All He Wants for Christmas

by Jill Shalvis

  And in the thinking, found her mad. How dare he go along with whatever the hell it was they’d been doing all this time, and then suddenly decide that wasn’t working for him?

  It wasn’t like it was working for her, either. Not even close. She spent a very long night stewing, and when she woke up, she stormed back to his house.

  Only to find it empty.

  It was her day off, but she drove to the station and sought out Zach, who was doing pull-ups on a bar in the hallway, shirtless. Once upon a time she’d harbored a secret crush on Zach. They were friends, and twice they’d been friends with benefits, but it had been a long time ago, and, while he was one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever met, he was a better friend than most.

  Plus he’d found true love with Brooke, and been taken off the market.

  But even before that, she’d fallen for Dustin. She hadn’t known back then the why or how of it, but Dustin had taken her off the market, too.

  It was time he damn well knew it. “Where’s Dustin?”

  “Gone.”

  The same queasy panic she’d experienced yesterday flooded her again. “What do you mean, gone? Where does a guy who’s been shot go?”

  Zach released the pole and hopped down. Letting out a long breath, he looked her in the eyes. “He’s at his mom’s house in San Luis Obispo.”

  Which was an hour north of Santa Rey. “Why?”

  “For Christmas.”

  There was something funny to his tone. “He’s coming back though,” she said. “Right?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  Oh, God. She wasn’t going to like this. “Tell me what, Zach?”

  “He gave his notice. He’s going full-time into the renovating business with his brother.”

  Cristina chewed on that for a moment while a very bad feeling sank in her gut. “Okay, I’m going to need his mom’s address.”

  Five minutes later she was on the highway heading toward San Luis Obispo. She didn’t want to think about why she was in such a hurry, or why the panic had grown and spread from her gut to every part of her body.

  Dustin had quit.

  He’d walked away.

  And she’d let him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CRISTINA GOT STUCK in holiday traffic, which only upped her blood pressure, but finally, she got there. Dustin’s mother lived in the middle of suburbia, complete with a white picket fence and a well-kept yard decorated for Christmas with lights strung in the trees and boughs of holly along the patio decking.

  It was Christmas Eve.

  It was Christmas Eve and she stood on the porch, hand raised to knock, about to completely impose on a family she’d never even met.

  Because she had to see Dustin. She had to tell him—

  Oh, God. She still didn’t have the exact words but she had the gist now. She was going to get it right this time.

  Jason opened the door to her knock. Perfect.

  In an exact imitation of his brother, he arched a brow and waited patiently.

  “Um,” she said brilliantly.

  “Still working on your greeting, huh? Need a moment?”

  “No.” Yes. She stepped into the living room, filled with comfy, worn furniture and a huge Christmas tree, around which were so many presents they came halfway out into the room. “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” Jason said, amused. “We don’t get to see each other too much during the year so we tend to go a little overboard at Christmas.”

  She had no understanding of this. Christmases in her world were a whole different ball game. “Oh. Uh, I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You’re not. Everyone’s out doing their last-minute shopping. Probably be gone for hours. I was just leaving, too. Dustin’s upstairs.”

  And with that, he walked out the front door. She stared at the tree, gulped and headed toward the stairs. “Dustin?”

  He didn’t answer, and she began to make her way up, her heart in her throat. Upstairs in the hallway, all the doors were shut. “Dustin?”

  She heard a soft oath, some rustling, and then one of the doors opened and Dustin stood there in a thick, dark blue robe, braced on a crutch, looking pale and tense.

  And at just the sight of him, her heart warmed. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  He was hurting like hell, she could tell, and without a word, she went to him, slipped her arms around him, and took him back to his bed.

  Lying back on the mattress, he gritted his teeth and pulled himself into a better position. “If you’re here to have your way with me, I’m going to disappoint you.”

  “You could never disappoint me.”

  “Yeah? Try me.”

  As usual, he told it like it was, holding nothing back. What was it like to wear your emotions on your sleeve, she wondered, not to have a deep, dark secret festering inside?

  Her deep, dark secret was killing her. “You win,” she told him. “Your evil plan worked.”

  “Huh?”

  It was so clear to her now, and, needing it to be clear to him, she stripped out of her clothes while he sputtered, and then she climbed into bed with him.

  Two warm, hard arms came around her. “Cristina.”

  She kissed his jaw, and then his chest, and he groaned, the sound bringing her such raw relief she felt the sting of tears at the base of her throat. “You’re not mad at me,” she let out before she could stop herself.

  “Frustrated. Irritated. Hurt.” He shook his head and sighed. “But not mad.”

  “I’m so sorry, Dustin,” she whispered, slipping her hands into his robe, warming at the discovery that he was naked beneath. She tugged the robe off his shoulders so they could both be naked together. “This day really sucked golf balls.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Don’t ever get shot again.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “Dustin, I—”

  But his hands were busy skimming over every inch of her, wrenching a heartfelt and appreciative deep groan from his chest. It tugged at her, from loins to the tips of her hair, and she kissed him. She meant it to be a sweet kiss, a prelude to the I-love-you speech she’d prepared, but his hands swept down her back and cupped her bottom, nudging her closer until he let out a hiss and went still.

