Home For the Holidays

by Lisa Plumley

  “The left one’s growing back nicely.”

  “That’s the one I didn’t get waxed.”

  “Oh.” Reno shifted his gaze to the right. He recoiled. “I could probably make you an eye patch out of this leftover PVC.”

  “Har-har.”

  “I think that’s ‘yar-yar, maties.’”

  “Bite me.” Cheerfully, Nate flipped him the finger. “You’re just jealous because I’m about to meet my dream girl”—his stomach somersaulted, then plummeted, kind of the way it had on the Top Thrill Dragster when he’d visited Cedar Point with Angela and Kayla last summer—“and you’re not.”

  “Hey.” Reno waved away someone else who wanted him to fix something. “Who’s been babysitting her for you all this time?”

  “Yeah, well…” Self-consciously, Nate ran his hand through his buzz cut. Touching those close-clipped strands comforted him. They reminded him that he wasn’t that same dork with the stupid curly hairstyle and the Vanilla Ice T-shirt whom Rachel had known in high school—aka, the years when he’d been invisible to her. “That’s what friends are for, right? Helping each other?”

  “That’s what I hear.” Reno’s face stiffened. “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh what?” Swiveling to see, Nate gazed through the crowd. They were really getting wild now, doing impromptu Jell-O shots and playing horseshoes in the corner. How had someone gotten a hold of horseshoes and pins to stick in the sand? That didn’t seem very L.A. Christmas to him. “I don’t see anything.”

  Then he did.

  The partygoers parted just enough for Nate to glimpse a woman dressed all in creamy white, from her knit skirt to her body-hugging sweater. Her beaming smile beckoned everyone within viewing distance. Her sexy hair toss made sure most of those noticing her would be men like him. Men who liked gorgeous brunettes with long legs and an air of mystery. Men who liked—

  Angela.

  Disbelieving, Nate stared. Even as he boggled at her changed appearance, he recognized all the familiar things about her. Beneath Angela’s wild dark hair was her lovable, expressive face. Behind her alluring smile was her wonderful, generous laugh. And her long, lithe legs weren’t flashing around beneath a short cocktail dress (like some of the fake-tanned women cavorting on the lounge pillows); instead they were sheathed in that soft-looking knit skirt, which moved when Angela did in a way that made a man imagine he was seeing more than he actually saw.

  And made him want to see even more than that.

  Angela’s sweater was modest, but it made Nate’s fingers clench all the same, because (he realized in a disbelieving haze) he could see the curvy, wonderful shape of her breasts through that thing! They were completely covered, it was true. But they were still right there, occasionally bouncing as she moved, issuing an invitation Angela probably wasn’t even aware of. An invitation that said, “Hey, touch me! Touch me right here!”

  Sort of hypnotized, Nate angled his head to the right. That horniness problem of Angela’s must be pretty rampant if she was running around all luscious and sexy like that. If she was all but saying “Come and get me” to every man in the room. As her friend, he should have seen this coming. He should have realized how dire her need was and offered another kiss (at least). Maybe a friendly caress, something that would let him experience what she felt like beneath that sweater. And of course, something that would make Angela feel better. Because she clearly needed—

  The man next to her leaned closer, then whispered something. Angela’s smile broadened. She blushed prettily.

  The hell? Now that man had his hands on her, too, slipping one arm around her waist as he guided Angela through the crowd! He bobbed his head to the Christmas music, looking even dopier.

  What was she doing with that jerk? And who did he think he was, slobbering all over her like that?

  Anyone could tell he wanted to rip off all that virginal white she had on and take advantage of her. And not in a friendly, helpful way either. Not in a way that would mean something. Something affectionate and sweet and significant.

  “I was afraid something like this might happen,” Reno said in a dire tone, breaking into Nate’s aggrieved thoughts.

  “I know!” Frowning, Nate gestured toward Angela. “Can you believe that asshat, with his hands all over your sister?”

  Reno looked. Blandly. “Not that, dumbass. That’s just Billy Pendelton, Angela’s date for the night. He’s a single parent, too. His son goes to Kayla’s school.”

