Spying Under the Mistletoe (Love Undercover Book 2)

by Stina Lindenblatt

  Whiskey releases a puppy bark, and I spin around. A man I’ve never seen before is standing a short distance from us, a medium-sized moving box in his arms.

  My heart rate speeds up, my palms grow slippery, and my breath slams on the brakes.

  I toe the locker door shut and snap the lock together with one hand, all the while keeping my gaze glued on the man. One side of the box balances preciously on my hip.

  Oh, fuckadoodle. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  A voice in the back of my head replies, You think? I ignore it.

  The box slips on my hip, and I tighten my hold on it with my free arm.

  The man lurches forward. “Let me help you.”

  I let out a small shriek, which riles up Whiskey. He runs between my legs…then changes his mind and runs around them, tangling me in his leash.

  Not very helpful, I mentally chastise him, which is about as useful as eating peanut butter to ward off vampires.

  The box resumes its disastrous slide down my body. I twist around, attempting to save it from making nice with the floor.

  The man drops his box, and it lands with a muffled thump. No glass was broken in the making of this disaster.

  He grabs my box before it can crash against the concrete and parks it by my feet.

  Whiskey wags his tail and lunges toward the man, tugging on my calves.

  I’m unable to untangle myself in enough time and go down like a felled tree.

  Timber!

  The next thing I know, strong arms wrap around me, keeping me upright. The crisp scent of a man’s aftershave or cologne accompanies them.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, releasing me once he’s sure I’m stable on my feet—or fairly stable. He bends to scratch Whiskey behind the ear and unfastens his leash.

  “Yes, thank you,” I say, the tension in my muscles deflating like air escaping a hot air balloon.

  I really need to work on my overactive imagination. This whole thing about having a contract on my head is making my paranoia work double time.

  With his hand still on Whiskey’s collar, the man passes me the leash. “Here. You can free yourself now.” He resumes fussing over Whiskey—who laps it up like a doubly absorbent paper towel.

  I take his momentary distraction to untangle my legs and click the leash back on Whiskey’s collar.

  “He’s a cute dog,” the man says.

  “Thanks. I take it you like dogs.”

  “I love them. I don’t have one yet, but I’m looking at getting one soon.”

  Part of me points out that I should tell him that Whiskey’s looking for a forever home. The other part screams out that Whiskey is Landon’s dog, and one day soon, he’ll realize that for himself.

  I’m about to sheepishly point out that the apartment doesn’t allow pets, but I don’t get the chance.

  “You’re Chloe, right?” he asks, and instantly my Spider-Girl senses go on high alert. I take a step back.

  Before I can say anything or hightail it out of here, he adds, “My grandmother lives in the building. She’s told me all about you. I think she’s hoping I might bump into you at some point and ask you out. I’m Eric, by the way.”

  Okay—that was unexpected.

  I chew on my lip for a second, unsure what to say.

  So I go with the partial truth. “I have a boyfriend.”

  “You do?”

  I feel my eyebrows shoot up my forehead at his response.

  “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. Of course, you have a boyfriend. You’re gorgeous.”

  A heat wave makes a beeline for my face, and he chuckles. “And now I sound like some loser using a pickup line.”

  Kinda. “Not at all.”

  “I’m sure your boyfriend tells you all the time that you’re gorgeous. And if he doesn’t, you need a new boyfriend.”

  I laugh. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  Eric bends down and picks up my box. “How about I at least make my grandmother proud and carry this up to your apartment for you?”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary.”

  “I insist. But if it makes you feel better, I can give it to you once we get there. You don’t need to invite me inside if you don’t want to.”

  “I’m not staying in my apartment right now. I’m staying with my boyfriend.”

  “My grandmother really is out of the loop. Not only was she unaware of you having a boyfriend, but she also had no idea that you’re currently living with him. She needs to work on getting new informants.” He winks at me.

  “Most definitely,” I say, laughing.

  “Well, in that case, let me carry this to your vehicle.”

  “That’s really okay.” The last thing I need is a stranger walking me to my car when someone wants me dead—even if it would save me time. “But thanks for offering.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well, it was nice meeting you, Chloe, and you, too.” He pats Whiskey one more time on the head. “Maybe I’ll see you around if things don’t work out between you and your boyfriend.” That part’s directed at me.

  “Maybe.” But probably not.

  Or you could give him a chance. Just because Mom made poor choices when it came to men doesn’t mean you do, too. You made one mistake. One mistake doesn’t make a pattern.

