Any Given Christmas

by Candis Terry

  “Thinking of making a bag of microwave popcorn.”

  “Maybe you could help me decorate?”

  “Apparently you’ve forgotten the time I broke the heirloom tree topper.”

  “Right.” She reached for a shiny glass candy cane. “Tell me again how it is that you can throw a perfect spiral into a pair of gloved hands yet you can’t manage to hang an ornament without breaking it?”

  “Leather. Glass.”

  “Ah.” She nodded and her red hair brushed across the back of her blue Stallions sweatshirt. “Got it.”

  He sighed. How did people around here manage not to go crazy in the winter months? How had he lasted eighteen years in a town that barely registered on a map?

  “I saw Emma Hart at the Gas and Grub earlier,” Kate mentioned. “Why don’t you call her up and ask her out?”

  Because he’d like to keep all his limbs intact?

  He could swing a bat in any direction and still hit on the fact that Emma Hart didn’t like him. Why? Who knew. He never had issues with other women. Emma was just odd. Cute. But odd.

  Besides, he dated women with long, long legs. Women with names like Desiree and Layla. Hell, one time he’d even dated a woman named Delight. And she had been. He didn’t date short women with attitudes who had old-fashioned names like Emma. She might as well have been called Gertrude or Harriet. He didn’t do groupies, married women, or women looking to put a ring on their finger. And he didn’t do old-fashioned. Period.

  At his no-response response, Kate tugged the sparkly green and red garland into place. “So you’re not going to call her?”

  He exhaled. “Your matchmaking efforts are getting old, Kate.”

  “That Emma is a real sweet girl, Son,” his father added. “You’d be smart to act before some other guy grabs her attention.”

  Two words that didn’t belong in the same sentence. Emma and sweet.

  “Suit yourself,” Kate said with a shrug. “Doesn’t matter, really. I saw Jesse Hamilton heading in her direction. I think he’s got a thing for her.”

  Jesse? So who was Oscar? Emma had mentioned the name the night he’d almost mowed her down on his way out to Kate’s. If she’d had someone waiting for her at home, why would Jesse Hamilton set himself up for rejection?

  “I’m pretty sure Jesse was about to ask her out, anyway,” Kate continued. “Probably just as well. I don’t think she likes you very much.”

  No. Shit.

  Everyone liked him. Everyone except her. What was wrong with that woman?

  Two hours and two episodes of Cupcake Wars later, Dean thought he would lose his mind. He needed to get up off the sofa and get out of the house. Maybe he’d hit up the Naughty Irish bar and see what his old friend Oliver and his wife Maggie were up to. Too bad he couldn’t play a game of pool. That would eat up a few hours. Or he could cruise by Wholly Bowlers and grab a beer. Unfortunately, watching bowling rather than actually engaging in the sport was as exciting as watching fungus grow. Or maybe . . . he’d just drop in at Emma Hart’s house and find out why she didn’t seem to like him very much.

  Yeah. No question about it. He was bored.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The bright red door to the small craftsman-style bungalow opened wide. Emma Hart stood there in a pair of Scooby Doo pajama bottoms and a pink tank top. No bra. Hair piled up on top of her head in a messy bun.

  Perfect. He’d caught her off guard. And hopefully alone.

  “Hi there.”

  Her flawlessly arched brows pulled together. “What . . . are you doing here?”

  Good question.

  He planted his palm on the door frame above her head. “I know it’s been a couple of days since I basically forced you off the road, but I thought I’d make sure you got that tree into your house okay.”

  An icy breeze pushed at his back and snuck past him. Emma folded her arms across her chest. Too bad. She might be crazy but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the view.

  “Oh.” Her pillowy lips compressed. “Yes. Thank you.” She turned and looked behind her. “I was just putting on the ornaments.”

  “Same thing is going on at my house. Kate came by. She didn’t think Dad would put a tree up this year.”