  “Billy Pendelton? Little Bobby Pendelton’s dad?” Nate gawked. “That kid wipes boogers on the playground equipment!”

  “Let’s hope his dad has kicked the habit.”

  “That’s not funny.” Tightening his fists, Nate watched as Booger Billy nuzzled Angela’s neck. “Somebody ought to put that guy in his place. Angela doesn’t like too much PDA.”

  “She doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “That’s because he’s getting her drunk!” In disbelief, Nate watched as Booger Billy pressed a margarita (with a candy cane stuck in the glass) in Angela’s hand. She smiled at him, pulled out the candy cane, then took a sip…and followed it up with a suggestive lick. “A real man does not need to get his dates plowed in order to kiss them.”

  For an instant, all he could do was stare in bafflement. Beside him, Reno appeared to do the same thing. Nate didn’t know how he could stand seeing his little sister mauled like that. On the verge of saying so, he decided he had to prioritize.

  “I’d better go take care of this,” Nate said.

  “I’d better do something,” Reno said at the same time.

  They separated. Indignantly, Nate stomped toward Angela and her obnoxious date. It was only at the last instant that he glanced around and realized Reno hadn’t followed him after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Woo! Shake it, baby, shake it!” Rachel yelled.

  From beside the table she was dancing on, Reno pulled on his discarded coat, then shook his head. From this vantage point, he had an excellent view of Rachel’s long, bare legs and that scandalous dress she was wearing. He also had an intimate knowledge of her underwear habits. So did everyone else in the vicinity—a fact some people were already whispering, nudging each other, and pointing about.

  “Aww, yeah. That’s right,” she crowed, oblivious to the thong-spotting onlookers as she waggled her fingers, chasing down one of her three male dancing partners. She squeezed the nearest man’s butt and squealed. “Shake it some more!”

  He obliged, making his flannel shirttails swing to the music. Next to him, her other two homegrown partners did the same, one stomping his work boots and the other swirling his Day-Glo orange hunter’s cap overhead like a rodeo cowboy.

  All three men looked ridiculous. But Reno figured that Rachel could have persuaded them to do a lot worse, simply by flashing one of her incredible smiles. God knew, Rachel had nearly persuaded him to throw over his allegiance to his best friend already, just to get closer to her himself. If that wasn’t dangerous, Reno didn’t know what was.

  Well, dancing on a tabletop was. Rachel was likely to sprain an ankle doing that. Especially if she kept on shimmying.

  “Rachel!” he called. “Get down from there.”

  “Reno! Hey!” Vividly, she smiled at him, beckoning him upward with her bottle of Jose Cuervo. “Come on up and dance!”

  He shook his head. “You come down here.”

  “No way. That’s no fun!” Rachel shook her head, making her red and white Santa hat slant sideways. Tipsily, she righted it, then kept boogying. “Come on! It’s better up here. You can see the whole place! And they can see you!”

  A roar of approval went up from the crowd. Candy cane margaritas (and beers) were hoisted. The nearest men stomped their feet and hooted. Exasperated, Reno glanced at them.

  Then he looked back at Rachel and realized why all the men were so interested. Rachel’s dress was veering dangerously close to total exposure on top, thanks to the exuberant tabletop dancing she�
��d been doing. All that slinky red fabric just couldn’t contain Rachel’s curvaceous figure, especially now that she’d begun kicking off her shoes and could really move.

  One of her high-heeled sandals sailed past his head. It nailed the karaoke machine someone had brought in (which Reno had subsequently had to repair), then plunked to the ground.

  “Woo! Woo!” Rachel yelled as the music kept thumping.

  Reno had never heard Christmas tunes like these before. They had familiar lyrics about gingerbread, Rudolph, and sleigh rides, but the music behind them rattled the rafters with its deep bass, and the overall volume would have deafened Santa.

  “Yeah, baby!” Gyrating, Rachel got in line behind one of her dancing partners. The other two men filed in behind her, then they all did a salacious bump-and-grind routine across the tavern’s thick wooden table. “Merry Christmas, everybody!”

