All He Wants for Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

  Unwisely, he was up for it. “Go ahead. I dare you.”

  She actually chortled. “Your mistake, buddy. You don’t ever want to dare a woman like me.” In preparation, she cracked her neck like a boxer headed for the ring. “Get ready to lose.”

  He gave a blasé shrug. “Big words. Not much action.”

  “Oh yeah?” Arching her brow in a way that definitely foretold mischief, Danielle delicately removed the cutlery from her waiting plate. She set aside the napkin. She lifted the plate, eyed the crumbled remains of her pie with anticipation, and then, to Jason’s disbelief . . . “Hey, what’s that?”

  He swiveled his head to look. Nothing seemed amiss.

  Hey. Knowing he’d been tricked, he looked back just in time to catch the final hasty lick that Danielle gave her pie plate.

  Their gazes met. Her eyes sparkled at him again. He had an instant, reckless image of what Danielle might look like while licking him that eagerly and felt himself harden on the spot.

  Unaware of that fact, Danielle winked. “Gotcha. Sucker.”

  Her merry laughter rang into the diner as she put down her plate. As she did, her gaze fell on Jason’s depleted pile of toothpicks and sweetener packets. Her attention moved to the napkin he’d folded. “Interesting. What do you have there?”

  A mistake. Usually he kept his tinkering habit private. He was really off his game today. Knowing he was caught, Jason glanced at the makeshift object he’d absentmindedly constructed.

  “It’s a toy race car.” He gestured at it. “The folded napkin is the body. The toothpicks are the framing and supports. The sweetener packets are, obviously, the wheels.”

  “‘Obviously’? You made rectangular packets round.”

  “Folding. Plus sugar glue. It doesn’t last forever, but it’s easy and cheap—just white sugar melted in a little water.”

  “That’s amazing.” Danielle peered more closely. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear this was a tiny Formula One car.”

  It was. Duh. “That’s what a race car is.”

  “You made a specific type of car out of toothpicks, sugar packets, and a napkin?” She shook her head in amazement. “My mom would love you. She’s an artist. She’s always wanted me to be one, too, but—” Halfway through that telling sentence, Danielle broke off. She dragged over the saltshaker, tied a scrap of teabag around its neck, then pushed it next to Jason’s race car. She beamed. “There. I helped. Now your car has a driver, too.”

  No one had ever joined him in creating something. Not like this. Not this clumsily . . . or this poignantly. Irrationally, Jason felt moved by Danielle’s efforts. She hadn’t made fun of him or tried to profit from him. She’d just . . . gotten him. Effortlessly.

  It had been a long time since he’d felt that way.

  Not that he intended to say so. Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “Your ‘driver’ is twice the size of my race car.”

  “Perspective isn’t my forte. My mom’s the artist, not me.”

  “I bet she can’t make a to-do list to save her life.” He squinted. “What’s that supposed to be hanging around his neck?”

  Danielle looked insulted. “It’s a winning medal!”

  “Really?” He peered closer. “Hmm. If you say so.”

  She sighed. “Go ahead. Suggest I re-enroll in art school. Recommend I take up sketching or journaling or performance art.”

  “Why would I do that? I’d lose a brilliant store manager.”

  “Because making art is superior. It’s a gift. A calling.”

  “I guess so. The world needs clipboard-wielding librarian types, too. Otherwise, it would be chaos. Haiku all around. Disaster. You’re too good at what you do to change now.”

  Danielle smiled. “Well . . . that’s true. You’ve got me there.”

  But now she seemed inexplicably touched by something, too.

  “For a long time, I felt sure I must have inherited some artistic ability,” she said. “Or soaked it up via osmosis, living in this artsy-craftsy burg year-round. But no matter what I did—coloring graphic novels in college, enrolling in musical theater, sculpting, dancing, making a hugely unsuccessful foray into mystery writing, and helping to start not one but two indie bands—I had to admit the awful truth. And the truth is—”

  “You’d rather be organizing inventory or helping customers find the perfect toy than getting your artsy fartsy on.”

  Her job dropped. She gave a bewildered nod. “Yes. Exactly. Most people don’t believe me when I say so. How did you know?”

