Home For the Holidays

by Lisa Plumley

  Remembering that, Reno grinned. Rachel had really packed away the breakfast this morning. They’d practically had to arm wrestle for possession of the last piece of toast. And she’d claimed during their drive from the airport that all she ever ate were power bars and salad. Now he knew the truth.

  Rachel Porter could eat like a defensive lineman. Albeit with better table manners and a much more appealing “Mmmm.”

  But all that had come before the measuring, the touching, the running of Rachel’s hands over his chest and down his arms, lightly zeroing in on his midsection and down to his ass, where Rachel had appeared to have some sort of issue with getting the fit exactly appropriate for a Christmas pageant Santa who’d wouldn’t exactly be backing into rooms butt-first.

  Remembering that too, Reno grinned more widely. Rachel might have no trouble rebelling against Kismet’s more straitlaced elements (past and present), but she did have a hard time bluffing her way through touching him.

  He liked that about her. He wanted to know how far he could push her. If he brushed against her, would she shiver? If he kissed her again, would she moan? If he peeled away that tight sweater of hers, got both of them naked, then teased her with the faintest of touches, would she make a move herself?

  He imagined Rachel straddling him, bringing new life to the now-deserted chairs around the dining room table. He pictured himself, gripping her hips as she rode him, her hair whipping around her shoulders, sweat beading on her neck, trickling down, her breasts puckering and swaying as the two of them—

  “So,” Kayla said. “How much do you love Rachel?”

  Startled, Reno glanced at his niece, who was bouncing on his bed. He had to get a grip on himself. This Rachel fixation of his was getting out of control. No wonder Nate had been obsessed with her for a decade. Reno had only spent part of December with Rachel, and already he was literally speechless.

  “I’d say you totally got your Christmas wish this year,” Kayla continued, looking smug. “So how much? You love her, right? You love Rachel? Because she’s perfect.”

  “I—”

  “Rachel likes Barbies just like me,” his niece recited breathlessly. “She likes puppies and Nickelodeon and pink sparkle lip gloss. You’ve got to get her, Uncle Reno!”

  “I—”

  “I can tell she likes you, too. She watches you with her eyes wherever you go. But not in a creepy way. In a pretty way. Rachel is really pretty, don’t you think so?”

  “I—”

  “I’d like some of those boots like hers, but Mom already said no. ‘You can get boots like those the minute I do,’ is what she said, but that’s what she said about the cute stick-on unicorn tattoo I wanted to get, and she still doesn’t have one, so I think it’s hopeless.” Kayla shook her head, hilariously perturbed. “I think Rachel is perfect for you! Don’t you?”

  “I—”

  “The important thing is that you’re different around her.” His niece put her hand to her chin, examining him. “Your smile is bigger and so are your muscles. Plus your hair looks good.”

  Self-consciously, Reno put his hand to his head. He refused to own up to the extra pushups and teensy bit of hair product that had made those things happen. As far as the smile went…

  Well, he was helpless to prevent that. Period.

  “Hey, Reno. What do you think?” his dad asked from the door.

  He glanced over, expecting the worst. So far, every time his father had trotted out that doomsday phrase it had heralded some new midlife-bachelor atrocity. Like temporary glue-in hair plugs. Trendy sneakers. Or so much drugstore cologne it could have decongested a hay fever-ridden blow monkey.

  This time though…“Wow, Dad. You look really nice.”

  “Very handsome, Grandpa!” Kayla chimed in.

  Beaming proudly, his father rotated, showing off his simple dark sport coat, white shirt, and upscale jeans. His gray hair was combed (but not shellacked with gel), his beard was shaved, and for the first time in weeks, his eyes actually sparkled. Even his shoes were nice—not too gangsta rapper, not too geezer mall-walker, but something in between. Reno didn’t usually notice footwear unless he was trotting onto the gridiron to score a field goal and wanted taller cleats, but this time—

  “Check out my kicks!” his dad exclaimed. “Nice, right?”

  At the joy in his voice, Reno couldn’t help but smile. He nodded, inexplicably moved by the sight of his old man looking eager about his life again—for reasons that seemed to have nothing to do with the Men Only special double issue starring the Barely Legal Cage-Fighting Beauties in their underwear.