  The whole spectacle was like watching Shakira try to belly dance while sandwiched between two auto mechanics and a member of the Best Buy Geek Squad. Sexy in the middle, uncoordinated dweebville on the ends. Reno had to close his eyes for a second.

  When he opened them, a crazy-haired, slightly panting, sexily askew Rachel was saluting the crowd with her tequila bottle. “Woo-hoo! Is everybody having fun?”

  “Yeah!” the crowd roared.

  She beamed with approval. “Is an L.A. Christmas better than a Kismet Christmas?” She put her hand to her ear, waiting.

  “Yeah!” came the boisterous reply. Beers sloshed.

  The crowd’s approval didn’t mean much. These people would have agreed to strip down and bunny hop, they were so tanked up on liquor, Swedish meatballs, and fake suntans. It was a good thing the Porters had made an early night of it, so they weren’t here to witness their daughter’s tabletop cha-cha.

  Frowning, Reno stepped closer to the table. He put up both arms, then gestured for Rachel to come to him. “You win. Come on down.”

  Beneath her metallic gray eye shadow, Rachel’s eyes widened. Her grin broadened. “You hear that, everybody? Reno says I win. Woo-hoo!” She swallowed a mouthful of tequila. “I win!”

  He took away her bottle. “I’ll catch you. Let’s go.”

  The Christmas music boomed. The partygoers danced. Rachel’s backup trio busted out new and ridiculous moves to try to catch her eye. But through all the mayhem, Rachel only gazed at Reno, an unexpectedly tender expression on her face.

  She sighed, then crouched in a fairly indelicate position so she could hold up his upraised hand. And in this corner, the winner! Reno thought absurdly. Reno Wright by total knockout.

  “Everybody!” she called. “I love this guy! You hear that? I’m in love with Reno Wright! I just realized it today, and I—”

  Riveted, Reno could only stand there. Rachel loved him?

  “—want everyone to know it. I love, love, love him!” Waving her free hand, she pointed. “Woo! I love Reno Wright!”

  The music crashed to a stop between songs. The resulting near-silence only lasted an instant, but it was long enough for Rachel’s announcement to carry far and wide across the tavern with its holiday lights, beach sand, and umbrellas—long enough for everyone within Christmas caroling distance to hear.

  Even Nate. No. Reno couldn’t let Nate hear this.

  Even if it was just the tequila talking.

  In one swift movement, Reno reached up while the music kicked in again, grabbed Rachel around the knees, then tipped her over his shoulder in an impromptu firefighter’s carry.

  “See? He loves me, too!” she blurted joyously, shouting to be heard over the tunes, oblivious to her Santa hat falling to the floor. “This is so An Officer and a Gentleman!”

  Clenching his teeth in a near approximation of a smile, Reno wrapped his arm around Rachel’s wriggling backside.

  Carrying her to the exit was like hoisting a very compact (and busty) defensive lineman during a punt return play—except no football player would have cooed at him lovingly, then started swearing at him in a startled, high-pitched voice for him to wait a minute! And put her down! Right now!

  “Reno! Reno!” someone shouted nearby. “Hey, wait up.”

  Oh, man. Not now. Reno shook his head and kept going, headed for the table where Rachel had left her coat and purse and trying not to make eye contact with whoever needed his help now. For the rest of the night they would just have to repair the jukebox, unplug the toilet, or set someone’s broken arm without him.

  “Dude. This is serious.” Nate grabbed his biceps. His anxious face loomed in Reno’s field of vision, crazy eyebrows and all. “I need some advice.”

  “I’m kind of busy right now.” Grunting, Reno rearranged his sexily dressed burden, hoping he wasn’t treating Rachel’s partygoers to another view of her red thong undies. She appeared to have settled down and was currently stroking his back. Her hands veered toward his ass. She giggled. “Can’t it wait?”

  Nate didn’t so much as glance at the woman slung over Reno’s shoulder—which he apparently accepted as a matter of course, probably because Reno was a repeat rescuer. Instead he gazed to the party throng, wrung his hands, then shook his head. “Just tell me one thing: Is it too late for me and Angela? Is she serious about Booger Billy or Patrick the Prick?”