  I ignore the voice in the back of my head. I’m not ready to test that theory out, especially while Landon is my fake boyfriend.

  22

  Chloe

  The drive to Landon’s town house isn’t any quicker than the one to my apartment. Christmas music pipes through the speakers, and I sing along, not caring that I look like an idiot.

  Whiskey sits on the front seat, his paws on the armrest under the window, watching the world drive by.

  It’s dark by the time I park on the street outside Landon’s home. The town house isn’t much brighter, other than the faint light streaming through the gap in the closed living-room curtains from the lamp controlled by a timer. Which means Landon isn’t home yet. But it’s nice to know that I’m at least not entering a dark town house. Nor am I entering it alone.

  Whiskey isn’t much protection against someone with a contract on my head—Landon would need a full-grown Rottweiler for that. But at least I’ve got someone to keep me company.

  And I have the penknife I retrieved from my apartment.

  I open the front door and enter the security code. Whiskey happily enters the house and heads toward the kitchen. “I’ll feed you in a minute,” I tell him. “I just have to get the rest of the stuff.”

  I set the cardboard box on the floor and check my phone.

  Landon: Running a little late. Will be home in an hour.

  It was sent twenty minutes ago. I send him a text in reply.

  Me: Okay. See you soon.

  Forty-five minutes later—as I’m hanging up the imitation pine boughs on top of the kitchen cabinets—Thank you, Pinterest, for that suggestion—the front door clicks open.

  And then…

  “What the fuck?”

  I peer over my shoulder, doing my best not to lose my balance on the stepladder. Landon is staring in disbelief at the decorations covering every available surface.

  A few years ago, I fell in love with the Christmas farmhouse theme. Rustic wooden signs with sayings such as “Let It Snow,” “Merry Christmas,” and “Meet Me Under the Mistletoe” are scattered throughout the room, leaning against the wall and the corner of one bookshelf. Black-and-white checked cushions cover the couch, along with my favorite one with the close up of a reindeer’s face, as if he’s peeking into the camera lens.

  The rest of the space is filled with pine boughs, small fake pine trees in tin containers, little red birds made from feathers, pillar candles with cinnamon sticks wrapped with pieces of twine and burlap sacks.

  “Surprise.” I climb down from the ladder. “I figured since you don’t have any Christmas decorations, I
’d put mine up.”

  His gaze jumps from the wreath on the table to me, and his eyebrows crunch together.

  I swallow. Hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you really don’t like Christmas decorations. I thought it was because you don’t have time for things like that. And because you’re a guy.” I shrug. “But if you don’t like them, I can remove them.”

  When he doesn’t say anything, I reach for the reindeer on the mantel, next to the wooden sign that proclaims “Believe.”

  “You drove to your apartment even though your life is in danger?” His voice comes out like high-grit sandpaper, and I wince.

  “There’s a good chance I did.”

  “Fuck, Chloe. I’ve been hired to protect you. That means keeping you from being killed. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  My body bristles and my tone comes out as chilled as the San Francisco Bay water in December. “I understand all of it. I’m not an idiot. And I’m sorry for trying to bring a little Christmas cheer into your otherwise non-cheerful existence.”

  Whiskey whimpers. At the heartbreaking sound, the memory of my father arguing with my mom flashes in my brain. Of him leaving the house.

  That was the last time I saw him.

  I turn away, so Landon can’t see the tears clouding my vision. It was shortly after the holiday season when my father left Mom and me.

  When I look at Landon, he’s running his hand down his face. “None of that matters if something happens to you.” Unlike before, the words come out worn, splinted—much like a block of wood that has been chopped into pieces.

  My heart squeezes. What the hell happened for him to react that way?

  I have a weird feeling it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with something that happened in his past.

  I take a deep breath, fighting back the pain. The pain of my past. The pain inflicted by his reaction. “Look, I’m sorry you’re upset. And yes, you have every right to be annoyed with me. But nothing happened.” Other than meeting a guy who wants to go out with me, but I decide to skip that little detail.

  “Just because nothing happened doesn’t mean it couldn’t have. Just because I haven’t screwed up my knees playing hockey doesn’t mean that when I play my next game, it won’t happen. You can’t predict what’s going to happen. All you can do is minimize the risk. And going to your apartment, on your own, doesn’t do that. It increases it.”

  I pick up the twelve-inch, wooden Santa from the mantel. He’s flat, other than the nose, mustache, and the arm holding a small Christmas tree against his body. His vintage, gnome-like appearance makes him look adorable, just like it did the day I found it.

