Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  Professional Santas aren’t exactly a dime a dozen.

  “Okay, so it’s kind of funny,” I concede. “In retrospect.”

  “Retrospect,” he repeats, like the word is a secret personal joke, laughing but clearly trying to stop himself again.

  His laugh is as deep as his voice and I can feel it vibrating in my bones, sending a pleasant tickling through my entire body. He’s got some serious magic flowing through him. Like a man-sized spoonful of sugar.

  And I bet he’d help all the medicine go down…

  I wrinkle my nose at my pervy inner voice.

  Not okay, inner voice. I’m being friends with Clint. Not whatever this tickling feeling implies I’d like to be. And I need to stop it before it becomes a tingling and my wicked thoughts progress to wicked action. The fact that Hope and Cassie have both left the building—leaving me alone with their yummy brother-in-law with fresh memories of what he looks like without his shirt on playing non-stop on my mental screen—hasn’t escaped my notice.

  Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus Drooling in the Manger, but the man looks goooood without his shirt on. I didn’t know a man could have that many abs. And is it possible for male nipples to be perfect? I’ve never been turned on by nipples before, but his are copper, not too big, not too small, perfectly complementing that spread of chest hair that’s also just right.

  And the tattoo on that bulging bicep. It’s a streak of lightning splitting the world on top of an anchor, an artistic rendering reminiscent of the Marine Corps emblem combined with what’s undoubtedly a defining moment in his childhood.

  And his biceps aren’t even the best part of his arms.

  Just thinking about his forearms makes me hot between my thighs.

  I want to pet him. Desperately. I want it so badly my fingers are itching with the need to grab a fistful of tee shirt fabric, drag Mr. Chuckles With the Gorgeous Knuckles my way, and rip his clothes off right here in front of the alpacas and the reindeer and the damned goose that’s wandering around somewhere, having an attitude about only getting his picture taken in two separate outfits because he’s apparently very impressed with himself and his goose modeling skills.

  I need another look at Clint’s insanely powerful, ridiculously perfect body.

  And yes, fine, thanks to his teasing, I’m now dying to know more about his mini-gherkin. Though I’m personally betting it’s more of a Japanese eggplant.

  There’s no way this cocky, confident Marine isn’t packing heat.

  Long, thick, hard heat, the kind I’ve been far too long without…

  I haven’t slept with anyone since Derrick and I called it quits months ago.

  Derrick’s miserable expression the last time I saw him flashes through my head. He looked so different on his way out than he did on his way in. He was a smiler too, a laid-back, easy-going, Noelle-loving sweetheart until the day he suddenly decided he was in the mood for something new and Not Me and hit the road.

  “But it’s not funny too.” I grab two carrots from the bucket of alpaca-and-reindeer treats and hold the bigger one aloft in front of Clint. “Seriously. Don’t make me shut you down with this carrot, O’Dell.”

  He finally sobers, stills, then leans forward and takes a huge bite out of the larger carrot.

  “Ew,” I say, laughing as I shove at his chest. My fingers ask if we can please touch some more, but I ignore them. “Spit it out. These haven’t even been washed. They’re animal carrots, not people carrots.”

  “Dirt don’t hurt,” he says, still chewing as he reaches out, grabs the untouched carrot and plucks it from my fingers. “Right, Don Juan?” He holds the carrot out to the reindeer, who snuffle-grunts his appreciation for the gift before grasping his treat with surprisingly dexterous lips, which he uses to angle the root into his mouth skinny-end first.

  “Nice trick, Don.” I dig my fingers into his mane and give him a good scratch. “Reindeer are so cool.”

  “They are. Some of them migrate over three thousand miles a year.”

  “I know. My ex and I had a running joke about reindeer—he was riding one when I met him and—”

  Clint snorts and I bat at his arm. “Hush. I’m trying to be serious. He really was riding a reindeer. They were having a special Visit with Santa event in the parking lot outside this giant mall in Atlanta. I was taking the pictures for a freelance photography gig. I’d been dreading it all week—all the poor kids who were going to be terrorized by a creep in a red suit, all the parents insisting on forcing their traumatized sons and daughters onto Santa’s lap.”