  “Careful,” she gasped. “I don’t want to hurt you—”

  “You’re killing me.” But he wouldn’t let her pull away. Rolling to his back, he urged her over on top of him until she straddled his waist.

  She understood. It was her move. If she wanted him, wanted them, then this one was on her. No problem there. Her fingers curled around him. He was ready. She reached for the condom she’d brought.

  “You came prepared.”

  “In many ways—” She broke off to put it on him, leaving them both gasping by the time she was done. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be. When you—Oh, yeah,” he managed on a rough breath when she sank down on him. Their twin moans mingled in the night, and she dropped her forehead to his, swamped with emotion. “Dustin.”

  “Much as I want to be the macho guy here and show you a good time, I can’t move. My leg—”

  “I’ve got you.” And for once, she did. She cupped his face and breathed his air and repeated it softly. “I’ve got you, Dustin.” Heart and soul…

  When she began to move, it seemed as though her entire world moved along in sync. For the first time she felt completely transformed, transfixed, beyond herself. He gripped her hips in his hands and let her ride him, and just when she began to go over, he stroked her where they were joined, making her his…except she already was.

  His.

  She let herself fall, and one stroke later, he fell with her.

  It took her a long time to recover. Still breathless, she rolled off him, shocked at the depths of what they’d just shared. “How was that for a first move?”

  He reached for her hand, bringing it to his mouth. “Nice.”

  “I have more. First moves, that
is.”

  “You’re going to have to give me a minute.”

  “No,” she said, and laughed. Rolling over, she lay on his chest, looking through the dark to find his eyes glittering with interest. “I meant a different first move.” Her smile faded, replaced by nerves. “I’ve been an idiot, Dustin. A stubborn, closed-minded idiot.”

  His lips quirked in silent agreement, but he didn’t respond. His hands though, they moved, up and down her naked body, producing a set of anticipatory shivers. He had the most amazing touch.

  “And also—” She paused. “Okay, this is the hard part because I’ve never said this before—I was wrong.” God, those hands. And now his mouth got into the fray, too, nibbling at her shoulder, over her collarbone…“About me being able to be in a relationship. About us. About so many things—” His fingers were driving her crazy. “Are you listening?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  He sounded laid-back and sleepy-eyed and sexy as hell, and she breathed him in. “I don’t know why I’m so anxious. It’s just words. Three words.” She drew a breath. “I love you.”

  His hands went still and he stared at her. “What?”

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you, but as you know, I have a few issues.”

  His eyes were bright, warm and filled with love for her even as his lips quirked. “I love you and your issues.”

  “I know. And that’s my own miracle, believe me.” She shot him a shaky smile. “I want you, Dustin. EMT or whatever it is you want to do—I don’t care. I just can’t imagine you not being in my life.” She held her breath for his reaction, but he merely smiled, too, a slow beautiful smile that stopped her heart.

  “About time,” he murmured, and pulled her close.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed reading this story,

  then you will love HOT WINTER NIGHTS

  by Debbi Rawlins!

  Montana in December is cold. Still, struggling actress Lila Loveridge is committed to the independent movie they’re shooting—despite frigid temperatures, an empty wallet and a sneaking suspicion that her acting career has frozen in its tracks. Good thing there’s a Montana cowboy hot enough to keep her warm.

  Rancher Clint Landers is one tall, lean and sizzling specimen, and before long, Lila is shivering with pleasure. Their chemistry is impossible to resist. But while every night is deliciously wicked, every day is a reminder that they can’t have a future together. Because in order for Lila to follow her dream, she’ll have to leave her sexy cowboy behind…

  Don’t miss HOT WINTER NIGHTS

  by Debbi Rawlins,

  available now wherever

  Harlequin® Blaze® books and ebooks are sold.

  Special Excerpt From

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  Erick Fields is shocked when prim and proper Clover Greene agrees that sex should be part of their “fake boyfriend” deal. She needed a buffer against her judgmental family, but this Thanksgiving she’s getting a whole lot more!

  Read on for a sneak preview of

  HER NAUGHTY HOLIDAY

  Book 2 of Tiffany Reisz’s sexy holiday trilogy

  MEN AT WORK.

  IT WAS THE best of emails. It was the worst of emails. And Clover received them both within two minutes of each other.

  Clover’s emotional pendulum swung from left to right so fast upon checking her computer she had to put her head down onto her desk and breathe through the light-headedness. It was in this unusually undignified position—arms on desk, head between arms, hoodie over her head—that Clover’s assistant found her.

  “Um, Clo? You okay down there?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “Are you sure you’re fine?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “Are you sure you’re sure you’re sure?”

  “Nope.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Clover sat up and looked across her desk where her seventeen-year-old assistant, Ruthie, stood looking at her, waiting for an explanation.

  “Is your hair more purple than usual today?” Clover asked. “Or is it the light?”

  “More purple. I recolored it last night.”

  “Looks good.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clover put her head back down on her desk.

  “Clover?”

  “What?”

  “Clove?”

  “What?”

  “Clo?”

