Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She smiled. “I don’t cook, but I’m a great assembler of ingredients.” She smiled. “I’ll bring y’all some. I’m sorry I didn't think about it yesterday.” Of course, he had totally befuddled her with his warm looks and sensual kiss. “Thank you for agreeing to let us harvest some mistletoe. We will be very respectful of your property. May we come tomorrow?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

  Okay, she gotten two yeses. He seemed relaxed and agreeable. “You’re really a good photographer. An enthusiastic one too.”

  His eyes were so intelligent and soul-searching, she had to look away. She worried he would see right through her and know what she was trying to do before she did it. She needed to ease him into it, if she was to have any chance of succeeding.

  “It’s pretty exciting that you get paid for doing what you love. Can you imagine if you could do what you love, get paid for it, and stay here on your beloved island?”

  “Yes. That thought has crossed my mind.”

  Good. She was still heading in the right direction. She was getting positive responses. “I have an idea that you might like, then.” She rested her elbows on her knees. “What do you think about being the official photographer of the Fa La La Cajun Christmas on the Bayou Celebration?”

  He bit his bottom lip, but didn’t outright turn her down.

  “This is what I propose. We can create a really nice backdrop, keeping with the Cajun theme, and you can take photos of people standing in front of it.” She looked at him and couldn’t tell from his expression what he was thinking. “Think of all the memories you would capture for so many families. You’d get to do what you like, make people happy, and make a lot of money, all at the same time. You can charge whatever you want, Hunter. We’ll advertise it for you with signage posting the details and prices you set.”

  “That’s an interesting proposal, Camille.” He rubbed his chin and she held her breath. He was giving it a fair consideration. “Maybe, if this goes well, I might get enough gigs locally to pay my bills so I never have to travel away from my island.” Yes. Oh, it was going to work. This idea was going to be a win-win for him and Fa La La. She pinched her hand to keep from showing too much excitement. She couldn't do that until she got him to agree.

  “I think people would want to hire you for their weddings, anniversary celebrations, and other events. The women of Cane would absolutely love spending time with a handsome man like you.”

  “You think I’m handsome, huh?”

  “Yes. I . . .” She smiled at him. “You are really roguish, Hunter James.” Now she needed to go for the close. “What do you say? Let’s do this. You become the official photographer for Cajun Bayou Christmas, we set up a beautiful backdrop on Cypress Island so you can take the photos, and we create traffic for you by having our bonfire, live reindeer, and mistletoe gazebo. Is that a yes?”

  “I can charge my hourly rate, huh?” She nodded. “Weddings and anniversary parties, huh?” She nodded again. He stood, extended his hand to her. She accepted it and stood when he tugged for her to do so. “Let’s see if you like my work first.”

  When he turned his back to her, she squeezed her eyes shut and pumped her fist. This was going to work. Fa La La would earn enough money to sustain their way of life another year. He opened the door to the right of the living room and flicked on a light. Hanging on two thin lines from one wall to another on the right side were a dozen photos clipped to them with wooden clothespins. On the left side of the room was a queen-sized bed, covered with a white down comforter and three fluffy pillows. Under the lines was a desk, with a large monitor on top of it.

  “Your darkroom is your bedroom too?”

  He looked at her and smiled. “Yes.”

  Her cell phone pinged with a text. Habit from being on call had her reaching for it. “It’s René. He says it’s raining.” She listened a moment, then pointed up when she heard the rain hitting the tin roof. “He’s helping hang tarps to secure your house. Then Luke’s taking them all to lunch at the café in Cane before he goes to the lumberyard.” She looked at Hunt. “He asked if I can get a ride back to Fa La La with you. Can I?”

  “Of course,” he said, having to speak louder now that the rain was really pounding on the tin roof. He sat in the squeaky wooden chair and turned on his computer as she texted her reply.

