Together for Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

  “I see. And how’s that working out for you?”

  He transferred his tight-jawed look to her. “It’s great.”

  Yikes. She blanched, belatedly realizing that he really meant it. Something about this project was genuinely getting to him. “Okay! Sorry! I keep forgetting you’ve never done this before.” After all, Casey had volunteered to build gingerbread houses for her sake. She couldn’t very well give him a hard time about it now, when he’d only been being nice. “Let me help you.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  She pointed at his building’s roof. “I beg to differ. Casa Jackson is sliding into the ocean.” She indicated the “sea” of crushed wild-blue-raspberry candies he’d used as a base. “See?”

  “I don’t need help,” Casey insisted. “I’m the one who does the helping, not the one being helped. I’m the troubleshooter, not the trouble.” Stubbornly, he propped up his gingerbread house’s sloping exterior wall with his forearm. “Check it out. That makes three stories of gingerbread. This building rocks.”

  “Yep.” Kristen gave him a commiserating look. “All you have to do now is stay here, frozen in that position, all night long, until the four inches of icing you used dries out.”

  He nodded. “No problem. I’m a human pretzel. I have infinite patience, too.” Not demonstrating it at that moment, he peered at his structure. “Whoa!” Catching another imminent icing avalanche, Casey stuck out his elbow, too. Now he was truly contorted. But he looked at her with perfect nonchalance. “There. See what I mean? I have a knack. It’s easy-peasy.”

  She stifled a grin. “You’re a quick study at this.”

  “That’s right. I can go all night, baby.”

  She laughed outright. “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Stay here,” Casey said, “and you will.”

  Tempted by that, Kristen hesitated. She’d only planned to accompany Casey to the B&B’s famous Christmas buffet, then return to town to deal with her own problems. Surely she’d already “distracted” Casey as much as she’d promised Heather she would for one day. Besides, he hadn’t even been interested in visiting Heather on set. Not yet, at least. So Kristen had been officially off the hook, dealing-with-The-Terminator-wise.

  But then Casey had touched her hand near The Christmas House’s twin decorated Noble fir trees, and he’d invited her to make gingerbread houses with him, and he’d appeared so charming and eager and hopeful that Kristen hadn’t been able to resist.

  She almost hadn’t been able to resist kissing him, either. Fortunately, Shane Maresca had come along at exactly the right moment to give her a convenient excuse to bail. Otherwise, Kristen knew, she would have been locking lips with Casey like there was no tomorrow, in full view of everyone at the B&B.

  She might be open-minded about sex (and she was). She might be willing to go for the gusto when it came to the sensual give-and-take involved (naturally enough). But she wasn’t usually this easy when it came to men (seriously). Despite Talia and Gareth’s cynical take on her love life, Kristen was not typically overinvested in go-nowhere relationships.

  At least she didn’t think she was . . .

  Was she?

  Nah, she assured herself as she watched Casey perform a few semiacrobatic maneuvers to one-handedly add candy-cane trim to his spicy gingerbread skyscraper. She simply hadn’t met anyone who made her want to take things more seriously yet. She couldn’t help that. She couldn’t help liking the adventure and excitement and breeziness of a fast-and-casual relationship.

  Most of all, Kristen realized, she couldn’t help liking Casey. In spite of the fact that any relationship between them would be (necessarily) casual. Not because of that.

  It didn’t seem to matter that they’d only just met. Kristen liked him. She liked the way he looked, the way he sounded . . . even the way he smelled, like soapy studliness and fresh air rolled into one. It was a heady mix, especially when combined with his promise to make sure she had a nice Christmas this year.

  That was already impossible, of course, but still . . .

  “So . . .” Cheering up, Casey gazed at her. “Having fun?”

  “Well, you did arrange some cookie decorating for me,” Kristen mused, “which was one of the things on my list of official Christmas favorites. So . . . yes.” A nod. “I am having fun.”

  He beamed. Then he leaned sideways as far as he could without endangering the structural integrity of his skyscraper.

  “Hear that, Maresca?” he asked. “She’s having fun.”

