And all because Santa Claus has just stepped into the kitchen with a big bag slung over his shoulder. And now, something tells me I know exactly who’s in that suit.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Bryce calls out in a booming voice as the kids swarm him. “Merry Christmas! What do we have here? A bunch of good boys and girls who deserve presents, I think!”
Meanwhile, parents are recording him on their phones and encouraging the one or two shy kids to say hello. They’d rather hide behind a chair or their mom’s legs, unsure whether they can trust this red-suited guy.
Hayley would be so pleased. I’ve finally found my sexy Santa.
He takes a seat between two of the trees and calls the kids over one by one while the music goes on, and there’s more eating and drinking and dancing.
“This is so great,” one of the moms gushes as she fixes herself a plate of goodies. “The kids look forward to it every year.”
“I think the guys who work here look forward to it just as much as the kids do,” I venture since every one of them is wearing an almost-identical smile.
There’s something magical about it, watching adults have just as much fun as kids, seeing their eyes shine.
“They do. We’re so lucky to have them in the community.” She looks me up and down, and I do the same to her in a vague sort of way. She’s around my age, maybe a little older. “Do you live around here? I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I used to live in the area.” I hold a hand to the side of my mouth, whispering, “Santa invited me.”
“Oh, he did?” She chuckles, looking over to where Bryce is currently entertaining a pair of twin girls, one on either knee. Their mom is begging them to smile for a picture, but neither of them looks particularly thrilled.
“Do you know him?”
“Everybody knows Bryce. He’s a familiar face around the neighborhood. Plays ball with the kids, mentors them, always smiling and positive.” She then sighs softly, drawing her bottom lip under her teeth. “And he’s not bad to look at, is he?”
“When he’s not wearing a red suit with a pillow underneath? No, he’s not bad to look at.”
Indeed, now that I’m paying attention, it’s clear several of the moms in the room wouldn’t mind sitting on Santa’s lap themselves. A pair of them murmur to each other, glancing his way, while a few just straight-up ogle him and laugh too loud when he makes a joke.
And why not? He’s a dream. He’s perfect. Everything I’ve heard about him makes me like him even more.
Except for the part where he takes too many risks. Maybe that is something worth talking about—and not only because I’m still researching for my book.
Why would he do that? Why does he feel like he always has to push himself so hard?
“I think that’s everybody!” Bryce booms out in a voice much deeper than his own. “So many good boys and girls.”
He then finds me, standing on the other side of the room. “I wonder if any of the grown-ups around here have Christmas wishes they want to share with Santa.”
I point to myself, and he nods. The kids, meanwhile, are too busy playing with their new toys—dolls, trucks, stuffed animals—to care very much about what Santa does now. Who can blame them? They have what they came for, and now, they get to enjoy their gifts.
I wander over to him, shrugging. “I don’t know, Santa. I think I might be a little too old for you to bring me any presents.”
“Nonsense! All good girls and boys deserve presents at Christmastime.” He pats his leg. “Come on. Tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”
“Santa,” I whisper once I’m close enough, “are you sure none of the other grown-ups around here will get jealous?”
He gives me a genuine laugh. “That’s their problem. Come on. Tell Santa what he can bring you.” He pats his leg again, and even a fake white beard can’t hide his grin. He’s loving this.
“Okay, okay.” I perch on his lap and hope none of the other women in the room hate me too much. “Um, I’d like a best seller. A nice, new contract with my publisher. Hmm …”
“What about ice skates? Would you like a pair of ice skates?”
“No!” It wouldn’t be right to give Santa a smack in front of a bunch of kids, which is what stops me from doing just that. “But I’d take coordination, if you’re giving that out this year.”
“Sorry, all out of that.” He leans in a little closer. “How about you come to my place after this? We’ll pack up some leftover food and talk some more about what you want this year.”
Hmm. I have to admit, seeing him with the kids and hearing about what a positive influence he is on them makes me better inclined to accept. There’s something unbelievably sexy about a man who’s great with kids.
“That sounds like a good idea.”
I mean, it is. Right? It’s a good idea.
Just like taking a selfie and sending it to Hayley is a good idea.
Found my Santa without you.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Well, well, well …” I have to stop in my tracks and take a look around the apartment once we’re inside. “This is impressive. Just as impressive as your plan to get me here.”
Bryce very actively avoids my gaze as he continues into the kitchen, leaving the bag full of food he packed up to bring with us. The kids weren’t exactly interested in eating actual food. The lasagna, baked chicken, garlic bread, and cold salads didn’t move very much. Not enough sugar in them.
“Did you hear what I said?” I admire the exposed brick walls, the original flooring.
This used to be a factory before it was renovated into apartments. Wooden beams dot the large, open living room. How many people worked here? How many people touched these beams over the decades?
“Hmm? Not really.” He pokes his head out from the kitchen. “What’d you say?”
“Liar. You heard me. This was your plan all along.” I slide out of my coat and shoot him a knowing look. “You knew that when I saw you with all those kids and how happy they were to see you and how terrific you were with them, I’d get all mushy inside and find you even more attractive than I did before.”