  Sympathy darkened her blue eyes. “I imagine this Christmas will be very difficult for all of you.”

  “Yeah.” Understatement of the millennium. The breeze hit his back again and though he wasn’t all that cold he gave an exaggerated shudder. “It’s pretty cold out here. Do you mind if I come in?”

  “Why would you want to?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She gave a humorless laugh. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t think we like each other very much.”

  “Oh that.”

  “Yes. That.”

  He shrugged. “I can call a truce if you will.”

  She shifted her weight to one smooth hip. “Is this how you disarm your opponents?”

  “Is what how?”

  “This . . .” Her hand flitted in the air. “This aw-shucks country boy charm shtick you do.”

  “Ah, so you’re not buying into it.”

  “Not for a minute.”

  “Too bad.” He flashed her the same smile he’d perfected for the Stetson cologne ad last year. “Because I’m usually pretty damned good at it.”

  She lowered her head and chuckled. Unfortunately he missed the firepower of her killer smile.

  What was it about her that made him want to grab her with both hands and capture that mouth with his own? To slick his tongue along the seam of those ultra-soft lips until she opened for him? He’d never been turned on by a woman’s mouth before. Unless it happened to be doing erotic things to his body. He’d always been a breast or leg man. Sometimes change was good. “So, can I come in or are you going to ruin my reputation and make me beg on your doorstep.”

  “As long as you don’t ruin mine.”

  He gave her his Boy Scout best. “Promise.”

  “Then I guess you can come in.” She unfolded her arms and stepped back.

  “ ’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said as he edged by her. Too bad he didn’t have a hat to take off, because the interesting parts of Emma Hart hidden beneath that thin little tank top were definitely giving him a salute.

  While Bing Crosby crooned on the stereo, Dean stepped inside and froze in place. Holy shit. Every inch of space was bursting at the joints with lights and Santas and snowmen and . . . was that a cat wearing an elf suit?

  “That’s Oscar,” Emma said from behind him as if she’d read his mind.

  The snow-white seriously overweight feline garbed in a green-and-red-striped sweater and pointy hat rose from his perch on the back of the sofa and arched his back.

  Great. A cat. He hated cats.

  The cat yowled and hissed.

  Apparently the feeling was mutual.

  “He’s not very sociable with men.” Emma walked past and picked up the furry elf to cuddle. “I think he gets jealous.”

  The cat pressed his front paws into the soft mounds of her breasts and kneaded. His subsequent purr spoke volumes, and Dean completely understood. “I’ve never been much of a cat person.”

  “Most men aren’t.”

  Dean eased his arms from his parka and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “We’re not going to launch into another men-like-me conversation again, are we?”

  She stroked the cat between the ears. “I’ll do my best to refrain.”

  Golden flames licked at the pine logs in the corner woodstove. Dean glanced around and tried to see past the garland, twinkling lights, and poinsettias to find the true character of the room. Antiques, white furniture, an iron bird cage filled with glittery holiday foliage.

  Definitely chickville.

  It smelled good, too. Like a girl. All soft and powdery fresh with a hint of sugar cookie. As Emma moved a shoebox full of ornaments off the sofa to make a spot for him to sit, he wondered if she tasted as good as she smelled.
>
  “Would you care for something to drink?” If the rigidness of her shoulders was any indication, he made her very tense. She set Oscar down on the floor. The cat flicked its tail and the bells dangling from his sweater jingled.

  “Scotch?”

  “Sorry. The strongest I have is a bottle of cooking wine. All I have is some hot chocolate, herbal tea, or water.” She brushed her hands down the very nice curves of her waist and hips. His eyes tracked every move.

  “I’m good.” He ignored the look she gave him that clearly said she doubted him and was wondering why he didn’t just go ahead and leave.

  And why didn’t he?

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he said. “Go ahead with what you were doing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. A long sigh lifted her breasts against that pink tank top and Dean was glad, for the moment, he was sitting down. He watched as she removed a shiny red choo-choo train from the shoebox and threaded a wire hanger through the ribbon on top. She hung it toward the middle of the tree then reached for a shiny white ballerina slipper.

