I'll Be Home for Christmas

by Lori Wilde

  Joe placed a hand to his stomach to quell the sick feeling. He was completely over his ex, but the betrayal still brought a bad taste to his mouth. Tatum’s marriage to Casey’s biological father hadn’t lasted any longer than their marriage had.

  And damn, he missed Casey something fierce, even though she would be turning nine on her next birthday and it had been almost eight years since they’d lived in the same house together. You diaper a kid, feed her, walk the floor with her when she had the colic, and play peep-eye and patty-cake with her, she burrowed deep underneath your skin.

  He’d adored the little rug rat from the moment they’d placed her into his arms at the hospital with her little red face scrunched up and big eyes zeroed in on him. And when Tatum confessed the baby wasn’t his, well, it felt as if a gorilla had reached right into his chest, yanked out his heart, and stomped it into pulverized mush. Worst time of his life, bar none.

  “I’m just trying to give Casey some kind of stability,” he said. “The kind Tatum never had.”

  Mac rolled his eyes. “Sucker.”

  “Tatum is just taking advantage of your love for Casey,” Dean said.

  “I’m aware of that.” Joe got to his feet.

  “Tatum is never going to change. You know that.” Mac shook his head, the wise older brother dishing out advice.

  “At least she’s dependable,” Joe said.

  Mac snorted. “In a completely unreliable way.”

  He offered up an embarrassed grin. “Yes, but at least I realize she’s always going to let me down. I can count on that.”

  Sam lightly kicked Joe in the seat of the pants. “You got a skewed way of looking at things, brother.”

  “It’s because he came into the world ass backward,” Mac said sagely, as if he’d been in the delivery room for Joe’s breech birth.

  “Any particular reason why y’all are bagging on me?” Joe grabbed his leather jacket from the coat-rack and shrugged into it.

  “Nope, little brother.” Mac ruffled Joe’s hair, trying to get a rise out of him. “You know shi … er … poop runs downhill.” Mac was trying to curb his salty language now that he was about to become a dad.

  “You done yet?” Joe kept his voice light. He’d learned a long time ago the best way to deal with his older brothers was to act like nothing they did bothered him. As the youngest brother he’d taken their hand-me-downs, their leftovers, and their good-natured ribbing with a smile. Work the system instead of bucking it.

  “Anyone else want a crack at him?” Mac wriggled his eyebrows.

  “He’s got Tatum on his back, we don’t need to pile it on,” Sam said.

  “I vote we let him off the hook,” Dean said. “Joe is supposed to help us decorate the Merry Cherub tomorrow. Don’t want to give him an excuse to show up late when the work is mostly done.”

  “You actually think he’ll do a good job?” Mac teased. “I bet he eats more of Jenny’s cookies than do any real work.”

  Sam and Dean laughed and poked Joe in the ribs from both sides.

  “Yuck it up, jokesters,” Joe opened the door and herded them outside.

  On the veranda, Mac paused and cast a glance across the road. “Have you met Katie’s houseguest?”

  “It’s Friday night,” Joe said, purposefully avoiding looking at the yurt. He didn’t want to get his craving for Gabi stirred up again. “If we don’t hustle, there will be a long waiting list at Froggy’s.”

  “He met her,” Dean answered Mac’s question. “And she’s cute.”

  Joe shot his brother-in-law a mind-your-own-business glare as the four of them walked abreast toward Mac’s SUV. “How do you know that?”

  “Nate Deavers saw you go over there to check her out,” Dean explained.

  “I wasn’t checking her out. I just went to find out where Katie was.”

  “And?” Mac asked at the same time Dean said, “Not according to Nate. He said you were looking at her like—”

  To Mack, Joe said, “Katie’s in California, I suspect LA.” To Dean he said, “Since when is Nate a gossip?”

  Dean shrugged, bowing to the power of the grapevine. “Nate told Shannon, of course. A guy has to tell his wife stuff. Shannon told Jenny and Jenny told me. This is Twilight. Why are you surprised?”