“You find me attractive?” He leans against the wall, arms folded, a smirk slowly spreading.
“Right. Make sure that’s the only thing you pay attention to.” When he doesn’t do anything but smirk even more than before, I add, “Yes, okay? I find you attractive. Along with every other woman in that firehouse today.”
“Oh, them?” He waves a hand, looking away like he’s embarrassed.
“Ahh, you don’t like it when I turn the tables, do you?”
“Not so much, no.”
“So, it bothers you that every woman at the party, married or otherwise, thought you were the tastiest thing to come their way since the invention of the cronut?”
“I think you’re exaggerating.” He still looks and sounds embarrassed as he hangs our coats in the closet. “It’s not that big of a deal. They’re nice women. The entire neighborhood is nice. Good people.”
“I agree. I remember the sense of community there. That’s one thing I’m missing now—community.”
He waves me into the kitchen, which was clearly updated in the last few years. Shiny appliances, a dual oven, one of those fridges with the clear doors that I’ve always thought was so neat but I know I could never have for myself. Not with the normal condition of my refrigerator. Maybe it would encourage me to keep things neater in there.
“There’s no community where you live? Rich people don’t talk to each other?” He pulls out a couple of bottled waters. “Do you want anything else? Beer, wine?”
“No, this is fine. And I’m not rich. I’m far from rich. Though, yes, I guess rich people do live around there. There isn’t that whole, you know … sitting out on the front stoop energy.”
“Sure”—his smile widens—“I get what you mean.”
“I only know one of my neighbors. The guy who lives across the hall. But I’m sort of an int
rovert, too, so that shouldn’t come as a surprise. And I’m almost always working.”
“A guy who lives across the hall, huh?”
“Don’t even start. He’s a friend—when I don’t feel like killing him. Come to think of it, you might’ve met him at the auction! He was the last-minute addition, the only one who wasn’t a firefighter.”
“Oh, him?” His eyes widen while his lips pull back in a grimace. “So, that’s who I’m competing against?”
I lean against the counter, looking him up and down. The thing is, he sounds like he means it. And I can’t help but wonder whether I want him to mean it or not.
Here he is, standing in front of me. A tower of muscle, tan and healthy and droolworthy. He’s got a face to match and a heart that seems like it was made from pure gold—that is, if the things I’ve heard about him so far are true, and I can’t imagine why anybody would lie. I doubt he goes around, paying a personal PR team to spread good things about him.
I’d be the world’s biggest idiot if I turned him down because of what had happened when we were kids. Not when the sight of him smiling in that playful way he’s doing right now just about melts my panties.
“I didn’t know you were competing against anybody.” I shrug. “Though, I guess, if you were competing, he’d be tough competition. On paper, he’s the perfect man.”
“Really?” He lifts an eyebrow. “How?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s good-looking. He has a steady job that pays very well. He lives in a nice apartment in a great part of town. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to be with him?”
He offers a crooked grin. “Have you jumped?”
“God, no.” I can’t keep up the pretense. “The thought of the two of us together makes me cringe. We’d be like … mashed potatoes on top of chocolate cake.”
“Which one of you is the cake?” He takes a step toward me and then another.
“Me, obviously. Devil’s food.” Yes, I’m flirting with him. Shamelessly in fact. But I’m a woman and he’s a man and we’re alone together and, darn it, I’m not made of stone.
He places his hands on the counter at my back, one on either side of me. “I believe that much. I believe that one taste of you could ruin a man for every other kind of cake in existence.”
Now that he’s near, I’m just about overwhelmed by the musky scent of his cologne, the heat coming from his body. My resistance is wearing thinner with every breath mingling between us. I close my eyes and nuzzle his neck.
“Look at me, Kitty.” He waits for me to lift my eyes, to look into his. So dark, so warm. “Having you walk back into my life has been a gift. A miracle I didn’t even know I wanted until it was right in front of me. And, yeah, maybe I invited you today so you could see how much fun the kids had and how everybody there likes me and gets along. So you could get an idea of who I am now. Not just what I tell you, but what other people have to say. I can’t help it.” He draws nearer until our bodies are practically flush. “I want you to like me.”
“I do like you.” His eyes are pulling me down, deeper and deeper, and I’m helpless. “I really do.”
He catches my mouth with his before I can say anything else. Not that there’s anything else to say. Not that I don’t light up inside like a firefly the second our lips touch.
This isn’t a kiss like last night either. Not a chaste little peck on the lips. No, this is much more. Deeper. Hotter.
He sinks his hands into my hair as my arms slide around his waist. This is nice. This is good.
It’s even better when the kiss deepens, and my heart pounds faster than ever. He takes his time, moving slowly, tasting me. Nibbling my lips until my nerves sizzle and I want to throw him to the floor. Or for him to throw me. Either way, I’m not feeling particularly choosy right now, not with my body on fire.
Though even now, I’m aware of the pun. Fire. Firefighter. Ha-ha-ha. I need to get out of my head and into this. Because I want this. I really, really do.
His hands loosen and fall to my shoulders. He pulls back. “What’s wrong? You went somewhere else.”