  “Those ornaments look like family treasures,” he said, while the growling cat at his feet stared up at him as if he were a giant mouse.

  “They are. Most of them are from when I was a little girl. My Memaw—”

  “Your who?”

  “My grandmother. She bought a new ornament for me each year.”

  “My mom did the same for all of us.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. Do you put them on your tree?”

  Hell, he never bothered to get a tree because he was rarely home during the holidays. In December the race for the Super Bowl heated up and the Stallions rarely had a home game. “No. They’re still at my parent’s house, stuck in a box somewhere.”

  “Hmmm.” She turned her attention back to the tree and hooked the slipper onto a lower branch. Then she reached into the box again.

  Hmmm? What was that supposed to mean?

  “This is my favorite.” She lifted a glass star and laid it across her palm as if it were precious and fragile. “Memaw had a glassblower friend who made amazing globes and vases. She made this topper the year I was born. It’s been on my tree ever since.”

  “Can I see it?”

  She eased her hand toward him. He studied the delicate piece, then looked up at her. “You’ve mentioned your grandmother, but not your mother. Has she passed?”

  She shook her head and scooted a footstool closer to the tree. “I don’t know. She took off right after I was born. I’ve never actually met her. I don’t know if she’s dead or alive. And I really don’t care either way.”

  The tight quality to her voice said she cared a lot. Dean thought it was too bad that her mother hadn’t stuck around. She’d probably be pretty proud of her daughter.

  Before Emma could climb up onto the stool, Dean stood. “Let me help you with that.” His fingers brushed against the soft skin of her hand as he took the ornament and carefully slipped it onto the very top of the tree. That small contact did something odd to his stomach. Or maybe he’d just indulged in too many slices of his father’s spiced pumpkin bread.

  She stood back, tilted her head, and gave a nod. “Perfect.”

  “Yeah, I get that from all the girls.”

  Her eyes met his, wide with disbelief.

  “Kidding.” God, that was lame. What was it about this girl that reduced him to say such dopey things?

  Her jingle-bell cat jumped up onto the sofa, stretched, and scratched at Dean’s Levi’s.

  “Right,” she said with a laugh. “Even Oscar knows you’re full of it.”

  “As long as he knows to keep his distance, we’ll be fine.”

  The cat arched his back and hissed again. Dean had an urge to sweep the nasty animal off the sofa, but even one touch would send him into an allergic fit of sneezing and watery eyes.

  Dean draped a dangly ornament made of shiny buttons on a high branch. “You know, before I came over here, Kate was trying to get me to help her decorate our tree. You’re not going to rat me out, are you?”

  Emma ducked beneath his arm to get to the other side of the tree. “If I did, would it be painful?”

  “Only if I don’t mind having my skin fried in donut oil.”

  She chuckled. “I don’t suppose that would help get you back on the field any faster.”

  “No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”

  “I’m sure everyone associated with your team is worried about you.”

  Dean stuck a fuzzy red cardinal between branches. “Not sure they’re worried about me. Now, the shoulder . . .”

  Emma stopped in the midst of hanging a beaded gold heart. “What would make you say that?”

  He shrugged his good shoulder. “Because it’s true.”

  “I’m sure you’re imagining things.”

  “Nope. Every call starts with ‘How’s the shoulder? How’s the arm? What’s the doc say about that shoulder?’ Sometimes it feels like they’ve forgotten there’s a person attached.” And why was he telling her all this? Before he got in too deep, maybe it was time he headed home.

  “I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” she said.

  Was he?

  “They wouldn’t pay a gazillion dollars just for your arm.” She tossed the empty shoebox on the table, picked up a new one and lifted the lid. “There’s more to quarterbacking than throwing a ball.”

  “Are you telling me you’re into football?”

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  Not the women he dated.