  “Serious? Nah. I don’t think so.” Peering at his friend, Reno tried to figure out why Nate was so interested in his little sister’s love life. But he couldn’t think of a reason, and he didn’t want to hang around long enough for Nate to recognize Rachel Porter and ask why she was slung over Reno’s shoulder. “Besides, come on—Angela loves you, dude! Always has.”

  Nate stared at him for a second. Then he took a deep breath. “Okay. That’s all I needed to know.”

  Nate turned to leave. Relieved, Reno grabbed his keys.

  “Hey, chug along, Mr. Tank Engine. Let’s get a move on.” Rachel pulled Reno’s jacket as if it would start him walking again. When that didn’t work, she pinched his butt. Hard.

  “Yeoch!”

  At his yelp, Nate swiveled. His gaze shot from Reno to the woman draped over his shoulder. For a long minute, his attention lingered. Reno held his breath. This was a pretty compromising position. He couldn’t promise that Nate would understand.

  Then his longtime buddy grinned, apparently (and fortunately) not identifying Rachel Porter at all.

  “Looks like you’ve got your hands full for the night, dude,” he said. “That’s what you get for rescuing everybody. Good luck with that.”

  Ha. If Nate only knew…

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nate never would have thought it would come to this.

  Standing in his apartment on the west side of Kismet, still sporting the boxer shorts he typically slept in (and probably wearing a Cap’n Crunch milk mustache on his face, too), he examined the cardboard box on the table in front of him.

  Caution. Fragile. Store this end up. Seriously, fragile!

  The warnings were underlined three times in thick black felt-tip strokes, scrawled in his best handwriting—the penmanship he’d learned at St. Mary’s elementary school all those years ago. He hadn’t opened this box for almost as long.

  He hadn’t expected to open it now. But after trying (and failing) to break up Angela and Booger Billy at the party last night (incredibly, she had been indifferent to the possibility of his having an ongoing, obviously hereditary booger habit), he’d spent half the night agonizing over what to do about her and her endless parade of boy toys (okay, and eating a ham-and-cheese sandwich with pickles around 2 A.M. because all that hard thinking made a man hungry), and no better plan had come to him than this one. This one, borne of something Kayla had once said to him about her mom’s dreams of a big white wedding and a picket-fenced cottage by the lake—a plan that Nate hadn’t expected to need for a few more carefree years at least.

  Now all bets were off. He had to raise or fold. Otherwise, Angela would leave him in the dust, exactly the way she had on the night they’d been kicked out
of the Shoparama together, when she’d gone on that date with Patrick the Prick and left Nate standing in her kitchen like a fudge-recipe-wielding nincompoop.

  But all that was about to change.

  Carefully, he slit open the double layer of packing tape on the outside of the box. His heart hammered as he lifted the cardboard flaps, spreading them wide. A hint of mustiness wafted from the interior, followed by a more familiar fragrance—mothballs. They made his eyes water. Slowly, Nate peeled away the thick swath of bubble wrap that formed the topmost layer.

  The mothball smell grew stronger.

  So did his apprehension.

  Drawing in a tentative breath, Nate looked at the items he’d revealed. They were still there, exactly as expected—exactly as he’d counted on for his future. In a sense, these things were his nest egg. For a guy like Nate, a frugal guy who planned and scrimped and made sure all eventualities were covered, a nest egg was nothing to joke about. It was a big deal. A major big deal. Something to be safeguarded and kept as long as possible in the bubble wrap and tape.

  For a long while he gazed at his erstwhile nest egg, his stomach knotted in exactly the same way it had cramped up when he’d been turked out of training camp in the NFL. He’d thought he was going to hurl the whole way down to the coach’s office to turn in his Scorpions playbook. That had been his lowest day for sure, and now he felt exactly the same way.

  Was he that worried about taking this next step? Or was he just sad to see these things go? Nate wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t just experiencing revenge of the 2 A.M. ham-and-cheese sandwich. Either way, he’d already decided what to do.

  After another lingering look, Nate nodded. He edged aside a stack of grocery store coupons, consulted the book he’d borrowed from the library, then grabbed the keys to his trusty Chevette. There was only one direction to go now, and that was forward.