“I didn’t. Nothing’s wrong.” I try to force a smile, but it’s weak. Shaky. I can feel it. I can see it in his eyes, too, when his brows draw low over them.
“Are you sure about that? Is there something wrong? Did I move too fast?”
“Gosh, no.” I hold his face in my hands. There’s already a faint bit of stubble on his cheeks. “No, you’re doing just fine. I have to get out of my head. I’ve always had a problem with that. It’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb.”
“I just made a pun to myself, in my head, about my body being on fire and you being a firefighter, but you’re only making it worse instead of putting it out. I mean, that’s pretty lame.”
He winces. “Okay, a little lame. But not deadly lame.”
“Thanks.”
He kisses my forehead before resting his chin on top of my head. “You’re a writer. Your brain is always going.”
“It is. I wish I could turn it off. You have no idea of the torture.”
Laughter rumbles in his chest. My hands rest there, on top of firm muscle. Under that muscle is a beating heart. A good heart. This is a good man.
A good man who stiffens a little, whose breath comes up short. “I never thought of that before.”
“Of what?”
He pulls back, looking down at me. “Do you write about … everything that happens? Like … everything?”
Oh. This. I didn’t think of this. Why didn’t I think of this? “No, no, no. No, you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Because, you know, that could have an effect on a guy. Talk about being in your head.”
I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help myself. At least I manage to keep it light and gentle. “No, all those scenes are up here.” I tap my temple. “That’s it.”
His tension eases. “Okay. Because, you know, that’s a lot of pressure.” He leans in again, hands on the counter, and gives me a slow smile. “Now, all we have to do is get you out of your head.”
Which, of course, is exactly when my phone rings.
Bryce laughs softly, hanging his head while I roll my eyes and curse my luck.
“Maybe they’ll give up,” I suggest.
“They’d better.”
But they don’t.
“Sorry, sorry. I feel like I should get it. Nobody ever calls me, so it might be important.” Does that sound like a pitiful excuse? Probably. Though it’s the truth too.
I don’t recognize the number, so I answer with trepidation, “Hello?”
“Kathryn? Kitty Valentine?” The voice is male. An older man. I feel like I should know it.
Especially since he called me Kathryn. That’s what finally brings everything together.
“Peter? Is that you?” And now, my heart is in my throat, and I can barely breathe. “What’s the matter?”
He draws in a deep, shaky breath. “It seems your grandmother is ill. I’m at the hospital with her.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I knew this was going to happen someday. I just didn’t want it to be today or this year or this decade.
I run from the car. Throw myself through the revolving door into the emergency room. Ask where I can find my grandmother.
The girl at the desk tells me she’s been moved to the ICU and then directs me to the elevator. I can barely stand still as I wait to reach her floor, bouncing on the balls of my feet with my heart racing and my stomach in knots. I’m so glad we never took the time to eat at Bryce’s since I would’ve lost it all by now. Probably at the moment Peter told me he found my grandmother on her bedroom floor.
The nurse who greets me when I get off the elevator is sweet, understanding. She speaks in a low voice while leading me to the room, “Your grandmother has been unconscious since she arrived. It appears she suffered a heart attack while at home.”
A heart attack. At first, I thought this might’ve been a bad
fall. Peter hadn’t been too descriptive over the phone, and Grandmother is getting up there in years. Older people fall. It can be extremely dangerous.
But a heart attack? Tears roll down my cheeks, and I can barely hear anything else the nurse says because my grandmother had a heart attack and she could have died—and she might still die for all I know.
What am I supposed to do without her?
The room is small, walled off by glass. Easier for the staff to look inside at the patients who need the most help, I would think. It’s crazy, the things that go through a person’s head when they’re fighting against the impulse to dissolve into tears.
There she is. Lying there, hooked up to a million machines. I have to remind myself to move my feet before approaching her bed. Everything takes an effort. Gosh, this is so surreal. Like it’s happening to somebody else. Not to me.
Not to her.
“Grandmother”—her hand is so small in mine, and my hands are already pretty small—“I’m here.”
The only answer comes from the beeping of machines monitoring her pulse, her blood pressure, all of that. I don’t know what any of it means, the readouts on the screens over her head, but I guess it’s okay. There aren’t any alarms going off or anything like that.
Gosh, she looks so frail in the bed. So … old.
It hurts me to think it, and I know she’d hate it if she knew the thought so much as passed through my mind. But it’s the truth. She looks old. Because she is old. Sure, she’s vibrant and energetic and sharp-witted. She has a dirty mind and an even dirtier sense of humor.
But she’s in her mid-seventies, and I can’t forget it. I can’t let myself become complacent, to assume she’ll always be around.
That’s the thing about being in the hospital. All of the little disguises and masks a person uses to conceal what’s going on underneath, they fade away under harsh fluorescent lights.
“Oh, you’re here. I know she would be happy.” Peter slowly enters the room, taking a place at the other side of the bed.
He has a chair pulled up beside the bed so he can be near her in case she needs anything.
Kitty Valentine Dates a Fireman Page 9