  “You have both old-school and modern photo processing, I see.” She pointed to where his sophisticated printer was sitting on the table next to the chemical trays, tongs, and enlarger.

  “I keep my developer, stop bath, and fixer outside of this tinderbox cabin. I fill the pans in the shed out back and carry them in here when I need them.”

  “Good idea.” She walked to look at the photos on the lines. The first was of a small, dark-complexioned boy, wearing a dusty turban and tattered clothes, sitting astride a small elephant, with a man who was dressed similarly sitting aside a much larger elephant beside him. There was something so compelling about the photos that went beyond the beauty of the composition. It told a story about these men – father and son. The next photo was of a woman, sitting cross-legged in a market. Like the boy and his father on the elephants, the focus was on her face, her life. Tears sprang to Camille’s eyes seeing the sadness in the woman’s eyes as she smiled with broken front teeth, looking at the camera. Her hands, busy braiding colorful yarns, were missing two fingers.

  “India?” she asked, wiping her tears. He nodded, looking at her. “These are incredible. The emotion you captured with the light in their eyes and the shadows on their faces is remarkable.” She turned to look at him. “You aren’t just a photographer that works where you’re paid to work, are you?”

  “That’s what I do. Mostly.” He picked up a magazine off his desk and handed it to her.

  “You did this.” She didn’t ask; she knew. She’d only looked at two photographs he’d taken and she saw the same point of view in those as she did in this one of an Indian woman dancing on a bright cream-colored sand dune. Her face held both joy and a history of tragedy. “Who are you?”

  “Just a guy who wants some peace.” She moved to stand closer to him. She was drawn to him in such a fire of emotions, wanting to understand this man who saw so much in the faces of others. Of course he’d want peace, and the fact that this was how he answered her was telling.

  “It must take a lot out of you to feel and empathize and know the people you capture. To touch a soul is to be consumed by it.”

  He sucked in a breath as if she had placed a hot branding iron against his heart. He took a step back. She took a step forward. She placed her hand on his chest.

  “Can this island really give you the peace you seek? Can it come from a place?”

  “I don’t know.” She knew he answered with honesty. “I’ve got to try. I’ve seen a lot of hatred, death in war and in poverty and in wealth. I’ve crawled on my belly right beside someone who was wondering if he would survive the battle and who died a second later.” He ran his hand down the full length of her hair. “I don’t know if I can ever feel peace, Camille. But I’ve got to try before what I do consumes me.”

  She rested her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around him. She had no words for him. She just wanted him to feel comfort and support with no strings attached. He didn’t put his arms around her for a long thirty seconds. Then, he gathered her hair into his hand and pulled her harder against his chest. And exhaled.

  They just stood there, holding one another under the brightness of the old ceiling fixture, on the cut linoleum floor, with the treasures of his photography around them. Camille knew in that instant, she could not and would not ask him to share his island with her family and the strangers they would bring there. No matter how much she knew they were counting on her to save their way of life, she couldn’t do it. She would disappoint them again and fail them when they needed her most. Good thing she was leaving soon or she too would be consumed by the people she loved. She shivered.

  �
��Cold?” he asked, his voice so deep it touched somewhere deep inside of her. He turned, fitting her shorter body against his. She felt his warm breath on her hair.

  “Not at all. I feel feverish.” She licked her lips, because her mouth was so dry from nerves and sudden desire.

  “Are you feeling hot, Camille?” His grin was dark, sexy, and a bit mischievous. She nodded, resting her hands on his shoulders. “Me too.” He touched his lips to hers, gently tasting her bottom lip, the corners of her mouth. She squeezed his shoulders, needing to hold on, because her knees suddenly felt weak. His hands tightened on her hips, she felt his fierce desire in each fingertip digging in her flesh and in the firmness of his body.

  “Please kiss me, Hunt. Kiss me.” He did. Angling his head, he pressed his soft, wet mouth against hers, his tongue finding hers, tender one moment, anxious and needy the next. It flared into each nerve ending in her body as blood raced hot and fast through her.

