Desparately Seeking Santa

by Red Rose Publishing

Mandy’s feet stalled on the chilly linoleum. “What now, Tate? You want me to die of starvation?”

  “Hell no. Can’t have the assistant manager dying on me, but we need something to wash this lot down with.”

  Mandy looked around the café. “There’s only coffee or tea, and without electricity it’s not going to be particularly palatable.”

  “The store has a wine department right?”

  “Yes, but...”

  Tate piled the breads into her already loaded hands. “You take this lot back to our comfy pad,” he said with a wink, “and I’ll grab us some wine.”

  Mandy’s mouth pursed. She didn’t know whether to be annoyed that he could so easily take what he wanted...and not just from the store. “But...”

  “Woman, are you arguing with me? You want sustenance, then let me be the cave man and bring you food.”

  “We have that,” she said with a shuffle of her overloaded arms.

  “Don’t be pedantic. Food is what you want, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’d like a drink and if I’m going to have to sit and look at a desirable lady and not touch, then I’ve definitely gotta have a drink...and damned fast,” he reiterated. He glanced across the store towards the ‘Wine Barrel’ the store’s name for its wine department. “Here,” he added a fur blanket across her shoulders at the same time, scooped up from a display pile. “If we’re going to get comfortable, we might as well afford ourselves the luxuries the store can provide.”

  “I knew it,” Many muttered, delighted in her instant realization.

  Tate’s brow creased. “What now?”

  “The café is working!”

  Tate glanced at the darkened café they’d just departed. “Hate to say it, baby, but nothing works in that place right now, or the entire store for that matter.”

  “No that’s not what I mean. The café is doing its job. You see it was my proposal that got the café up and running last year. The old storeroom was vacant; we’re using a building next door now that the company purchased two years ago, anyway the storeroom was empty and I suggested it be turned into the café. Customers come and relax, have a snack, sometimes a wine, because we have a liquor license, and then they meander back through the store.”

  “Meander and spend money you mean?”

  She smiled, pleased with herself. “You got it,” she laughed. “It’s the old supermarket marketing theory. Get the customers to the back of the store and they spend on the way out. You grabbing that blanket proves my theory,” she said smugly.

  “But we haven’t dined yet.”

  “Oh, party pooper, don’t you go deflating my balloon.”

  Tate held up his hands in surrender. “No fear, sweetheart. You’re one smart cookie, Mandy Brooks. It isn’t surprising you’ve moved up the corporate ladder so swiftly.”

  Mandy looked at him then, delighting in his serious expression. Tate meant what he said, and for some weird reason she really didn’t want to analyze right now, it meant a whole lot to her. “Hard work, Tate. Long hours, dedication, and more hard work.”

  He didn’t reply, and simply stared at her, holding her captive in the silence that stretched between them. Long, long years. Those were the unsaid words.

  Thankfully her stomach decided right at that moment to make its feelings felt. Loudly. The drawn out gurgle broke the silence and they burst into laughter.

  “Right, action. Me wine. You food. Let’s go.” With his hands firmly on her shoulders, Tate spun her round to retrace her steps back to their grotto. He gave her a pat on her derriere and a gentle push to go with it. “Go, sweetheart.”

  She obeyed, though the thought of food had been completely obliterated by the touch of his warm hand on her derrière.

  Back in the grotto Mandy set up the blanket and the food, then sat and waited for Tate’s return. Seconds turned into minutes and an unreasonable fear inched its way through her, strangulating her breathing and her heart.

  “Tate...Tate.” Her call resonated into the darkness. Nothing. No reply. Simply silence in return. Had he left her, abandoned her to an empty store? Tears threatened and she swallowed back the knot of fear in her throat.

  Tate came suddenly into view and popped himself down on their makeshift picnic rug. “Did you miss me?”

  Mandy roughly brushed away the thankfully as yet unshed tears. She didn’t like to show weakness. “What took you so long,” she said more tartly than she intended.

  Tate waved his harvested collection of bottles. “The store has a great selection.”

