Together for Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

  “Hey, there.” Filled with simultaneous amusement and affection, Kristen stopped on the other side of the counter. She eyed Casey’s expression of almost illicit pleasure. She grinned. “It looks as though you found a way to tolerate my pie.”

  At her poker-faced observation, Casey snapped open his eyes. Caught in the midst of actively cradling his pie-in-a-jar in one hand while fisting a whipped-cream-festooned forkful in the other, he gave her a guilty grin. “I was starving.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “And I, um, couldn’t find the ketchup in your fridge.”

  Kristen marched to her refrigerator. She opened the door. She pointed to the ketchup bottle. “It’s right here.” A meaningful pause. “Next to all the remaining pies in jars. You know—the pies that are identical to the one you’re eating.”

  “Oh. I must have missed it,” he bluffed. Outrageously.

  “Of course. You missed it.” At the realization that Casey obviously loved her baked goods, even if he didn’t want to say so, Kristen couldn’t hold back a wider smile. That was almost as good as him loving her. At least it was a fine first step. “Yeah, I’m always not seeing things that are right in front of my face,” she told him wryly. “Sometimes, it’s a real problem.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Confusingly, Casey’s knowing tone suddenly matched hers. So did his smile, as he lowered his gaze to her chest. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice that you’re hugging my shirt.”

  “Hugging your . . . huh?” Caught now herself, Kristen froze. Dumbly, she looked down at her arms—which were, just then, blatantly cuddling Casey’s shirt like a teddy bear. “Oh!” Snared in the act of openly embracing Casey’s shirt, as though it were a part of him instead of merely a memento from their weekend together, she searched for an excuse. “This? I’m just tidying up.”

  “That’s funny.” With utter confidence, Casey forked up more pie. Overtly, he savored it. “Because there are clothes strewn from one end of this place to the other”—at that, he gave her a wicked eyebrow waggle and a thigh-warmingly suggestive look—“yet you chose to wander around with my shirt in your arms.”

  Kristen lifted her chin. “It was within reach, that’s all.”

  Casey’s pointed gaze swerved to the small pile of gloves, scarves, and knit caps that had wound up on the peninsula after their ongoing adventures. Those misplaced items definitely needed tidying. They were, literally, well within arm’s reach. Both of them knew it, too. Kristen felt her cheeks warming up.

  “I’ll forget the pie if you’ll forget the shirt hugging,” she offered hastily, giving him a canny look. “Deal?”

  Casey considered it. “Maybe.”

  Argh. “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe I’ll want to sweeten the deal before agreeing.”

  Aha. “I’ll throw in more pie. With my eyes closed.”

  At her flippant offer to support his secret pie habit—while simultaneously pretending not to know about it—Casey shook his head. “I don’t want you doing anything with your eyes closed. Not when I love the way you look at me so much.”

  Deliberately, Kristen gave him a goofy, goggle-eyed look.

  He laughed. “Although, speaking of your baked goods . . .”

  Kristen waited, expecting him to request ketchup, just to make a point. Instead, Casey hesitated. He drew in a breath. He darted a glance at her, then rubbed the back of his neck.

  Spying that gesture, Kristen froze. That neck rub was Casey’s “tell.” It was what he did when dealing with the cast and crew members from Heather’s Live! from the Heartland holiday TV special, for instance. She’d seen him do it many times. But since that movement was so slight and seemed so natural, Kristen doubted most people noticed it. What in the world was he up to?

  Probably he was conjuring up a custom pie-in-a-jar request, she decided as Casey’s easygoing demeanor returned. That’s what most people wanted from her—that or recipes. Most likely, Casey had been considering which items he could request in a personalized pie-in-a-jar that would best improve the deal she’d proposed. It would be just like him to push for bonus sprinkles.

  Instead, to her surprise, he asked, “Have you ever thought of marketing your pies-in-a-jar? Maybe on a national scale?”

  It was exactly what Shane Maresca had pressured her to do, Kristen realized. The idea had more appeal coming from Casey—from someone she trusted. But she still didn’t want to do it.