  On Kristen’s other side, Shane Maresca leaned past her.

  “Yeah, I heard. I’m really glad.” He offered Casey’s wobbly structure a pitying look. “Too bad about your gingerbread hut, though, dude. I think it’s going to have to be condemned.”

  For a nanosecond, a wounded expression flashed across Casey’s face. Without thinking, Kristen reached out to him.

  “I think it’s charming!” she insisted.

  But she was too late. The two men were already off.

  “Ha,” Casey shot back. “Your face should be condemned.”

  “Really?” Shane offered in a blasé tone. “If you think you’re man enough to do it, have at it, punk.”

  “Good idea.” Casey scowled threateningly, still holding up his gingerbread walls. “I’ll use your face as a wrecking ball.”

  Shane sneered. “You’d have to let go of your ‘creation’ to do that. It won’t stay up without your stupid elbows.”

  “You’d know about stupid, with your big, stupid face.”

  At that, Kristen shook her head. She ought to break up this potential showdown, she knew, but their over-the-top machismo was actually kind of entertaining. She had enough guy friends to know that sometimes men related to one another strangely.

  On the other hand, although most people had decamped to other Christmas activities by now, there were still a few children present at the gingerbread house table. They probably didn’t need to hear two grown men taking potshots at each other.

  “At least I know how to get my ‘big, stupid face’ under the mistletoe at the right moment,” Shane was boasting when she tuned back in. “Unlike you, Jackson, I know how to take advantage of an opportunity.”

  Galvanized by his words, Kristen momentarily lost the ability to play referee. Shane had to be talking about the harmless Christmas kiss they’d shared under the mistletoe—and he was using it to goad Casey. Judging by the thunderclouds darkening Casey’s expression, Shane’s jab had hit its mark, too.

  That was . . . surprising, she thought. By anyone’s standards, it had been a pretty harmless kiss. It had been on the cheek. It hadn’t involved tongue (which—on the cheek—would have been both gross and weird). And it had been a simple by-product of Christmas cheer. That made it officially harmless.

  Apparently, Casey and Shane didn’t see it that way.

  “Hey.” Kristen rose. “I’m right here,” she told Shane. “And I’m not some kind of prize to be won with Christmas kissing.”

  Shane relented. He spread his hands. “Kristen, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. Of course you’re not a prize.”

  He cast a chastising scowl in Casey’s direction. “Even if some people want to behave as though you are. I won’t do it.”

  Kristen sighed. “You just did! You did it again.”

  Casey scowled anew. “Do you want me to smack him for you?”

  At his pugnacious, bloodthirsty expression, Kristen almost laughed. Whatever had happened between these two, it must have been a doozy. Because while she fancied herself a newly minted archrival, Shane and Casey really were sworn enemies.

  Which was strange, given how curiously alike they were . . .

  “No, thank you, Casey,” she said politely.

  “It’s no trouble,” he insisted. “I’d be happy to do it.”

  “I said I can handle it,” Kristen told him, not bothering to elaborate. If Casey had really done as much reconnaissance on her as he see
med to have done, he already knew she was self-sufficient and capable. She didn’t need a man to fight for her.

  “I can smack him myself,” she added. Then she did.

  Her playful wallop to Shane’s shoulder was more gratifying than it ought to have been. Especially since Shane played along by yelping and exaggeratedly grabbing his shoulder. “Hey!”

  “There,” Kristen said with a self-satisfied grin, dusting off her hands. “Now we’re square.”

  “I would have done that,” Casey grumbled.

  “She did it better than you would have,” Shane goaded.

  But this time, Casey didn’t take the bait. Instead, his gaze swerved from Shane to a spot someplace over his shoulder. He squinted, his attention momentarily diverted to . . . something.

  Probably to something imaginary. Something that would get Shane to look, too. Kristen used to play this game with Heather when they were kids. They called it the “made you look!” game.

  “And my gingerbread house is bigger than yours,” Shane added. He nudged Kristen. “Did you see my chocolate terrace?”

  “Do you ask all the ladies that question, or just me?”

  Shane laughed. “Just you. You’re special.”