  She sniffed. “Wentworth’s prides itself on its extensive selections of international wines. A worldwide collection. Even from as far away as New Zealand.”

  “Then these,” he said holding out two bottles in front of her, “are nothing but the best, for the best. I also grabbed a couple of camping gas lights to set the mood.” He plopped his haul on the blanket and quickly set to lighting the camp lights. Their secret grotto was suddenly lit with a golden glow, light shadows playing into the background.

  “There, that should make it homey,” he said as he reached for one of the bottles of wine and a corkscrew he’d miraculously found somewhere in the darkened store. With an obvious expertise he eased the cork from one of the bottles.

  “You’ve done this before.”

  “You could say that. After...well, after I left town, I worked a variety of jobs. Twenty-four seven.”

  Mandy’s brow puckered. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why so many jobs? I mean it’s not as if you needed to. You’re from the right side of the tracks, after all.”

  Tate lowered the bottle, his concentration drawn from the cork. His gaze narrowed on her, the play of colors washing across his eyes. Mandy didn’t realize until just then how much she’d missed looking into his eyes. Seeing in them his secret thoughts.

  But his eyes darkened just then, a hard black and closed her off. “I needed to get on with my life,” he shrugged. “Nothing like work to make a man forget he’s been dumped.” He wrenched the cork from the bottle. “I wanted to make my own way, not on the coattails of my family.”

  In silence they ate their meal, drinking the flavor-filled imported New Zealand wine. It slid down so effortlessly warming the ice in her veins.

  “So you too have achieved all the things you set out to do?” he asked, suddenly breaking their silent impasse.

  Mandy’s hand stilled mid-air and for a moment she simply stared at Tate over the edge of her glass. Her teeth grazed her bottom lip as she mulled over his question.

  Had she?

  She took another sip of the wine and lowered the glass. “Yes,” she answered truthfully. “I think so. At least, hopefully once the new owner of the store takes over I’ll be able to prove myself.”

  “Why then? Why not now?”

  “Oh, I am, but the problem is nothing I do, or say, gets very far. Maxwell makes sure of that.”

  “The current manager?”

  She leaned back against the stacked fake presents. “The man is the thorn in my side.” The moment the words were uttered she slammed a hand over her mouth. “Sh...” She offered a muffled curse. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Why not, if it’s true?”

  “It is, but a professional doesn’t talk down about their managers.”

  “Not even if you think it?” Tate taunted.

  “Definitely not then,” she agreed shaking her head. Her hair fell around her face. She pushed it away, remembering the feel of Tate’s fingers as he ran them through her hair. She caught the glint of his wanton desire. So blatant. And very tempting.

  “You say one word, Tate Sullivan and I’ll haunt you.”

  “Sweetheart, you already do.”

  He saw her confusion. “Forget it, Mandy.” He swallowed the contents of his glass, refilling it instantly and tossed her a look that said everything, and nothing. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  She colored. “Th
ank you. I’ve worked hard to get this far, Tate. Maxwell is being relocated.”

  “And you want his job?”

  “Absolutely,” she grinned at him.

  “Is it all worth it, Mandy?”

  “Worth what?” she countered though she knew exactly what he referred to. She wished she didn’t, but with Tate turning up like this, his question echoed what she sometimes wondered late at night when she lay in bed...alone. For a few silent moments she thought about what could have been, what would have been if... She tilted her chin up, defiance and a long-honed determination strengthening her spirit as she thought of the trailer park. Of how life used to be. “Yes, it has been.”

  “And now?”

  Mandy hesitated. She didn’t want to answer his question. “Now? What’s so different about now?” she said turning it back on him.

  “Us.”

  Us? Her and Tate? “There isn’t an us. Tonight is a one off, a fluke. I didn’t even know you were back in town. You’ve been gone five years. What did you expect me to do? Drop everything the moment you came back and say, hey fella, let’s get it on?”

  He said nothing and which Mandy wasn’t quite sure if she was disappointed or not. “Good,” she finally answered for him, “because it’s not going to happen.”