  “Rachel got ’em for me! She’s a wonder, that girl. Took me all over town until we found the right pair of shoes at Dirk’s Footwear in that new strip mall out by the Costco.”

  Reno boggled. “You and Rachel went shopping together?”

  “Well, she’s kind of a personal shopper, right? She’s on the Kismet Christmas decorating committee now, and we got to talking yesterday. Well, one thing led to another, and before I knew it, shazam! I was getting all these fancy new duds.”

  “Shazam?”

  “You should snap her up, Reno. Rachel is smart as a whip, and she had some good advice for me, too. She’s a keeper. I know she might look all sophisticated and whatnot, and she talks kind of tough—bit of a potty mouth, truth be told, but you didn’t hear it from me!—but on the inside, she’s mush.”

  “Yeah, mush!” Kayla chimed. “Snap her up, Uncle Reno!”

  Helpless against the two of them, Reno shrugged. “The thing is, Nate’s got a big crush on Rachel, and I promised—”

  The phone rang, cutting him off.

  “I’ve gotta get that,” his dad announced, hustling away with the barest hint of aftershave—one that didn’t smell like eau de musk-that-makes-your-eyes-water. “It could be your mom. We’re having lunch together today. Fingers crossed!”

  Left behind, Reno and Kayla traded surprised glances. Reno could scarcely wrap his head around the news that his parents appeared to be speaking to one another again without bullhorns and lawyers and an extra helping of dirty looks.

  Was there hope for a civil Christmas after all? Or was this just another gambit in his dad’s ongoing march toward divorce?

  Rolling her eyes, Kayla whirled her finger near her temple. “Grandpa seems love crazy.”

  “He’s not the only one, kiddo.” Reno ruffled her hair, lost in thought. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am, too.”

  The only question now was…what to do about it?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Oh dear, Rachel. Are you sure this is going to work?”

  For the fourteenth time, Rachel smiled at her mother, even as workers hustled to complete the final touchups to her L.A.-style Christmas party and the promptest of the partygoers (they didn’t “do” fashionably late here in Kismet) mingled nearby. The DJ booth was set up. The beach sand was underfoot. Even the spray-tan booth was ready to fake-bake all the inhabitants of Kismet who wanted to look like holiday Oompa-Loompas.

  “Yes. I’ve done this before. Don’t worry.” She squeezed her mom’s shoulder, automatically adjusting the shoulder seam of the cocktail dress they’d chosen together. “And quit trying to sneak those Swedish meatballs in with the rest of the food! Please. That Crock-Pot is going to melt all the ice for my raw bar.”

  “These things are cool to the touch. Didn’t you ever use the one your father and I gave you for your birthday years ago?”

  Rachel didn’t have the heart to tell her mother that the Crock-Pot was still in the original box, waiting for her to have a Desperate Housewives moment…or start using it as a foot spa.

  “Mom, you’re the culinary expert, not me.”

  “That’s right. That’s how I know people are going to want something to eat besides raw fish—”

  “That’s sashimi, Mom. It’s delicious.”

  “—and seaweed wraps—”

  “Sushi. They have it at the Olde Towne G
ourmet Emporium now. Cool, right?”

  “—and oysters and vegetables and artistic fruit!” With evident dismay, her mother studied the table. “It’s Christmas. It’s wintertime. Your guests are going to want something hot.”

  “Mmm.” Catching a glimpse of a tall, hard-bodied man standing in the dim lighting near the lounging pillows she’d set up, Rachel smiled. “I think something hot has just arrived.”

  Her mother scoffed. “That’s Reno, dear! Unless he’s packing soup in his pockets, I don’t think he’s the answer.”

  “All the same, I’d better double check.” Trying to ignore the tingle in her middle (which surely didn’t mean she was experiencing Christmastime love, as Angela had suggested), Rachel veered in Reno’s direction. “Make yourself at home, Mom.” Cheerily, she waved. “Have a candy cane margarita.”

  “Ask Reno if he brought a casserole!” her mom called.

  But Rachel didn’t care if Reno had a hot dish to share. He was a hot dish. And if he shared himself with anyone but her, she’d have a very blue Christmas after all.