  I pause, so deep in the memory I can smell the hint of snow in the air that first morning. “And then Derrick rode up on a giant reindeer, decked out in this incredible, hand-made Santa suit. He had a thick brown beard and the shiniest brown eyes and this infectious smile…” I shake my head. “The kids took one look at him and started cheering. Then he stopped by my camera, gave me a big hug, and asked if I was ready to make some forever memories for some kids and that was it…” My shoulders lift and drop again as I sigh. “I was a goner.”

  “A Santa with a brown beard?”

  “He embraced the young Santa thing. A lot of Santas are doing it these days. It’s a trend.”

  “A Santa trend. Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “Not everything. You haven’t heard how the reindeer kept walking over to the camera to chew on my braid while I was taking pictures and Derrick had to jump up to save me half a dozen times, until he decided to call me Reindeer Bait. The nickname stuck, and Derrick and I had so much fun with our reindeer jokes that we decided to take a spring trip to a reindeer farm in Alaska to watch the northern lights dance through the skylight of our igloo.”

  “An igloo with a skylight?”

  For a guy who was struggling to stop laughing a minute ago, he’s gone weirdly grumpy. You’d think an igloo would be right up his alley. Maybe this is his natural overprotectiveness?

  Or is it jealousy at hearing me talk about an ex?

  No, Noelle. Don’t go there.

  “It was a fancy igloo,” I admit. “And more like a bed and breakfast than a real farm, but it looked so cool and I was so excited to go.” I pass the second carrot over to Don Juan, who accepts it with another delicate ripple of his lips. “But three days before we were supposed to head to the airport, Derrick told me he felt he’d learned all he could about love from me, thanked me for two amazing years, and left to go find someone new.”

  A soft growl slips through his lips. “Seriously? He said all that?”

  “He’d grown bored, apparently. Though that was news to me. I thought everything was fine. He hadn’t been acting any differently. He was just smiling and happy and loving me one day and then—” I snap my fingers. “Over it the next.”

  “Fuck him.”

  Clint’s profanity surprises me. He hasn’t cussed very often in front of me, and it makes me warm and tingly all over to have him cussing mad on my behalf.

  “You were the woman he was sharing his life with,” he continues. “Not a car. Or a toy. What a sad sack. Derrick should be stripped of his Santa suit and privileges. Immediately.”

  My lips quirk, but the story still stings too much for me to smile about it. “Agreed, but I’m not mad at him. Not anymore. I’m just…confused.”

  “Confused how he could be such a dimwit douchebag?”

  “No, confused that I could be so in love with someone who didn’t love me the same way.” I cringe thinking about poor, naïve former me, bopping along making plans and dreaming dreams without a care in the world, having no idea that her entire life was about to explode. “It blindsided me, Clint. Derrick acted like he adored me and I took that at face value. And now…” I spread my fingers wide, tipping my empty palms to face the exposed beam ceiling. “I just don’t trust myself the way I used to. If I can’t tell the difference between love and someone passing time until he’s ready for a shiny new model, how can I ever trust my gut again?”

  His gaze
softens. “You just have to get back on that gut and keep riding.”

  “Because that makes sense,” I tease with a roll of my eyes, trying to lighten the mood and failing.

  He doesn’t flinch or smile. He keeps staring right into my soul with those green eyes. “You need your gut. My gut has saved my ass more times than I can count. Without it, you might as well be blind in one eye and both nostrils.”

  Can the man be more hilariously charming and utterly sensitive all at the same time? “I go nose-blind at the bakery all the time. I have to leave and come back to fully appreciate the sugar and vanilla perfume again.”