  Hunt’s hands moved from her hips to beneath her thighs as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bed. He never stopped kissing her, on her mouth and along the sensitive area along her jawline and ears. The mattress dipped beneath their weight as he lowered her onto the cool, cotton duvet filled with soft down. It had his clean, musky scent and that gave her pleasure too, knowing she was wrapped in the wonderful scent of this beautiful man.

  He kneeled, looking down at her, his face shadowed with the ceiling light shining behind him. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt the intensity of them on her. She smiled and saw his shoulders rise, when he took a deep breath. He pulled off his shirt, and she saw his muscles rippling on his abdomen as his arms lifted over his head and blocked out the bright light for a moment. She reached up, her sensitive fingertips trained to feel and examine without seeing. She felt the tight ridges of hard muscle over bone not as a, physician but as a woman who desired a man in a way she’d never desired anyone before.

  Hunt covered her hand with his, and guided it to his hard flat nipples. She sat up, then knelt with him, her mouth and tongue exploring the small nub, enjoying the feel and taste of this gorgeous man. His fingers dug into her hips and pulled her against his hard center.

  “You’re killing me,” he groaned, pushing her back onto the mattress and following her down, careful to not let his weight crush her. His movements were less controlled and clumsier now. He nearly ripped the buttons off of her shirt as he tried to undress her with trembling fingers. When he reached for the buttons of her shorts, he cursed. “How many damn buttons do you have?” She laughed, and gave him a gentle push until she was on top.

  “I’ve got this.” She got up, stood next to the bed and looked at him. His face was no longer in the shadows, but spotlighted like he was center stage on Broadway. He propped a pillow behind his head, the top button of his jeans undone, one leg bent to the side, the other straight in front of him. When she was back in New York after a long shift, in those lonely minutes before she fell asleep, this image of Hunt was what she’d think of. She already knew she’d remember this incredible experience with him, and they weren’t close to being finished. She hoped he’d think of her too. She would make sure he did. Somehow it seemed important that he did.

  She looked at his eyes, burning with desire as he watched her undress for him. She took her time, when all she wanted to do was hurry back into his hot embrace. She pinched the tab of the zipper and slowly lowered it, hearing each metal tooth opening in a sensual tune, promising him that soon what lay beneath would be theirs to share. His hand settled over his heart. Was it beating as wildly as hers?

  Camille hooked her thumbs in the waistband and slowly swayed her hips back and forth as she lowered her shorts, until they were at her knees. She let them drop to the floor and he sucked in a hard breath. Perspiration trickled down the center of his chest.

  He reached for her, but she shook her head, running her hands over her deep red Christmas lace bra until her fingers touched the candy cane clasp between her breasts. She let them pause there a moment. His hips shifted on the bed, his hand going to his zipper. It was his turn to tease her. He lowered it and let his jeans fall open in a promise of what was to come. She answered it with the click of her opening the bra. The sound filled the room, as did a deep guttural growl of appreciation and need that echoed up from his chest.

  She pulled her bra off and let it drop to the floor.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, the words caught on his heavy breath. She ran her finger slowly across the top of the green lace trimming her red silk panties. He nodded slowly, as she took her time, teasing him, moving her hips side to side as she eased them down her legs, until they rested at her ankles over her candy-cane-stripped socks. She kicked her panties aside. He tapped the bed beside him. “Leave the socks on,” he said, his voice deep, sensual, with a hint of playfulness, like her socks. He tapped the bed again. “Now, take off my clothes.”

  She smiled, enjoying this new and exciting foreplay. Heart pounding, her body aching for him to touch her as his eyes promised he would, she grabbed the sides of his jeans and pulled them down, letting her short nails scrape his long, muscled legs. No underwear. The man didn’t wear underwear. She knew it would be something she’d think about later, like seeing him now so incredibly aroused and gorgeous. They were both naked now. She slid up his body, her breasts and nipples feeling the roughness of his hair and the smoothness of his skin. He lifted her to him until her mouth was even with his.