  She didn’t want to risk grabbing for that brass ring—being the “second big success story” to come out of her hometown “burg”—because that was Heather’s territory. Kristen couldn’t possibly compete. She liked her life the way it was. Mostly.

  Although having Repo Man/bankers stalking her over her mistakenly “in default” business mortgage wasn’t ideal . . .

  “I’ve thought about it,” Kristen admitted. “I could use the money, if I could ever find any investors. And I do like the idea of more people being able to try my baked goods. I have that much ego. But . . .” Then she realized what Casey must really be doing: distracting her from her offer that they mutually agree to ignore their shirt-hugging, pie-loving, hooray-I’m-in-love! tics. “But what about my offer?” she pressed him, unwilling to give up on the idea so easily. She was stubborn that way. “No shirt-hugging noticing? No pie-loving mentioning? Is it a deal?”

  “I don’t know.” Idly, Casey swirled his fork through his pie-in-a-jar’s mocha-whipped-cream topping, giving up on his baked-goods-marketing idea much more readily than Shane Maresca had. He glanced up at her. “I still might want more.”

  “More? Well, I do have more pie in the fridge.”

  “And I have more shirts available for nonstop hugging.” His eyes gleamed mischievously at her. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Okay.” Kristen tried not to feel like a freak for holding on to his laundry. She couldn’t relent now. “I’m listening.”

  “Well, what I want isn’t a big deal,” Casey said casually. “The thing is, we’ve spent a few really great days together—”

  “Yes.” Kristen nodded. Her thighs practically tingled in agreement as she considered everything that had gone on between them during the past few days—and nights. “We sure have.”

  “—and I’ve been thinking that I might want to duck out of The Christmas House earlier than I’d originally planned,” Casey went on. “Because despite my interest in keeping an eye on Shane, and despite the B&B’s friendly management and staff, I’m not really into all that holiday atmosphere.”

  At that preposterous understatement, Kristen smiled.

  “So, if your offer to stay here for a while still stands,” Casey said in a musing tone, “I’d like to accept.”

  Kristen blinked. She’d tossed out that invitation on a whim. But now . . . “You want to escape Christmas by staying here?”

  Casey nodded. As though proving it, he looked around Kristen’s apartment. Prompted by his example, she did, too—only to realize immediately that no one could ever realistically hope to escape Christmas in her apartment. Because pretty much, it appeared as though a supersize Christmas cracker had exploded inside. There were holiday lights and festive tchotchkes in every corner, plus a lighted Christmas tree in the other room. From its holly-and-poinsettia welcome mat to its wreath made of starlight mints glued to a Styrofoam circle—a handmade gift from the fifth graders at Kismet Elementary School—Kristen’s apartment was decked out like Christmas Central. While it was possible that her place was a smidge less Christmassy than The Christmas House B&B was, it was certainly was no Grinchy haven.

  But there was no payout in calling his bluff. Casey wanted to stay. And that made Kristen want to whoop. And maybe do a little happy dance. And maybe hug him, too. But she didn’t.

  Nonchalantly, she said, “Sure. I’ll need someone to help me eat all those pies-in-a-jar. They’re demo pies. Samples.”

  “They’re delicious. Not that I’m admitting I ate any.”

  His grin captivated her, just the w
ay it always did.

  “I’ve never laid eyes on any of your shirts, either. Just FYI,” Kristen told him, still cuddling the one she held. “As far as I’m concerned, you might as well be permanently shirtless.”

  It was an idea that had merit, she decided as she swept her gaze longingly over Casey’s ultrabuff bod. He really was amazing to look at. Especially now, all shirtless and muscular and wearing yesterday’s pants. They dipped dangerously low on his hip bones, encouraging her to look at Casey’s bare rippled abs, consider his taut thighs, and remember all of the very impressive rest of him that was currently hidden from view.

  If Kristen had her way, none of him would stay hidden for long. She liked the idea of meandering over to Casey’s bar stool, dolloping some whipped cream on his chest, then licking it off. Slowly. She liked the idea of unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants, and making sure Casey found something else to sound blissed-out about besides breakfast-time Black Forest pie-in-a-jar. Absolutely. She liked the idea of making Casey beg for her to love him, because he’d already done that at least once during their time together—in a husky, urgent tone that had thrilled her then and still thrilled her now—and Kristen suddenly wanted more. She wanted all of him. She wanted to give him all of her.