  “So you’re not one of those girls who thinks the game is sweaty and violent?”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “But I still like to watch.”

  Dean watched her bend over to reach inside the new shoebox and smiled. “If that offer for hot chocolate is still open, I wouldn’t mind a cup.”

  She straightened and one of her brows lifted. “Um. Sure. Mini marshmallows?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She placed a satin angel on the tree, then went to the kitchen. Dean watched in appreciation as the Scooby Doos gracing the sweet curve of her backside lifted and settled with each step she took.

  An hour later, with the tree done and the cat curled up on his parka, shedding and drooling onto the sleeve, Dean couldn’t find another excuse to stay. Oddly enough, he found he wanted to do just that. They’d found some common ground. They’d discussed his family, her newfound friendship with Kate, and how she helped out his sister at her charity prom gown shop. They talked about her class—Brenden Jones in particular, when Dean asked how she managed to teach the class while giving a child with unique needs some special attention. She became completely animated when she’d told him of the classes she was currently taking to obtain her master’s degree in special education. And while she talked, Dean found himself mesmerized by the energy she put into her thoughts and dreams. She wanted to help kids. How cool was that?

  Time had whizzed by and he hadn’t talked about himself, his career, or his shoulder. And while he’d enjoyed the way Emma’s tiny tank top moved and cupped her breasts, he hadn’t felt the need to talk his way into those Scooby Doo pajama bottoms. He’d simply enjoyed the conversation. Kind of a nice change.

  “Well, guess I’d best get going.” He slid his drooled-on parka sleeve out from under the evil elf paws and received a hiss for his troubles.

  Emma stood back and looked at him as though he held the answer to the million-dollar question. “There’s something I need before you go,” she said.

  He looked at that soft mouth and those blue-on-blue eyes, and his heart pumped up into overdrive. “I’m an open book. Fire away.”

  “While this little visit has been nice and everything, I thought it was pretty apparent that we didn’t like each other much and—”

  “And why is that?” Not that he really wanted to know.

  A little crinkle formed between her brows. “Straight up or sugar-coated?”

  He smiled. “How abo
ut with a sprinkle of sugar?”

  “No offense, but I try not to associate with people I know I could never trust.”

  “Ah, so you have trust issues.”

  “No, I have jerk issues.”

  “Ouch. I think you forgot the sugar on that one.” So Emma had been burned, and now all the men who followed would have to pay the price. Too bad. “So you’re judging me on what? My behavior at my sister’s wedding?”

  She laughed. “Hardly. How about ten plus years of scandalous tabloid headlines and breaking news reports of sensational partying.”

  “Oh. That.” Damn, he couldn’t control what the press put out there any more than he could control the universe. He could tell this woman that half of what she saw was absolute bullshit. But then he’d have to own up to the other half. During his first year in the NFL he’d been schooled by some of the most well-known players in the league. All of them had preached to him the importance of making a name both on the field and off. So he’d created his persona. Unfortunately now it appeared Bad Boy Dean’s lifestyle was about to bite him in the ass.

  “So back to my question.” She folded her arms, erecting a don’t look and don’t even think about touching barricade. “Exactly why did you come over here tonight?”

  His boots thunked against the wood floor as he walked to the front door, opened it wide, and stepped onto the small front porch. “Just curious.”

  The roads were icy as Dean made his way home and snow flurries fell onto the windshield of his mother’s beast of a car. Beneath him the tires bumped along as though they were water balloons. The traction was deplorable and he couldn’t understand why his father had allowed his mother to drive such a death wagon.

  But that wasn’t what was really on his mind.

  As many years as he’d played football he’d been judged—by his pass completions, interceptions, strength of schedule, the command of his players on the field. He’d been compared to Joe Montana, Ken Stabler, and other noteworthy quarterbacks. He didn’t mind any of that. But when it came down to a woman judging him based on inaccurate information? That bothered him. Then again, he had no one to blame but himself.