  She waited for the play of emotions on his face that she remembered so well. But there weren’t any. The blinkers had come down and she saw nothing of the Tate she remembered. “You’ve changed, Tate.”

  “Could say the same about you, sweetheart. Where’s the sweet girl, I knew…and loved?”

  “Matured.” What she didn’t say was that girl didn’t exist anymore. Obliterated by the demons of her past.

  “Hardened, you mean.”

  Mandy bristled. “Why is it when a woman is successful the men always think she’s hard?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You just did,” she countered.

  “No. What I said was that you’ve hardened. You’ve lost your vitality, and the spirit everyone loved. That...I loved.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “Because I see it, Mandy Brooks.”

  “But you’ve just come back. How can you see so much in such a short time?”

  “I saw you before.”

  Before? Everything went quiet, the chill of ice seeping through her veins again. Damn the snow. Damn Maxwell and his stupid costume. Instinctively, she knew she shouldn’t ask, there was a danger in asking, hearing the answer, but she couldn’t help herself. That much hadn’t changed. She could never help herself where he was concerned. “Before?” she prompted.

  A sudden wash of guilt swept across Tate’s face. At last she could see his emotions, but guilt? She hadn’t expected that.

  “I came back to Oakville two months ago, saw you talking with your brother and another woman and child.”

  “You’ve been away a long time. Why come back now?” Why come and wake me up?

  “My father died.”

  “Oh…Tate. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Not many did. Mother made sure of that. She...”

  “She’s a private woman,” Mandy offered as an excuse for him. What she meant was that Belle Sullivan had been a vindictive, nasty woman who had driven away everyone with her airs and graces.

  Tate grimaced. “Not as polite as some would say.”

  She offered a slight appeasing grimace. “Perhaps not, but she is your mother. And your father, I’m sorry. I know you were close to him.”

  “Were. Past tense. When I...left I kept in touch by phone.”

  “You didn’t come to see him?” Mandy couldn’t hide her shock. Tate and his father had been so close. Ball games, building projects together. Two peas in a pod surrounded by a vindictive mother and wife.

  “No. I didn’t,” he affirmed his tone cool, unemotional once more.

  “But...” Dear God, had she forced that on him, to abandon his family because she had walked out on him? Caustic guilt, so real that it twisted in her gut, sent a sour taste to her mouth.

  And again, she had to ask. Had to. “Why didn’t you come back, Tate?”

  For the last few moments his head had been bowed, seemingly lost in thoughts. Mandy remembered Tate and his father’s nightly one on one basketball in their backyard, remembered their joking and warm familiarity. It had been a stark contrast to his mother’s vitriolic outbursts, her deep southern drawl espousing how things should be, how her family had ‘been’ money, had ‘been’ respected in the community. Belle Sullivan believed she had married beneath her. Old money versus new money

  And if he had married her as they had planned her son would be repeating history. Belle Sullivan wouldn’t allow that. Ever.

  “You dumped me,” he finally uttered. “I ran. Tail between my legs. It was easier to stay away.”

  “Easier than what?”

  “Hurting. The dumper doesn’t hurt. The dumpee does. You hurt me.” He hesitated then, eyes resting on her, a silent connection as if he wanted her to say something.

  She remained silent.

  “Sh...Damn, if you’ve got me, Mandy Brooks.” Tate shoved himself upright and strode to the other side of their small haven. He stood in front of Santa’s throne, his back to her. His shoulders were slumped and fists balled at his sides.

  Mandy looked at him, and felt sad. Sad for what had been, what could have been, and what wasn’t. On silent feet she closed the gap between them and lifted a hand to his shoulder, resting it slightly on his clammy skin, aware of his reflexive action the moment her fingers touched him.

  “Tate?”

  “Go away, Mandy. I should never have come. Never...”

  “Never what? Of course you should have. It’s Christmas. You should be with family. Besides, the kids needed Santa, right?”