  “That’s probably a good thing,” he says with a grin. “If I had to smell that goodness all day long I’d develop a cupcake problem pretty quick.” He steps closer, brushing my hair from my forehead with gentle fingers that send a shiver straight to my core as he adds in a softer voice, “I think I have a Cupcake problem already. I made you some protein cookies. Got up early this morning. They’re in my jacket pocket.”

  My breath catches and my heart thumps harder against my ribs, but I refuse to let myself give into temptation. It wouldn’t be fair to him or myself.

  So instead of leaning into his warmth, pressing up on tiptoe, and kissing him until I can’t feel my face like I want to, I take a step back and shake my head. “I can’t do this, Clint. You’re so sweet and funny, and I really like you. And I’m sure your cookies are incredible, but we wouldn’t be a good fit.”

  “Why not? How do you know?”

  “Lots of reasons.” I don’t owe him an explanation, really, but I want to give him one. I want him to understand that this has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me making smart choices. I like him. He feels like a real friend, and I don’t hurt my friends’ feelings if I can help it.

  “First off, I’m a lot older than you,” I say, my fingers twining nervously in front of me.

  His lips curve. “Seven years is nothing and I don’t care about that anyway.”

  “Well, I do. We’re at different points in our lives. I’m looking for something serious eventually and you’re looking for—”

  “Also something serious. Eventually. But you have to see if you’re compatible with someone before you can know if things should get serious. You have to let a guy through the gate first, Miss Fortress Around My Heart.”

  I stand up straighter. “I don’t have a fortress around my heart.”

  His brows drift up his forehead.

  “It’s not a fortress,” I insist. “It’s more like…a closed door. And you have to have the password to get in.”

  “Rutabaga.”

  I squint at him. “What?”

  “That’s the password. I cracked it. First time out.”

  This man. He’s going to keep a very lucky woman on her toes one day. “No. It’s not rutabaga.”

  “Kerfuffle”

  “No.”

  “Antidisestablishmentarianism.”

  I laugh. “Impressive, but no cigar.”

  “Snail juice.”

  I laugh harder and make a WTF face.

  “That was my secret password as a kid.” He treats me to a broad smile that threatens to penetrate all of my well-reasoned arguments against getting into a relationship. “If someone wanted into the tree house while I was in charge of security, they had to ask for a cup of snail juice.”

  “You’re such a boy,” I say, a fondness in my voice that shouldn’t be there. I don’t want to encourage him, but he’s so ridiculously cute sometimes.

  And then so sexy at others.

  It’s a lethal combination and all the reason I need to keep my head on my shoulders. I don’t believe he’d hurt me like Derrick did, but there’s a difference between he won’t hurt me like that and we’re soul mates.

  “I am such a boy,” he confirms, tipping his head down, bringing his face closer to mine. “And you’re a very intriguing girl. And there’s something more than friends happening here. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”

  “Oh, I’ll admit it,” I whisper, not trusting my voice. “But I’m not going to do anything about it. I need someone who wants the same things from life that I want, the same kind of life that I want. Attraction comes further down the list for me.”

  He’s still for a moment. “You said you used to be a freelance photographer?”

  I blink. That wasn’t what I was expecting. “Um, yeah. I was. For a long time, actually.”

  “I didn’t know that about you. Does Hope know?”

  I blink again. “No. I don’t talk about it much. I haven’t had time to do any freelance work since I moved to Happy Cat. I’ve been too busy getting the bakery up and running.” I shrug, letting my gaze drift to the dusty floor by Don Juan’s pen. “And I’m giving that part of my life a rest. I worked so hard for so many years, traveling all over the world and getting some amazing shots, but I was never able to sell any of them to the top tier publications.”

  “So you gave up on your dream? And closed the door?”

  When he puts it like that, I sound like a total loser. I know I’m not—I uprooted my life to move to a small town and follow another dream, and a loser couldn’t do that. But it still hits a tender spot deep inside me. “No. I’m just taking a break. And trying something new.”

  “Taking a break from the job you love and a break from looking for love. Sounds like shutting out life to me,” he says, not backing down.