  “What is it, Ruthie?” Clover sat up again.

  “You were moaning. Did you know that?”

  “I was?”

  “You were. And not the good kind of moaning.”

  Clover narrowed her eyes at Ruthie.

  “What would you know about the good kind of moaning?” Clover asked.

  “Nothing. I know nothing about good moaning. That’s what we tell Pops, anyway. Right?”

  “Right. Pops. Your father. Oh, God. My father…”

  Once more her head hit her desk and this time it wasn’t coming back up until the world had ended, thus solving all of Clover’s problems.

  “Clo, what’s wrong? Tell me or I’m not leaving.”

  “You have to leave. You have a plane to catch.”

  “The plane is taking me to LA. Trust me, I’m in no hurry to get there.”

  Clover slowly rolled up and sat back in her office chair. The place was a mess, but a comfortable mess. She had ferns overflowing onto her worktable, orchids on her desk, potting soil in the wheelbarrow by the storm door and her lemon tree was getting so big it hung over her desk, making the whole office look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. She liked it here. She loved it here. Maybe she’d stay here. Forever.

  “My parents’ house finally sold and my sister’s house has ants and has to be fumigated. And my brother’s house is still undergoing renovations that they were undergoing last Thanksgiving.”

  “Good for your parents. Bad for your brother and sister.”

  “Also, PNW Garden Supply upped their offer to five million.”

  Ruthie’s blue eyes went as big as the lemons hanging off Clover’s tree.

  “Five million dollars? For this place?”

  “And the Portland location.”

  “This is all…wow. But I don’t get the connection between a house selling, ants, a buyout offer and…this.” Ruthie flopped over onto Clover’s desk before standing up again.

  “The buyout offer is great, fantastic, fabulous,” Clover said. “And I have until Monday to decide to take it or not.”

  “Tomorrow is Monday.”

  “Next Monday, the Monday after Thanksgiving. And with Mom and Dad out of their house and Kelly’s house being fumigated, and Hunter’s house being renovated…We know what that means.”

  “We do?”

  “It means lucky me gets to host Thanksgiving. By the way, they didn’t ask me if I would host Thanksgiving. No, they told me to expect them on Thanksgiving. So the week I should be deciding if I’m going to sell the company I’ve spent the last five years of my life building is the week I’ll be hosting my family, and…oh, my God, kill me, Ruthie. Please.”

  Head met desk once more and they decided to spend the rest of their lives together.

  “Do you need a lavender-infused wipe?” Ruthie asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  Ruthie put the lavender-scented moist towelette into her hand, and Clover pressed it against her face and inhaled deeply and repeatedly.

  “Is it working? Calmer yet?” Ruthie asked.

  “Do you have anything stronger? Like chloroform?”

  “I could light some incense, maybe?” Ruthie suggested. “Or we can go out and find a yew tree.”

  “Yew trees are not native to this continent. Also, they’re highly toxic, so exactly what are we supposed to do with a yew tree?” Clover asked, narrowing her eyes behind the lavender towel. “You aren’t poisoning anyone, are you?”

  “Trees are ancient sacred beings, and yew trees are sy
mbols of renewal. We should stand in front of one and ask Mother Nature for Her wisdom.”

  “I have this lemon tree right here.” Clover pointed at the tree hanging over her head. “Is that not good enough for the Mother?”

  “Fruit trees are fertility symbols. If we pray under that one you might get pregnant. Or worse, I might get pregnant.”

  “Okay, we’ll skip the lemon tree, then. Although if I got pregnant that would shut my family up.”

  “Your family wants you to get pregnant?”

  “They want me to be happy. It’s awful.”

  “Yeah, sounds absolutely horrible,” Ruthie said in her glorious teenage deadpan. “Screw them.”

  “No, it’s not that. Well, it is. My brother will come to Thanksgiving and he will bring his wife, Lisa, and their three kids. My sister will bring her handsome husband and their four kids. Mom and Dad will come to Thanksgiving and cry with joy because all their children and grandchildren are under the same roof. And I will be there. Alone. In the house. Thirty years old. No husband. No boyfriend. No kids. I haven’t even been on a date in years. And they will let me know over and over again, and in no uncertain terms, that I’m not getting any younger, and if I’m ever going to be happy that magical way they are happy with their beautiful spouses and their perfect children, I have to get a move on it. And I will sit there and I will listen to all of this. And…”

  “And?”

  “And I will smile and nod while I mentally stab them all with the carving knife.”

  “Why only mentally?”

  Clover looked up from the nest she’d made with her hoodie on the desk.

  “You’re a creepy kid, Ruthie. Just a little creepy.” She held up her fingers an inch apart.

  “Thank you.” Ruthie curtsied.

  “I knew you’d like that. So…that’s what’s wrong. Nothing and everything.”

  “Can’t you just tell your family to shut up and mind their own business? It’s your body, your womb.”

  “Why don’t you just tell your dad to shut up and mind his own business when he asks you about your homework or your grades or your boyfriend?”

  “I do.”

  “Does it work?”

  “All right, you got me there. Maybe next time your mom tells you to have kids you can say you’ve dedicated your womb to Mother Earth.”