He kissed her. Soft and slow at first, in case she wasn’t into it. When she didn’t pull away, he went in for more, covering her mouth with his. All day, he’d wanted to do this. Longer, if he was being truly honest with himself. There was a reason he went to her bakery every morning when he owned his own gastro pub. And there was a reason he continued to taunt her at catering jobs like a fifteen-year-old.

  Rachel whimpered and Boden took it up a notch by slipping his tongue between her lips. She tasted like brandy and woman. He moved over her, sifting his hands through her hair. The warm pull of her mouth pleaded for more, so he took the kiss deeper, eliciting another feminine moan.

  He untucked her blouse, inched his hands up her soft skin, and rested them just beneath her rib cage. “This okay?”

  “What this is, is a dumb idea.” She sighed.

  “You think? Because you seem pretty into it. I am, that’s for sure. But just give me the word and I’ll stop.”

  She leaned up and kissed him. Probably a green light, but Boden kept his hands still, letting her call the shots.

  “Just this one time, right?” She seemed to be rationalizing this . . . him . . . to herself. Boden should’ve been offended—later he probably would be—but his dick didn’t have that much pride.

  “Yeah, sure.” He rolled on top of her and the blanket came loose in the process. “How about I get rid of this damn thing?” He tossed the afghan on the floor.

  She propped up on both elbows to look at him. “Wow, you work out.”

  “Not really.” He shrugged and checked out his arms. “Don’t have time. I guess it’s all the boxes I carry.”

  “I like this.” She ran her hand over his beer mug tattoo.

  “You do?” It surprised him. Inked-up guys didn’t seem her speed, but apparently she liked to slum it every once in a while.

  “It’s very you.” She smiled and he didn’t know whether the comment was a barb or a compliment.

  “Yes, it is.” And I’m proud of who I am, lady. “You got any?” He rucked her blouse up and landed a featherlight kiss on her belly. She smelled sweet, like that perfume she always wore with a hint of cinnamon and sugar. “I don’t see any yet.” He pushed her shirt higher, exposing her bra, a see-through number that made him grow twice as hard.

  She actually giggled, which ordinarily would’ve turned him off. With her, though, it had the opposite effect.

  “Any here?” He tugged the cups of her bra down and cupped her breasts. They were plump and firm with pretty pink nipples that puckered to attention as he touched them with his thumbs. “God, you’re perfect, Rachel.”

  Her eyes heated and she whispered, “Not as perfect as you.”

  “Yeah, you are.” He dipped down and tasted her again.

  She ground into him and slid her hands underneath the waistband of his boxers. “I wondered if you had underwear on.”

  “Disappointed?”

  She nuzzled his neck. “You think we’re crazy to be doing this?”

  “That depends. Have you been naughty or nice?”

  She giggled again, then threw caution to the wind and slid her hands lower until she was clutching his ass. He liked her this way. Sexy and a little greedy for him. He rubbed against the juncture between her thighs and he could’ve sworn she purred.

  “Let’s get some of these clothes off.” He unfastened the clasp on her pants, dragged down the zipper, and struggled to pull them off one leg at a time. She lifted her butt and helped shuck them off with a few wiggles. The move drove him insane.

  And wouldn’t you know it, her teeny-weeny bikinis matched the bra, leaving nothing to the imagination. He wondered if she always wore sexy lingerie. Regardless, it was going to be hard to see her at Tart Me Up in a white apron and not remember this moment without getting a woody.

  He cupped her through the diaphanous material and felt how wet she was. She dragged her shirt over her head, leaving her in nothing but her underwear.

  “Let’s get it all off.” He unhooked her bra and tossed it on the floor somewhere near his blanket.

  The fire crackled and he had a hazy thought that he should put another log on. But the thought of leaving Rachel, even for a second. . . wasn’t gonna happen.

  “You warm enough?” he asked.

  “Hot.”

  “Mm-m, you don’t know the half of it.” He slid her panties down her legs and she kicked them off.

  “Yours too.” She tugged his shorts down and he did the rest of the work, leaving them both naked.

  “Want to move to the floor?” He was a big guy, and while the sectional was roomy by most standards it wouldn’t cut it for what he had in mind. Besides, there was a nice, thick rug near the fire. Romantic, even if this was supposed to be a onetime deal.

  “Okay.” But she didn’t move and he really wanted to see her. Standing up.

  He waited, then finally stood, lifted her, and laid her gently on the rug. She reached up for him to come down. Instead, he took his time taking his fill of her body. In the glow of the light, her skin was rosy. Her legs long and shapely, her stomach flat, and her bre
asts firm and high. God, she was beautiful.

  “Stop staring and come be with me before I chicken out.”

  He lay beside her and turned on his side. “Why? Why would you chicken out?” He didn’t want to rush her into anything.

  “Because we’re competitors.”

  They were both bidding on the same venue. In his mind that didn’t have to make them adversaries, just fellow business owners, looking to expand. But he supposed after her experience with Jeremy she was always leery. Always afraid of being sucker-punched.

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with that,” he said, and ran his finger along her arm. It was hard to think about anything other than touching her when she was spread out on the floor like that.

  She covered his mouth with hers and said against his lips, “Let’s not talk about it.”

  Not talking worked for him. He rolled on top of her and kissed his way down her neck and chest, sucking on her breasts. She made a sexy noise in her throat and he moved his hand between her legs. And just like that she froze.

  “I don’t have anything and I’m not on the pill.”

  Shit. Boden crawled to his pants, praying he had a condom—or two—in his wallet. It’s not like he walked around all the time hoping to get laid. But he usually carried them because Gunny had hammered the importance of being safe and prepared into his horny teenage head and the habit had stuck through adulthood. And then there was the not-so-small responsibility of owning a bar and being everyone’s mother. He’d had to come to the rescue more times than he could count. Hell, he’d put a condom machine in the bathroom if Old Glory weren’t a family restaurant.

  He rummaged through his wallet and said a silent thank-you when he found three shiny packets wedged inside his billfold. “I’ve got us covered.”

  He crawled back and pulled her on top of him. Like he’d done before, she kissed her way down his body, stopping to examine a few of his tattoos.

  “Is this one for your friend . . . Gunny?” She ran her finger over his American eagle. After Gunny died, he’d gotten it inked onto his left shoulder with a ribbon that said: “You’ll be with me wherever I go.”