  But did I really expect him to? Clint O’Dell doesn’t back down, he charges ahead, biceps blazing.

  But he’s so much more than muscle, this man.

  “Are people surprised?” I ask him, studying his calm but challenging expression.

  “By what?”

  “When they realize how smart you are? That in between the goofy jokes and hoisting boulders over your head for fun that you’re always thinking?” I pause, holding his gaze. “And thinking some pretty smart stuff?”

  His broad shoulders lift, giving me a peek at that tattoo under his sleeve again. “I don’t worry about smart. I worry about true. I want to tell myself the truth and I want to know the truth about the people I care about.” His lips quirk up on one side. “And then I want to laugh about everything else.”

  I catch his smile. I can’t help it. He’s got a contagious grin too.

  Just like Derrick.

  But he’s not Derrick. He’s his own man, who, as far as I can tell, deserves great things from life and a great woman by his side to help him enjoy it.

  But if he thinks that woman might be me, I owe him the full truth of why he’s wrong.

  It’s what friends do for each other, isn’t it?

  “My dad is a Marine, and I respect him so much for all that he’s done for me and for this country.” My jaw tightens as the voices in my head wage war with each other.

  The Proud to Be A Marine’s Daughter voice insists that you don’t turn your back on your man because he feels called to serve. But the Stay True To Yourself Noelle voice says that I have every right to ask for what I need in a relationship, and for me that includes a man who’s close to me more often than he’s away. Part of me knows it’s selfish to want a man who doesn’t have a job that will always come before family, especially when that job is such an amazing calling.

  But doesn’t everyone want to know they’re first to someone?

  My dad loves me, but I’ll never be first to him. And my mom—well, obviously I wasn’t first to her either.

  And I won’t ever put my hypothetical future children in a position where they have to wonder where they fall in order.

  “But military life isn’t for me,” I finish softly.

  Clint nods. “Agreed. You have to be twenty-eight or under to enlist in the Corps.”

  And just like that, I’m smiling again. How does he do that? “See? I am too old.”

  “To old to become a Marine. Not to be with a Marine. I have no doubt you could keep up with me, Cupcake. Assuming you were properly motiva
ted.” He winks. “And I’m pretty good with motivation.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I say, refusing to think about all the ways I would like him to “motivate” me. “But I’m looking for a guy who’s ready to settle down in one place.” I hesitate, something about that not feeling quite right. “Or at least take me with him when he goes. I spent enough time with nannies while my dad was on one dangerous mission or another to know that’s not how life shakes out when your man is a Marine.”

  His expression sobers, but the twinkle in his eye assures me he isn’t finished with me yet. “You think too much.”

  “No, I feel too much. That’s why I have to start thinking. Trusting my intuition and my heart hasn’t worked out so well so far.”

  “Sure it has. You’ve learned what you don’t like.”

  I start to protest that I haven’t learned anything except that men leave suddenly and without warning, but he puts a finger to my lips.

  “So now you should learn what you do like. But that’s never going to happen if you shut people down before you’ve given them a chance.” He smolders down at me. “And think of all the time you’re wasting right now, arguing with me, when we could have sorted this out in two minutes in the alley the other day.”

  I frown, pulling away from his warm, rough, oh-so-lickable finger with the irresistible knuckles. “How’s that?”

  “I told you about my gherkin problem.”

  I try to stifle another smile. “Mm-hmm.”

  “I’ve also got a kissing problem.”

  “A kissing problem?”

  He nods solemnly, holding his big hands up at his sides. “I’m a terrible kisser.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is. So…if you’d kissed me the other day, you would have realized there was no chemistry. And we wouldn’t have wasted time talking about how we can’t make a dating relationship work. Which we already know is impossible, since I live in Happy Cat and you live in Happy Cat and there are virtually no obstacles standing in the way of us spending every night together if we wanted to. Doomed. Clearly doomed.”

  I want to both smile and roll my eyes at the same time. Sarcasm is weirdly hot on him. “You—”