  “Good God, you people need to get a life. The woman has only been over there for a few hours.” Joe rolled his eyes.

  “Gotta love small towns.” Dean moved to ruffle his hair the way Mac had.

  Joe ducked, blocked Dean with his forearm. “My brothers might be able to get away with that crap, but my tolerance doesn’t extend to in-laws. Back off.”

  Dean guffawed like Joe had said something hilarious and ruffled his hair anyway. They feign boxed.

  Sam shook his head like they were both idiots. “Shotgun,” he called, and went around to the passenger side of the vehicle.

  Resigned to the backseat, Joe climbed in beside Dean, and as Mac pulled from the driveway, he couldn’t stop himself from looking over at the yurt.

  And damn if he wasn’t thrilled to see Gabi peering out the window at them as the SUV went by.

  CHAPTER 6

  Don’t let the past steal your present. This is the message of Christmas: We are never alone.

  —Taylor Caldwell

  Thrown off balance by her overwhelming attraction to Joe Cheek and her conversation with Katie, Gabi decided she needed to do something to distract herself. There was no point spinning sexual fantasies about him. She was only in town for three weeks, plus she couldn’t help feeling it would be disloyal to boink Katie’s brother.

  No matter how sexy he might be.

  Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t had anything to eat, besides the cake at Parks, since grabbing a slice of mediocre pizza at LAX that morning. She thought of the lively diner she’d passed on the way to find Katie’s yurt. Froggy’s: Best Fried Catfish in Texas. It had smelled delicious and she didn’t feel like cooking her first night in a new place.

  Or being alone, for that matter.

  Taking Joe’s Alpha He-Man flashlight with her, Gabi returned to the Camry and drove back to the marina in the darkness. The lake shone like a Christmas beacon on the horizon, multicolored lights winking her welcome.

  Live music accosted her when she got out, a country-western band with a serious fiddle player, sawing through “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.” At seven-thirty it was hard to find a parking spot and she ended up wedging the car in a small space beside the back Dumpster. The scent of peanut oil hung in the damp air. Couples strolled hand in hand into the establishment. Groups of people called greetings to each other. An I’m-an-outsider shyness twined around her and Gabi almost hopped back in the car and went in search of a grocery store instead. But the promise of the best catfish in Texas lured her through the wooden door that creaked noisily on its hinges.

  Once over the threshold, Gabi blinked at the countrified decor—red and white checkered tablecloths, cedar paneling, stained concrete floor, fishing trophies on the wall, along with photographs of happy anglers and their catches—clearly announcing that, yee-haw, you’re in Texas now, sweetums.

  The checkout counter was in front of her. Beside her was a main dining area. To the right was the bar. Beyond that was an enclosed porch that overlooked the water where the band was set up.

  “How many in your party?” hollered a young waitress over the music. She was a tall girl with a lean spine and a vivid tattoo of a purple guitar on the inside of her arm.

  Gabi held up a single finger.

  “Just you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The waitress shot Gabi a look of pity. “Do you wanna sit at the bar then?”

  No. Gabi did not particularly want to sit at the bar. At the bar, she’d be more of a target for guys looking for someone to take home for the night. Alone at the bar sent the message that you were fair game.

  She started to state her preference, but then saw how packed the place was and went with the
flow. “The bar’s fine.”

  “Don’t worry,” the waitress said, leaning in closer as she picked up a menu from the stack at the hostess stand. “I’ll tell Mick, the bartender, to keep an eye on you. Fend off any pests.”

  “Thanks.” Gabi smiled and followed the waitress to the bar.

  “I’m Leah, by the way,” the girl said, slipping the menu in front of Gabi as she scooted onto the high bar stool.

  “Gabi.” She curled her fingers around the edges of the menu and leaned forward against the bar.

  “You’re either traveling through or new in town. Which is it?”

  “Both I guess.”

  “Where are you staying?” Leah eyed her curiously.

  “Katie Cheek’s place.”

  “You?” Surprised eyebrows went up on the young waitress’s forehead.