  Wait. That was pretty sappy. Wondering if saying such a thing aloud would be too over the top (even for her), Rachel flung back her hair. She sashayed over, still debating.

  Hot dish? Blue Christmas? Should she actually admit that she’d changed her dress four times, had sampled not one or two but three preparatory cocktails, and had spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror rehearsing what she’d say to Reno tonight?

  At the last instant, she decided not to. “Nice tie. Going to your second job as a used-car salesman later?”

  Reno tilted his head, his brows lowering in obvious puzzlement. He fingered his necktie. “No.”

  Oh God. Oh God. See? She was awful at romance. She couldn’t truly be in love with Reno already, like Angela had said. Otherwise, how could she possibly hear herself say…

  “Too bad. It made sense with those clown shoes.”

  He gazed at his feet. “These are perfectly fine shoes.”

  They were. Arrgh. What was the matter with her?

  “If you believe that, I’ve got a spray-tan machine you’ve got to guinea pig for me, Mr. Gullible.” Rachel’s panic rose, threatening to cut off oxygen to her brain. Or maybe it already had. “You might find out that orange is your color.”

  Reno frowned at her. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing!” Rachel gave a glib laugh. She was, after all, a glib L.A. girl, right? This whole party was about proving that her L.A.-ness was vastly superior to Reno’s supposedly wonderful Podunk-Kismet-ness. Kismet, with all its do-gooding and kindness and delicious breakfasts. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I thought I was here for a party.”

  “I know you are, but what am I?”

  That did it. With a strong grasp, Reno shepherded her past the DJ booth—which was kicking into gear with Gwen Stefani singing a very danceable ska “Oi to the World!”—past the raw bar, all the way to the corner. It took awhile though. The imported beach sand (and occasional beach umbrella stuck into it) seriously impeded their progress. It was atmospheric though.

  “Like the party?” Rachel babbled. “It’s a pity-party really. My friend Mimi footed the whole bill, now that I’m out of a—” Whoops. Moving on. “Anyway, I called to tell her about the party, and she decided we had to stick together for L.A.’s sake. Homegirls, holla!” She waved her arm in the air.

  Reno grimaced. “There’s sand in my shoes.”

  “You’re supposed to take them off, silly.” She nudged him, encountering rugged shoulder, a swath of rigid male chest, and a whole new batch of tingly, nervous butterflies that swooped in her stomach with redoubled vigor. “Take it all off. Woo-woo!”

  Reno halted her impromptu bump-and-grind routine—

  “Spoilsport.”

  —with his palms on her hips. That felt pretty good.

  “On the other hand…” Unwisely luxuriating in the sensation of having his hands on her, Rachel faced him. She trailed her fingers up his shirtfront. “I see you wore a nice shirt for the occasion of your ass-whupping. Good for you.”

  Reno looked perplexed. “The only ass-whupping that will be happening around here will be happening to you.”

  “That’s what they all say.” She gripped his necktie and tugged him closer. Somehow she had to find out if Angela’s true love theory was correct. “How about a kissing test?”

  “Whew! What are we testing for? Your blood alcohol level?” He waved his hand in front of his face, then steadied her shoulder as she wavered. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  Reno frowned more deeply. She could tell he definitely wasn’t from L.A., because his next question was…

  “Why did you have so much to drink?”

  “That’s easy. Because I just realized that I love—” Rachel whirled her hand in the air, preparing to punctuate her statement with a poke to Reno’s manly chest. “I love—”

  “Reno!” someone called. “Hey, buddy! I’m glad you’re here. The beer keg won’t tap. We need someone mechanical to fix it.”

  Rachel’s finger swerved sideways. So did her baleful gaze. She glowered at the chubby, cheerful man who’d interrupted her moving declaration of love with a crass complaint about beer.

  “There’s not supposed to be beer!” she cried. “This is a stylish party, not a tailgate brewski fiesta.”

  The man shrugged. “Somebody rolled in a keg. It’s not a party without a keg. Right, Reno?” He nudged Reno, winking.

  “I’ll see what I can do to help.” Reno shucked his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, then paused to give Rachel a stunningly handsome warning look. “Ease up on the cocktails. And keep an eye out for Nate—he should be here any minute.”