  “Need me? What do you need, sweetheart? Do you need me? Did you ever?”

  “I...”

  “No,” he interrupted, his jaw stiff, face flushed. “Don’t answer that.” He grabbed her wrist, holding it tight and shifted her hand to his trousers. Dear God he was aroused. Again. Despite the angst of their reunion, despite the hurt and the years, she aroused him. Her throat constricted as she desperately tried to ignore the heat racing through her veins, firing that same potent desire in her. But she couldn’t.

  “Feel it, Mandy. Feel what you do to me.” Tate’s other hand cupped her cheek, thumb sliding a teasing path along her jaw. Her throat tightened even further. She could barely breathe, while her brain turned to instant mush.

  He does this to me always!

  “I want you, Mandy. And you want me.”

  “No...!” Her denial was immediate. Fear-filled.

  “Yes you do. Your body sang for me before. We fit together. We’re perfect.”

  “We can’t.”

  “We can. Right here. Right now. Again, Mandy...and again and again.”

  Desire exploded like fireworks, hot, potent and so very real. Tate was right. Her body sang for him. Screamed loud and clear, so loud it deafened any protest, until she could no longer silence it. Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face, wanting to understand.

  Desire glistened in Tate’s eyes. They’d turned dark as the most delicious Hershey’s chocolate.

  Chocolate. Every woman’s fantasy. And Tate Sullivan was definitely her fantasy.

  The tip of her tongue slipped across dry lips and a hint of a smile turned the corners of his mouth into a secretive curl. “See, you can’t say no. You want me.” And with that his mouth took hers in a passionate kiss, with love and pleasure all rolled into one, until she no longer wanted him, or her, but simply them, together. Mandy held on to him. Held on tight, never wanting to let go.

  Tate had been right. She wanted him. Desperately.

  For now. Time later for reasoned thought. For regrets.

  As if one, they slid to the floor and he tugged at their stolen bedding and wrapped them in its luxurious warmth.

  “This is
our snowy world, sweetheart. Let me love you.”

  Mandy didn’t say no. How could she? Too lost in his touch as he removed the silken Santa shirt she still wore. With a sigh she lay naked beneath him, enveloped in his heated gaze.

  “Beautiful. You’ve grown into your womanhood, sweetheart.”

  A blush stained her cheeks and brought a grin to Tate’s beautiful mouth.

  He looked...all man. Sexy and strong. Perfect.

  Her soft gasp echoed across the room. Tate had parted her legs exposing her center. Her eyes shuttered a moment.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “Watch me, watching you.” Leaning forward he slid his hands up her inner thighs, massaging with a sensual touch. Her breath stalled. Dear God, he’d barely touched her, yet she felt ready to explode.

  “Wait.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “All this and you read minds too?”

  A velvety chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I’m a man of many talents and practice makes perfect.”

  The reality of his words threw a sudden chill across her heart. “And have you practiced, Tate?”

  His hands stilled their path. “I’m not a saint, Mandy.”

  She offered him a devilish smile. “Good. I don’t want a saint right now.”

  Tate took her comment as the invitation it was and resumed his massage. Her body arched of its own volition, an unashamed offering to his ministrations.

  His mouth sought her center, the tip of his tongue licking across her folds again and again, unearthing a mewl of pleasure from deep down inside her.

  “This is dessert.” Tate teased her, her slickness so wet, every nerve ending burned, making her wanting more, wanting everything. A tingling feelingshimmered the length of her spine as he urged her response. His movements became faster, his thumb abrading the tiny nub that pleasured her beyond all else.

  “Tate, please!”

  “That’s it, baby, for me.”

  She obeyed. She couldn’t hold back, didn’t want to, as a wave of delicious delight washed over her, again, and again, lifting her beyond anything she had ever experienced, beyond coherent thought, only what Tate was doing to her, for her.

  And she wanted it. Dear God she had missed it. Missed him. Loved him.

  The edge came full throttle, bolting her from all reason and over the precipice into a world of light and colors. Of Tate.