  “You sound skeptical. Why’s that?”

  Leah raised her shoulders, then let them flop loose in a ragdoll shrug. “You don’t look like the yurt type.”

  “What type do I look like?” Gabi asked, really wanting to know. She’d spent so many years trying to be what her parents wanted her to be that she wasn’t quite sure who she was without their influence. Or how others saw her.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re kind of preppie. BMW. Fancy education.” Leah tapped her chin with a finger, sized Gabi up. “Tennis.”

  Was she that much of a cliché? Gabi wasn’t about to admit she owned a BMW—although, hey, she’d bought it used—or that she’d been on the tennis team as an undergrad at UCLA. But she wasn’t preppie. Not in the least.

  Okay, maybe her cuffed Ralph Lauren blouse with the stiff collar paired with the V-neck sweater was a little preppy, but come on. It was one shirt.

  “I don’t have a type,” Gabi said, trying not to sound snippy. “I’m type-less.”

  “Everyone has a type.”

  “Not me. I mean … maybe I do have a type but I honestly don’t know what it is. I’ve spent so much time trying to do whatever was expected of me, I’ve never had time to figure out my type.”

  “So you’re a chameleon,” Leah said. “Change colors to match who you’re with.”

  Gabi sort of liked that. “Yeah, I’m a chameleon.”

  “It sounds exhausting.”

  Yes, it certainly could be. “But it helps you to fly under the radar.”

  Leah looked skeptical and shook her head like that was a bad thing. “Question is, what color are you when no one else is around?”

  “That,” Gabi said, “is the question I’m here to answer.”

  “Good luck,” Leah said, went behind the bar and spoke to the nice-looking bartender who was pulling up two mugs of draft beer. He shot a quick glance in Gabi’s direction, nodded, and went back to serving drinks. Leah waved at her and took off to seat more customers.

  The band was playing a cover of an old Kenny Rogers song; the thumping bass was so loud Gabi couldn’t hear her own thoughts, which was probably a good thing. She settled onto the stool and people-watched.

  The bartender came over, stuck out a hand. “Hi, I’m Mick. Leah said you’re on your own.”

  “For tonight.” Gabi smiled friendly, but not in a flirty way. She just wasn’t interested in him like that. Although maybe she should flirt for the practice, but then Mick flashed a glance at her thighs where her skirt had ridden up, and she tugged on the hem trying to make it longer.

  “What’ll you have?” he asked.

  “I’m really just here for dinner,” she said apologetically. “Not drinks.”

  “Water? Tea? Soda? Anything?”

  “Water will be fine.”

  He turned to get a glass.

  “No wait.” She held up a hand. “I’ll take a Coke.”

  “What kind?’

  Huh? “A Coke.”

  “Pepsi? Dr Pepper? Coca-Cola? Sprite?”

  “A Coke.”

  “Ah, you want a Coca-Cola.”

  Wasn’t that what she just said?

  “You’re not from Texas.” He gave her a tolerant smile as if she were a little kid who’d put her shoes on the wrong feet.

  “You got me.”

  “What do you call cola where you’re from?”

  “Soda.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “LA.”

  “Should have guessed from your accent.”

  “I don’t have an accent.”

  “You do.”

  “What’s my accent like?”

  “Customer service rep.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  He lifted one shoulder and gave her a noncommittal smile. “Depends on if you think bland is good.”

  “Did you just call me bland?” she teased.

  “No,” he corrected. “I called your voice bland.”

  She knew he was joking, but her chest felt strangely achy. Unsure of what she was feeling, Gabi turned her attention to the menu.

  “Do you know what you want?” Mick asked.

  Now that was the central question of her life. “The fried catfish?”

  “You got it,” he said, not seeming to realize she’d meant it as a question.

  She’d never had fried catfish. In fact, she was pretty certain she’d never had catfish at all.

  Briefly, she considered asking him to make it a to-go order but by the time she got back to the yurt, the food would be cold and fried catfish didn’t sound like something that would heat up well. Besides, she didn’t recall seeing a microwave in the yurt.