  “The same way you knew my race car needed a driver.”

  Even when no one else ever had. He looked at her ungainly saltshaker “driver” and felt his heart stupidly expand.

  “But that can’t be true,” she protested. “It’s so—”

  “Dangerous. Unadvisable.” He frowned.“Romantic.”

  “—unlikely! I mean, the odds of you just ‘getting’ me—”

  “And you ‘getting’ me,” Jason felt compelled to put in.

  “—have got to be astronomical.” Danielle gave him a cagey look. “You’re pulling my leg. You have a spy who investigated my checkered failed-artist past. Or something.”

  Her unwitting reminder of Chip’s (potential) spy briefly dimmed Jason’s newfound sense of synchronicity with her.

  All the same, he knew this feeling wasn’t going away anytime soon. Because even now, he felt all too aware that...

  “You’re dying to calculate the exact odds of this happening between us, aren’t you?”

  She laughed. “The instant I find a pencil and three minutes to spare.”

  He’d known that about her, Jason realized. “That’s cool.”

  “Believe me, nobody else thinks so. Math geeks are very misunderstood.” Marveling at him, Danielle shook her head again. “I wish I’d met you under different circumstances.”

  Jason did too. Things were so screwed up right now.

  “I wish I’d brought my taxes with me. I could use the help.”

  “Come on.” She blushed. “You have expert paid tax help.”

  “It’s harder than you think to find people to trust.”

  “Tell me about it.” Danielle gave him a guarded look. “Which reminds me . . . there must be something else going on here. Nobody finds organizing and toy selling endearing.”

  Jason did. For the first time in his life.

  “So just hand over the dossier your spy has compiled,” Danielle urged him with a facetious grin, “and I’ll—”

  “Check it for errors? Red pencil the grammar?”

  “Of course! Why else would I want it?”

  It was his turn to laugh. He’d been right earlier. This was dangerous between them. It had been bad enough when he’d been hot for her. Now he was also in sync with her? What the hell?

  “So, this has been fun,” Jason made himself say. “But we’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and I’ve got lipstick to shower off my neck.” Jokingly, he showed her the remnants left by his enthusiastic, adoring public during today’s dual meet and greets. “Would you mind driving me back to my car? I’d better find my hotel and check in before it gets too late.”

  At that, Danielle seemed . . . stricken? Surprised?

  Relieved?

  Probably relieved. This was getting pretty intense between them, all of a sudden.

  “Sure. No problem.” Brightly, she scooted out from the diner’s booth. “You’re right to check in early. In Kismet, they roll up the sidewalks at dusk most of the time.” Danielle cast his makeshift race car a final wistful look. Then she gave him a sassy look and wiggled her fingers. “Just fork over your fifty bucks for gas money, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Gigi!” Keeping her voice low, Danielle huddled in her bedroom closet with her cell phone to her ear. It had been four days since she’d shared pie and an imaginary race car with Jason at the Galaxy Diner. Now, at the dawn of day five, she felt even less prepared to
deal with the situation than she had when she’d first sneaked Moosby’s CEO out of her toy store and into her car for an unwise getaway from the press. “Pick up, pick up . . .”

  Impatiently, Danielle listened to her friend’s phone ring. And ring. And ring. Probably, Gigi was still asleep. Unlike Danielle, Gigi had the luxury of long, unbroken hours of peaceful slumber, undisturbed by an eight-year-old’s bad dreams, a ten-year-old’s habit of sneaking extra e-book reading time under the covers, or a six-year-old’s determination to set a world record for staying up way past bedtime in the first place.

  On the other hand, Gigi didn’t have Zach, Karlie, or Aiden to love. So those were trade-offs Danielle was more than willing to make. She’d sleep in someday. After things settled down.

  Giving up on her phone call, Danielle sent a hasty text instead, making sure that Gigi was keeping up with the store. Now that she was busy trying to impress Jason with her management acumen and general suitability for the upper echelons of Moosby’s HQ, she was relying on Gigi more than ever. Henry had gone above and beyond, too, as had the rest of her staff.