  “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “It’s true this time.” His smile wowed her. “If you see a dreamy-eyed guy wielding a cupcake pan and a jigsaw, that’s him. We’ll talk later.”

  “Aye-aye, Skipper.” Rachel saluted smartly.

  But she had no intention of waiting around to declare her love (now that she’d realized it)—or of obediently forgoing candy cane margaritas at her own très-fashionable L.A.-style party. Thanks to the Christmas season, all the drama she’d been through lately, or simply Reno’s refusal to share his incredible lips with her, Rachel’s rebellious side had just nudged itself to the fore. There was no telling what she might do next….

  Despite Reno’s urgings that he absolutely had to be there (or face dire consequences), Nate was a little bit sorry he went to Rachel Porter’s L.A. Christmas beach bash. It started the minute he stepped into the noisy, crowded Kismet tavern she’d taken over for the occasion…and got sand in his shoes.

  While he shook them out, that little-bit-sorry feeling of his only intensified as he glanced around the dimly lit room with its flashing lights and music, his whole body pulsing with some kind of reggae Christmas tune, and spotted Tom and Judy Wright in a clinch on a low-slung sofa. Angela’s and Reno’s parents didn’t look much like a couple on the verge of divorce, it occurred to him. In fact, judging by the way they nuzzled noses, then cooed, then mashed their faces together to—

  Whoa. That was way too much insight into their relationship. Swerving away, Nate scanned the rest of the room.

  It looked pretty kooky to him. Beach umbrellas? Sand? Only one keg? Obviously, as awesome as she was in most ways, Rachel Porter did not know much about throwing a good party. That was disillusioning. Tamping down his disappointment, Nate headed for the food table—his favorite place at any get-together.

  Except this one. Sure, the hamburger and noodle casserole someone had plunked atop the trays of slimy fishy stuff looked tasty. So did the marshmallow-sweet potato side dish and the Swedish meatballs someone had wedged beside a platter of artistically arranged peeled shrimp. But the ice underneath the Crock-Pot was a major mistake. Who wanted cold food in December?

  Adding his box of homem
ade fudge (a bonus culled from the special batch he’d made for Angela and Kayla), Nate stepped back to survey the table. His mother had always taught him never to show up at a party empty-handed. So Rachel Porter would probably be impressed with his manners. If they still “did” manners in L.A. He wasn’t sure. For a second, the idea gave him pause.

  If Rachel Porter couldn’t throw a good party, didn’t know enough not to serve iced food at Christmastime, and didn’t even value decent manners, was she still his dream girl?

  “Hey, Nate! Over here.”

  He glanced sideways. Reno stood beside the tavern’s open electrical panel, wiping his smudged hands with a paper towel. He wadded it up, threw it away, then elbowed shut the panel.

  Relieved to see his friend, Nate hustled over. “Dude, what’s going on? Is something wrong with the power?”

  “Blown fuse from the spray-tan machine. No biggie. I was already over here fixing one of the jammed bar nozzles.”

  Nate nodded. Reno was always coming to the rescue. Sometimes it seemed there was nothing he couldn’t do. The bastard. If Nate could have just one ounce of Reno’s mojo—

  “Rachel’s here somewhere. You can’t miss her. She’s wearing this red dress that’s cut to here”—his buddy indicated an area halfway down his chest—“and back to here”—he lowered his hand to an inch above his butt—“and it’s shiny and clingy.”

  At the naked appreciation on Reno’s face, Nate eyed him suspiciously. It was possible that resisting Rachel Porter, Dream Girl, was too much even for the most stalwart guy in Kismet. But then Reno craned his neck, trying to see over the crowd of barefoot, fake-tanned revelers, and put Nate’s mind at ease with a hearty back slap. “And you’re not ducking out this time! She’s starting to think you’re about as real as Bigfoot.”

  Inanely, Nate stared at his feet.

  Oh yeah. Bigfoot. Big furry guy in the woods. He frowned.

  “Very funny. And I would’ve met her sooner. I just had to do a little prep work first. Rachel Porter took everyone by surprise when she came home for the holidays this year. Speaking of which…How are my eyebrows?” He angled his forehead toward the light.