  She reached for the glass of Coke that the bartender left for her before turning to wait on someone else and gazed across the crowded room. A side door opened and four sexy men strolled in, headed for an empty table where it seemed they must have already been sitting before they’d gone outside. They were laughing and cheerfully shoving each other in the way of guys who really like each other. And she realized with a start that one of them was Joe.

  Her achy chest tightened, adding torque to pressure.

  Who were these other men, and why had they been outside?

  None of your business, Nosy Nelly.

  Quickly, she glanced away before Joe looked up and caught her staring. Now she wished she had ordered the catfish to go.

  The band slid into “Santa Looked a Lot Like Daddy.”

  Mick settled a plate of fried chicken down in front of her, and moved on.

  “Mick,” she called. “This isn’t my order.”

  He sidled back over. “Oh yeah, we were out of the catfish, so I just subbed the chicken. I hope that’s okay.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him it wasn’t okay for him to order for her, but before she could say that, he added, “On the house.”

  She closed her mouth and settled back in the chair. She could ask for something else, but this was free. She nodded. Her needs had never really mattered, why should she rock the boat when in the grand scheme of things the food didn’t really matter?

  That’s what you’ve been telling yourself your whole life. When do your needs matter, Gabi? asked the rebellious voice that had gotten her to Texas. The same voice that had woken her in the middle of the night before she was supposed to sit for her law school exams to whisper, You are not living your destiny.

  But habit, and her natural ability to roll with the punches, quashed the voice. It was just food. Not worth the fight.

  What is worth fighting for?

  Surely not fried foods. Gabi shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but Mick had already gone to the end of the bar to wait on another customer. Oh well. She took a bite of fried chicken. Yum. It was good. Very good. Maybe this was the better meal after all.

  The band broke into the “Electric Slide” and instantly diners were on their feet, moving in unison to the line dance.

  Leah appeared, took Gabi’s hand, and pulled her off the bar stool.

  Gabi drew back. “Wait. What are we doing? What’s going on here?”

  “Froggy’s tradition,”
the waitress explained as she motioned for other reluctant diners to get to their feet. “When the band plays certain songs it’s a signal for group dancing.”

  “It feels like a flash mob.”

  “Along those lines.” Leah bumped Gabi with her hip to get her moving.

  “What songs?” Gabi asked, feeling disoriented.

  “‘Electric Slide,’ ‘Y.M.C.A.,’ the ‘Chicken Dance,’ tunes like that.”

  “Kitschy wedding songs.”

  “You got it.” Leah scooted a chair out of the way so Gabi could join the throng sliding to the peppy music.

  “Do I have to participate?” Gabi asked.

  “Only if you don’t want to look like that fuddy-duddy.” Leah pointed to a scowling old man who had his arms folded over his chest.” Leah crooked her finger at the man in a come-join-the-fun gesture, but he only glared harder.

  Well, she certainly didn’t want to get lumped into the same category as that guy. Okay, she was in. Gabi studied Leah, copying her moves.

  She was doing pretty well until she glanced over and realized the man dancing behind her was Joe Cheek. And there was no mistaking the fact that his gaze was firmly hooked on her ass.

  Excitement kicked up her pulse.

  He caught her watching him and offered up a sheepish smile for the butt staring. Payback. She’d stared at his butt more than once today.

  That disarming smile unnerved her and she turned in the wrong direction from the rest of the dancers and ended up crashing right into Joe’s He-Man chest. His arms went around her.

  “Oops wrong way,” he said.

  She tried to pull away, but he held on tight, while the rest of the dancers moved around them, clapping their hands to the beat. Together, they were an island in a stream of performers.

  His dark eyes lit up. “Fun, huh?”

  It was fun, but she didn’t want to admit it. “I feel hijacked.”

  “You don’t have to dance.”

  “It seems compulsory.”

  “Not really. You just have to be secure enough in your identity, like Pike over there …” He nodded at the scowling senior citizen. “… not to give in to peer pressure.”