  Including her heart. She’d kept it to herself long enough.

  “Well, my part’s done.” Casey pushed away his mason jar, then rubbed his flat belly. “I guess we have a deal.”

  “I guess we do.” Kristen tossed aside his shirt. Arms empty—but not for long—she sashayed over to him. She draped her arms around his neck, then gave him a provocative look. “We should probably do something to commemorate the occasion.”

  “Mmm.” Looking interested, Casey swiveled on his bar stool. Appearing dubiously guileless, he reached for her. “That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t want our agreement to go uncelebrated.”

  “Me either,” Kristen said, meeting his sham sincerity with an artless look of her own. “It’s an important alliance.”

  “A monumental coming together.”

  “A party in the making.”

  “A party?” Casey raised his eyebrows in that sexy, playful way she loved so well. “Let’s get the party started, then.”

  His new position placed her squarely in the V of his legs, and Casey took advantage of Kristen’s nearness by bringing his hands to her waist. He slid his palms higher, caressing her through her short silky robe, making her feel lightheaded and needy and swamped with desire, all over again. With Casey, being touched was like a drug. She couldn’t get enough of it.

  His hands quit moving with his thumbs mere inches from her breasts. Breathlessly, Kristen resisted an urge to push herself all the way into his hands—to take what he was almost giving and show him how well she knew how to party. But then he kissed her, and his tongue slid against hers in an especially knee-weakening way, and a passionate moan rumbled from his chest to hers, communicating all the same yearning they’d shared for days, and it was all Kristen could do to hold on to him and kiss him back and remember to stay upright at the same time.

  When their kiss finally ended, she gazed at him in wonder.

  “If you could bottle your expertise at kissing me,” Kristen said, “you’d be a millionaire. You could retire early from your troubleshooting job—”

  “And take up kissing you full-time.” Casey looked as though he approved of the idea. He also seemed just as moved by their kiss as she’d been. His jaw was stony, his eyes were compelling, and his mouth . . . Well, his mouth was fabulous. “Let’s do it.”

  “Let’s kiss some more?” Giddily, Kristen agreed. Among all the things she loved about Casey, his willingness to not be deadly serious about sex (at least not all the time) was at the top of the list. She lowered her hands to his fly. “Yes. Let’s.”

  But just as she was getting to the good part—just as Casey was gazing at her through those dark eyes of his with caring and kindness and a gratifying amount of lust, just as Kristen was feeling herself becoming more and more liquid and languid and heated beneath his continuing touch—an irritating noise sounded.

  Kristen started. She had the impression, somehow, that the sound had been going on a while. Casey didn’t seem to care, but—

  “I think that’s your cell phone,” she said, stroking him.

  “It’s probably yours,” Casey insisted huskily, “with another ‘something-in-a-jar’ suggestion from your favorite ‘consultant.’” He nuzzled her neck. “I silenced my phone.”

  “This time of year, my phone plays ‘Here Comes Santa Claus,’” Kristen disagreed, panting. “That’s definitely yours.”

  Casey frowned at her. “I keep my phone segregated with call lists for whatever job I’m on, and I don’t let calls come through when I’m not on duty. I already made some calls and checked in with my agency in L.A. while you were in the shower earlier. The only way my phone could be ringing now is if—”

  The unwanted reality hit them both at the same time.

  “—if something’s gone wrong with Heather’s TV special,” they said in unison.

  At their synchronized hypotheses, Kristen and Casey both swiveled their gazes toward the source of that sound. As Kristen had predicted, Casey’s cell phone skittered atop the peninsula near the pile of discarded hats and mufflers, chattering for attention with a decidedly non-Christmassy ringtone.

  “Sorry.” Casey gave her a beleaguered look. “That means there’s an emergency on set. I’ve got to take this.”