  Briefly, he shifted his gaze to Casey, who was still looking outside. In the yard, a light snow had begun to fall. Some of the B&B guests were assembling for an activity.

  But Casey missed his chance to catch Shane looking, so Shane handily returned his attention to her. “Hey, don’t leave me hanging here, gorgeous. Go on. Take a look.”

  Obligingly, Kristen leaned toward his gingerbread house. It was about the same size as Casey’s, but . . . “Wow. You’ve got yourself a regular gingerbread pied-à-terre there.”

  “It’s a model of my summer apartment building in the 16th arrondissement,” Shane told her proudly. “Near the Trocadéro.”

  “In Paris?” Impressed, Kristen looked more closely. Now that she knew its origins, she could spy the candy architectural details that gave Shane’s creation a Parisian feel. “I’ve always wanted to visit Paris. Do you go there every summer?”

  “I try,” Shane said. “I have a lot of friends in the area.”

  Kristen smiled at him. “Lucky you.”

  “Honestly? I feel luckier to be here right now, with you.” Shane fleetingly touched her hand, then moved his fingers away. “Who needs a bunch of French diplomats and designers to pal around with? Give me a nice, down-home Christmas and I’m happy.”

  “Me too.” Kristen nodded, reminded all over again that Shane had a talent for conversation that was very much like Casey’s. For whatever reason, though, Shane’s banter didn’t affect her the same way Casey’s did. Neither did his touch. Which was probably for the best. Her life was already complicated enough. “At this point, I’m kind of pinning my hopes on next year’s Christmas, though,” she confessed.

  “Really?” Shane looked concerned. “Why?”

  “Well . . .” Hesitant to confide in yet another newcomer about her Heather-related holiday travails, Kristen shrugged. “It’s complicated. Forget I said anything.”

  “Is it because of that lunkhead over there? Is he spoiling your Christmas already?” Shane joked, nodding toward Casey. “He’s a verifiable Grinch. Has been since he was just a kid.”

  That perked up Kristen. “You knew Casey when he was a kid?”

  That would give the two of them more history together than she’d originally thought. Lots of things could have happened between them to cause the rift they were experiencing.

  “Since I was twelve,” Casey broke in curtly from the other side of her. He aimed a censorious look at Shane—a look that held a confusing amount of what looked like . . . fondness? It vanished before she could be sure. “We were in the same foster home for a while, raising hell and stirring up trouble.”

  “Really? That makes you an odd choice to become a troubleshooter,” Kristen said, picturing the two of them as rowdy preteens. It was an entertaining—and surprisingly heart-tugging—image. She turned to the man on her right. “But I don’t even know what you do for a living yet, Shane. What—”

  “Another time.” With a fleeting smile, Shane stood, too. He squeezed her hand, then leaned in to brush his lips against her temple. It was a very European gesture. “I just saw someone I know. I want to go say hello before they get away.”

  “Oh, sure,” Kristen began. “Go ahead. I—”

  But Shane had already grabbed his coat, leaving her standing there with her arm in the air in a casual wave.

  Puzzled, Kristen watched as Shane hightailed it across the room—but not before tossing a triumphant look at his gingerbread pied-à-terre. Obviously, he’d thought he’d won.

  She looked at Casey. He was watching Shane, too.

  “Go ahead,” she told Casey after Shane had left, giving his shoulder a poke. “You know you want to follow him.”

  “Follow him? What for?”

  “Because otherwise he’ll get the jump on you. You won’t know what he’s up to. You switched hotels to keep up with him!”

  Casey smiled. “I told you, I don’t work that way.”

  “I mean it,” Kristen urged. It was ridiculous, but she wanted Casey to win . . . in whatever preposterous, macho contest the two of them were having. “I’ll even babysit your gingerbread skyscraper for you until the icing-glue dries.”

  “Not necessary. I dismantled it.”

  “It wasn’t that bad!”

  “It was pretty good for a first attempt. I never would have even tried it without you.” Seeming surprisingly . . . surprised (and a little pleased) by that, Casey caught her hand again. He pulled her down to sit next to him. “What I mean is, while you were talking to Maresca, I took apart my gingerbread house and gave away my supplies. I never would have had the patience to wait for all that icing to dry anyway.”