  So far, they’d avoided the requisite yodeling store greetings, goofy yellow hats, and hideous Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch aprons. They’d amassed record sales, too—thanks in part to the irrefutable novelty of having a famous, charming, exasperatingly unrepentant expert toy seller in their midst.

  To Danielle’s surprise, Jason was utterly adept at working with customers. Another millionaire tycoon might have remained aloof. But Jason had seemed happy to jump right into the fray.

  In fact, he’d seemed more than happy. He’d seemed at home.

  But Danielle knew that was probably wishful thinking on her part. Because the only thing better than a superhot fling with a superhot stranger was a superhot relationship with a superhot long-term partner who would stay in Kismet long after the tinsel and wrapping paper were packed away. Not that that was in the cards for her. Because despite the surprising synchronicity she and Jason had discovered while at the Galaxy Diner, they’d both kept things strictly platonic over the past few days.

  Danielle figured she deserved a medal for doing that.

  On the other hand, she had accidentally made things more difficult for herself. Back when she’d expected to be immune to the appeal of Moosby’s famed CEO—back when she’d reasoned that Jason’s charisma and good looks were exaggerated and would pose absolutely no temptation for her while he was in Kismet on a part-time basis—Danielle had . . . well, let’s just say she’d pulled a few strings. She’d done a little advance manipulation of the situation. Just to be on the safe side. Just to ensure she’d have every advantage when it came to battling for her promotion.

  Unfortunately, her machinations had come back to bite her.

  Even now, the proof of that misstep was sprawled on her pullout sofa, sleeping off another day of selling, schmoozing, posing for fan photos . . . and not apologizing to the Moosby’s board.

  That’s right—Jason Hamilton was staying at her house. For the duration. And Danielle had no one to blame but herself.

  “I’d better find my hotel,” Jason had remarked innocently at the diner five days ago, “and check in before it gets too late.”

  Danielle had wanted to kick herself, right there amid the flashing holiday lights and the Christmas music and the pie.

  Because she, like the overconfident dummy she was, had used her townie connections to make sure that what happened next was . . .

  “It’s the weirdest thing,” Jason had explained to her two hours later. “My hotel was booked solid. I guess they lost my reservation. Every other hotel and B&B is completely full.”

  “Really? No kidding?” Danielle had stammered, casting a glance at his full contingent of luggage—one duffel bag. She’d forced out a shrug. “Well, Kismet is ridiculously popular this time of year. I’m surprised you got a reservation at all.”

  “Apparently, I didn’t.” He’d shaken his head. “I can’t believe every place is full. Even my admin couldn’t help.”

  When she’d envisioned that moment—one purposely engineered by her, less than twenty-four hours earlier—Danielle had imagined feeling triumphant. As it happened, she merely felt . . . dishonest.

  “Well,” she’d made herself tell Jason, just as she’d planned to, “you’re more than welcome to stay with me for a few days. My place isn’t very big, and it’s not fancy, but—”

  “But it’ll only cost me a thousand dollars a night?”

  His wry grin and good sportsmanship about her constantly overcharging him for simple necessities only made things worse.

  “I won’t hear of you paying me,” Danielle had told him warmly. “Not a dollar more than five hundred, at least.”

  His grin had broadened. “What a deal. You do like me.”

  She did. The trouble was, she genuinely hadn’t expected to.

  She’d expected to be playing reluctant host to a frivolous playboy CEO. She’d expected to be saving the day, complete with fanfare and a grateful promotion-bestowing boss, when the manufactured “emergency” of Kismet’s overbooked lodgings had arisen and then been expertly solved by her—despite the fact that she’d made it happen by calling in favors with her local hoteliers, who’d all gamely agreed to refuse Jason a room.

  An hour later, he’d officially moved in with her.

  Four hours after that, Danielle had tiptoed into her tiny, darkened living room, crept closer to the pullout sofa where Jason was temporarily sleeping, and pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t the one who was currently sawing logs. But as she’d rubbed her arm to take away the resulting sting, Danielle had had to admit the truth: she’d outsmarted herself this time.

  She had no one but herself to blame for her predicament.