  Kristen tried to be understanding. Truly, she did. But as much as her rational mind tried to communicate to her hot-and-bothered body that (for now) sexy-fun-time with Casey was on hold, the message did not get through. The pulsing sensation between her thighs only continued. So did the yearning in her hips, the breathlessness in her chest, and the achiness in her breasts. Her nipples felt hard enough to cut glass; her fingers couldn’t resist trailing along Casey’s thigh as he spoke on his phone to whomever was on the other end of the line.

  Mmm. His thigh was tight and warm and muscular, and it led conveniently to a very intriguing Y-junction in his pants. Just when Kristen was approaching nirvana, Casey covered her hand with his. His quelling gesture effectively shut down her explorations. Kristen pouted up at him. Buzzkill, she mouthed.

  “All right. Yes. I understand,” he said into his phone.

  Commiseratingly, Casey caught her eye. He squeezed her hand, too. But most of his attention was directed toward the apparent crisis he was being rudely interrupted to deal with.

  Kristen didn’t like it. She’d been hoping the “emergency” call was anything but—just an overeager gaffer who needed Casey to give him investment advice or a Galaxy Diner regular who wanted to invite Casey to yet another holiday party.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said authoritatively.

  Impatiently, Kristen waited, hoping there was still a chance that as soon as I can would translate to after I make love to Kristen on a bar stool and drive her wild with desire. But to her dismay, when Casey disconnected the call and set down his cell phone, he did not pull her nearer and resume what they’d already started. Instead, he shot her an apologetic look.

  “I’m sorry,” Casey said again, already looking around for the rest of his clothes. After days of intermittent nudity, they wouldn’t be easy to find. “I have to be on set right away.”

  “What’s the matter?” Kristen asked. “Did a fight break out between the grips and the set decorators? Did someone find drip coffee in their espresso cup? What’s the catastrophe this time?”

  Not answering immediately, Casey grabbed his wrinkled shirt. He dragged it on. Hastily, he tucked it in his pants with the air of someone who had no time to waste on niceties like ironing. He strode around her apartment with an efficiency that could only have come from having a photographic memory of where he’d dropped his socks, tie, vest, and suit coat. With all their former intimacy clearly forgotten, Casey stopped in front of Kristen as he pulled on
his overcoat and adjusted his collar.

  “Heather is back on set,” he said, “and she’s given the crew twenty-four hours to finish filming the TV special before she gets on a plane and buggers off to God only knows where.”

  Kristen gawked. “Heather is leaving Kismet?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “But she’s been in quarantine!”

  “Evidently, it’s ended.” Casey pocketed his cell phone. He put on his cherished, ultraexpensive watch, then double-checked his wallet. “But her quarantine did put the production even more behind than it was before. Hence her rush, I’d imagine.”

  “Heather actually gave the crew an ultimatum?”

  That didn’t sound right to Kristen. Ordinarily, her sister was not the world’s most ambitious pop-star songstress. Heather was content to sail along with other people directing her career. For her to take charge now didn’t quite make sense.

  But Kristen was too annoyed, just then, to worry about it beyond her initial sense of confusion. Because Casey appeared to be getting ready to bolt from her apartment (aka their impromptu love nest) without so much as a backward glance. And that kind of behavior, given all they’d shared, kind of hurt a girl’s feelings. Especially a girl who’d been overlooked and/or thrown over, time and time again, for her glamourpuss sister.

  Kristen frowned at Casey. “Can’t someone else handle it?”

  “It’s my job. This is what I’m here for.”

  “I know, but . . .” A brilliant, practical, sexy-time-saving idea hit her. Doggedly, Kristen pursued Casey as he searched for his keys amid her apartment’s jolly Christmas décor. “What about Shane? He could take care of this, couldn’t he?”

  Casey gave a dark chuckle. “He’d like that. But no.”

  “Why not? He’s practically your doppelganger!”

  “He’s more like my evil twin.” Casey jangled his car keys. “And the fact that you’re suggesting he could double for me means you haven’t spent nearly enough time on set.”

  “Oh. So now I’m an insufficiently supportive sister?”

  “Huh?” Appearing genuinely baffled by her aggrieved tone, Casey stopped. “What are you talking about?”