  “I thought you said you had patience to spare.”

  “I also have the ability to prioritize.” Casey eyed her. “Maybe I’m saving my patience for the things that deserve it.”

  Like waiting for a real kiss, Kristen imagined he was thinking, based on the suggestive glimmer in his eyes . . . and the memory of his shocked—but instantly determined—expression when she’d delivered him that silly “Mmmmwhaa!” of a kiss earlier.

  “You could still win,” she felt compelled to say. “Shane’s gingerbread house isn’t that cool. Now’s your chance! If you add another layer to yours while Shane is outside, you’ll beat him.”

  “I told you, it’s gone. I dismantled it,” Casey said. “And Shane’s free to go wherever he wants. I’m not his keeper.”

  “But you were looking out the window so intently before,” Kristen insisted, noticing at that moment that Shane had gone to the yard where the B&B guests were assembling. Undoubtedly, Casey saw where he’d gone as well. Maybe Casey hadn’t been playing the “made you look” game. Maybe he’d actually spied something intriguing outside. Because Shane sure had—he hadn’t wasted a nanosecond getting to it. “You wanted to go, too. You were interested in whatever Shane is interested in, so—”

  She fell silent, belatedly noticing that the silver foil-lined tray in front of Casey held nothing but gingerbread crumbs and icing smears, plus a thick layer of crushed wild-blue-raspberry candies. Oookay. He’d dismantled it. And then what?

  Confused, Kristen looked around. Her gaze eventually lit on a nearby pigtailed girl, about six years old, sitting across the table from them a few chairs down. She was gleefully mashing together some very familiar-looking, overfrosted chunks of gingerbread to assemble her own gingerbread house.

  Seeing where Kristen’s gaze was directed, Casey shrugged.

  “She didn’t want the crushed-candy ‘sea,’” he said. “She said it looked like Barney the Dinosaur pooped on my tray.”

  Kristen guffawed. Once again, she found herself not understanding Grinchy Casey Jackson in the least . . . but very much wanting to.

  It had seemed to mean a lot
to him that he construct his gingerbread skyscraper correctly (and impressively enough to beat Shane), yet he’d surrendered it to a little girl without a qualm. It had seemed vital to him that he go outside to join the other B&B guests in their new activity, yet he’d stayed there beside Kristen while Shane ostensibly gave him the slip.

  “But she was all over my gingerbread and icing,” Casey went on, nudging his chin toward the dwindling supplies left on the table. “At this point, pretty much everything else is gone.”

  “Except Shane’s gingerbread house,” Kristen pointed out with a meaningful glance at his archrival’s abandoned creation. “You could have given her Shane’s house and won for sure.”

  Casey seemed as though that idea honestly hadn’t occurred to him. Maybe Kristen was the only devious one here.

  “That wouldn’t be winning. It would be cheating.”

  “But . . .” Kristen gestured at the engraved gold trophy standing in a place of honor on the mantel nearby. Casey had been right—there really was a record for gingerbread-house building at the B&B. A photograph of the previously winning house stood near the prize. “All’s fair in love and war, right?”

  “If you’re doing it correctly, you don’t have to cheat.”

  She shook her head. “You are not a very good Terminator.”

  His eyes flickered. “Not today, I guess.”

  Then maybe he was on other days? Kristen wasn’t sure.

  “I’m finding it hard to picture you as a rebellious preteen troublemaker right now.” She scrutinized him again. Still no dice. “Are you sure you and Shane were hell-raisers together?”

  Casey gave her a shuttered look—a belligerent, semi-dangerous-looking look. Suddenly, Kristen had second thoughts.

  “Do you really want to talk about this?” Intently, he listened. Then, “They’re playing your favorite Christmas carol.”

  At his obvious attempt at misdirection, Kristen shook her head. “That’s not my—” She listened. “Oh, wait. It is!”

  His smile made her want to smile back. All night long.

  “You couldn’t possibly know my favorite Christmas song!”