  So when Jason padded around her house at night in his hip-slung pajama pants and no shirt, she was accountable for her own hubba-hubba swooning. When Jason smiled at her over their shared AM coffee and unintentionally made her imagine the two of them were really coupled (and loving it), she was accountable for her own naïve yearning. When Jason showered each morning and the running water made her imagine soapsuds and water jets cascading all over his wet, flexing muscles, she was accountable for her own racing heartbeat and breathless fantasizing.

  Jason couldn’t have been nicer. When he helped her erect her oversize Christmas tree, it wasn’t his fault that she longed for him to take her—instead of that big Douglas fir—into his arms. When he helped unsnarl her rickety Christmas lights, he didn’t purposely make his adroit untangling seem sexy; he just picked apart the strands. When he caught her getting ensnared in those same light strings as she prepared the tree for her traditional tree-trimming party with the kids, Jason didn’t mean to back her into the corner with both hands full of lights . . . then gaze down at her with every appearance of wanting to kiss her.

  He couldn’t have meant to do any of that. That was all Danielle’s overactive imagination at work. Because Jason had been nothing but polite and professional . . . while she’d been wondering what it would be like to play house with him for real.

  Because unlike Mark, Jason appreciated her idiosyncrasies. Unlike her parents, he accepted her for who she was. Unlike Crystal, one nit-picky dad at school drop-off, and occasionally her mom, he thought she was a fantastic mother, too. Not that he had much to base that on—just a few cherished photos, a fridge covered with kiddie artwork, and what he claimed was “the way you light up when you talk about your kids.” Jason seemed to find the nurturing side of her personality fascinating. Maybe because, as Gigi insisted, he already knew she was a dynamo at Moosby’s and wanted to glimpse the other sides of her, too.

  “A man like that, he does not care if you are a worker bee, only buzzing and buzzing all the time,” her friend had asserted. “A man like that, he wants to know you can play hard, too. He wants to know you will play hard with him. Show him!”

  Danielle had demurred. “This isn’t France, Gigi. We don’t have th
e same attitude toward flirting. Jason will think I’m irresponsible. He’ll think I want to play all day with him.”

  Gigi had winked. “You do! I can tell. You are blushing.”

  Even remembering it now, Danielle felt her face heat.

  She was guilty as charged when it came to wanting Jason. Fortunately, their time together was coming to a close. He was scheduled to embark on the next leg of his Midwestern Moosby’s tour tomorrow morning. If she failed to get him to publicly apologize before he left, she didn’t know what she would do.

  Heaving a sigh, Danielle grabbed some clothes and left her bedroom closet. Passing by her bureau, she glimpsed the race car Jason had MacGyvered together at the Galaxy Diner. She smiled.

  “Thanks,” Jason had said, tapping her on the shoulder as she busily made up the sofa bed for him. “This is for you.”

  She’d turned. Caught sight of that race car. Smiled.

  She didn’t know why his giving it to her affected her so much. But it did. Having that improvised toy race car parked next to her jewelry box and her car keys was like having a handmade piece of Jason nearby. It was just as full of charm as he was. It was likely to stick around for about as long as he was, too.

  Meaning, hardly anytime at all.

  “I thought you left this behind,” Danielle had said as she’d accepted it, admiring its ingenuity. “I didn’t see you take it with you. You’ve got a future as a magician.”

  “Or a past as a thief.” He’d grinned at that. “Sorry I couldn’t take your saltshaker driver. That really would have been stealing.”

  And mooning over a hunk of napkin and some toothpicks really was embarrassing, Danielle told herself as she realized what she was doing. She and Jason weren’t dating. They were colleagues. Colleagues and temporary roommates. That was all.

  A sudden racket erupted from the living room. The front door banged open. Childish voices rang out. Footsteps sounded.

  Her kids were home. They were supposed to be at their dad’s house until tomorrow evening. Why in the world were they here?

  A girlish scream rent the air. Then . . . thumping?

  Dropping her clothes, Danielle dashed barefoot toward the living room, berating herself all the while. She should have planned for this. She should have prepared Aiden, Zach, and Karlie for the possibility of a houseguest. She should have . . .