  “I want you so bad, I hurt all over.” His body quivered as his mouth crushed against hers and hers against his. He devoured her, like a man having his last meal, tasting and savoring along the column of her neck, over her collarbone, to the top of her full breasts and over her nipples. She wrapped her leg over his hip and felt the hard flex of his buttocks and thighs.

  The heat and desire that had been building between them since they met boiled within them. Building. They trembled and felt the growing need pushing inside, until neither could wait any longer. He quickly reached into a backpack on the floor. Put on a condom, then flipped her onto her back, gently opened her legs, and entered her. Her world immediately exploded. He moved within her once more, threw his head back, and called out her name.

  ***

  Hunt slept. His breathing was steady and strong against her chest, where his head rested, his arm heavy over her bare abdomen. She loved feeling the weight of him on her. She loved feeling him resting on her.

  She simply loved him. But was she in love with him?

  She’d been struck with a lightning bolt when she’d seen into his heart and soul through his photography. Before that, there had been chemistry, respect, and pleasure when they spent time together. His photos, though, were a window into the man.

  She glanced toward those photos hanging on the lines. One, not very far away, caught her eye. She hadn’t noticed it before. It was a photo of her. She quietly removed herself from under him and went to take a closer look. It was one of the ones he’d captured when she was playfully posing on the outside deck on Thanksgiving. There weren’t any others from that day, she observed, wondering why. She peered at the photo, hoping for an answer. It was of her from the waist up, her arms extended, one up and one down. Her body was turned to the side, slightly, looking at Hunt over her shoulder. The breeze had picked up a few strands of her hair behind her, capturing movement.

  “That’s my favorite,” he said, kissing her on the shoulder and drawing her back against his chest. “Your eyes are unguarded. Glowing with your inner spirit. The camera caught you in a single moment of happy abandonment.”

  “No. You did.” She turned in his arms to face him. “You know what that photo makes me think of?”

  “Making love to me?” He kissed her and she forgot what they were talking about until he reminded her a minute later. “What does it remind you of, Camille?”

  “Happy milestones that signaled growth, change.”

  “What milestones?” He led her back to his bed, wh
ere they settled comfortably beneath the duvet.

  “Taking the boat out by myself for the first time when I was eight. Learning to ride my bike on the walkways of Fa La La and then freaking out when I went to ride at a friend’s on a regular street in her neighborhood. Getting my diploma from med school and seeing my papa’s eyes and cheeks shiny with proud tears.” She shifted onto her stomach and rested her arms on his chest and looked at him. “What milestones have you had, Hunt?”

  He exhaled, tucking her hair behind her ear. She could see the one that came to mind for him was a sad one. “Going to live with my elderly grandparents when I was eleven. I barely knew them. They lived on a ranch in Colorado. I had been living with my parents in Houston. It was a huge adjustment, not only because of the different landscape, lifestyle.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “It was because I was so profoundly sad. My parents had died only two weeks before. I was alone. I felt completely alone and frightened.”

  Oh, God. Her heart broke for him. She’d never, ever had to live without knowing her parents were a plane, car, or boat ride away from her. “How did you survive that?” His eyes slowly settled on hers and she knew. “Your camera. You looked at the world through your camera, connecting to and distancing yourself from it. There was a barrier there between your emotions and life lived.”

  He nodded, paused a moment as his eyes grew dark and pensive. “I’m in awe of how you understand me.”

  “And I’m in awe of how you capture people in the world. It took your pain, your ability to adapt, to get you to that place.” She slid up his body, until her face was even with his. “Not everyone adapts so well. What you have is a gift, Hunt. A gift born from what God handed you.”

  His hands slid along her back. “I wish I could give you what you want for your family and from them. I really do.”