  My stepfather and I picked him up at a farmers market while looking for a Christmas present for my mom. I’d fallen in love with it, and my stepfather bought it for me.

  I run a finger over the small chip in the paint on his round nose. “I’m sorry.” I’m not really sure to whom I’m saying it: Landon…or my stepfather, since my mom and I weren’t what he had wanted in the end.

  Or maybe he’d discovered that my entire family was more than he had bargained for. For all I know, he discovered the truth about their links to the Russian mafia, and left to avoid being dragged in.

  Can’t say I blame him for that.

  I sniff back the forming tears. “The last good memories I have of my father and stepfather are from the holiday seasons prior to them leaving. At least I’m lucky in that respect. They could’ve decided not to wait until after Christmas. I could have turned into someone who hates Christmas and the holiday season because I lost someone who meant the world to me. I didn’t want that. I might go over the top with the holiday season, but that’s due to having so many fond memories of that time of year. Memories I never want to lose.”

  A tear drips onto the Santa-gnome’s face. I wipe it away with my thumb.

  Warm, strong arms encase me and pull me into an equally warm, strong body. I stiffen for a second before the pain eases slightly, and I let myself melt into him. It’s been a long time since I’ve admitted to myself why the holiday season is so important to me. Why it’s so important for me to make it the best it can be for those around me.

  And why I want to make sure the seniors in the retirement home have a wonderful Christmas, especially those individuals who aren’t surrounded by their loved ones at this time of year.

  With his arms still wrapped around me, Landon kisses my temple. I peer up at him to find him studying me, his face full of anguish that I know deep down isn’t because of me.

  “You’re one of those people, aren’t you?” My voice is hoarse from unshed tears. “Something happened to you around Christmas, and that’s why you’re the way you are. You don’t hate Christmas, but you don’t exactly embrace it the way so many other people and I do.”

  Landon doesn’t say anything at first. He simply removes the Santa from my hands and studies it for a moment. Vulnerability shines in his eyes. A vulnerability that the tall, strong alpha man in front of me doesn’t want to feel or reveal. To me. Or to anyone.

  Something in my heart stirs—an emotion I’ve tried to hide from for so long, but Landon seems to be drawing it out from me.

  And I don’t know what to do about it.

  Because falling in love isn’t on the agenda.

  Now or ever.

  I cup his face in my hand, my thumb strokes his cheek. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  My hand drops away, and I turn to leave.

  I don’t get far. Landon gently grabs my hand and hauls me against him. His lips find mine, and he pours whatever he’s thinking into that kiss, my heart speeding up in reply.

  After a minute—or an hour, I really have no idea which—Landon pulls away slightly. He returns Santa to the mantel and leads me to the couch. Without a word, he sits and pulls me onto his lap. Whatever he’s contemplating is hidden from his face. All I see is someone who wants to talk but doesn’t know how.

  Someone who feels vulnerable…and it’s scaring him.

  I straddle his legs. He threads his fingers in my hair, cupping my head with his powerful hands. His vulnerability shines back at me again, and this time it’s me kissing him.

  Doing what I can to drive the demons from him.

  Doing what I can to say I’m sorry—sorry I indirectly caused him so much pain.

  Sorry he had to go through whatever put the demons there to begin with.

  His tongue slides along mine. I meet it stroke for stroke. I can’t remember the last time it felt this way to kiss a man, with every nerve in my body a lit fuse.

  I keep expecting his hands to start exploring my body, to rip off my clothes. But they don’t. He just keeps kissing me. Driving my body insane with need.

  I can’t tell if he’s waiting for me to make a move, allowing me to set the pace after everything I told him, or if he really isn’t interested in going there. For now.

  He’s just following my lead as I try to fix the nicks in our armor before everything we’ve built up inside us—the thing that prevents further heartbreak—shatters.

  We kiss for a while longer; then he rests his forehead on mine. “I told you I had a serious girlfriend after college. I loved her and figured she was the girl I would one day marry. She was a lot like you when it came to Christmas. She loved to decorate.”

  I stare at him for a heartbeat, surprise pulsating through me that he’s telling me this much. But at the same time, icicles form in my veins, spreading throughout my body at his use of past tense, and I can’t help but wonder what happened to her.

  A deep sense of foreboding fills me, and I shift off his lap to sit next to him. I cover his hand with mine, wanting to know her story, but also willing to wait until he’s ready to tell me.

  If he ever tells me.

  “So she was a decorator-holic like me?” I give him a soft smile.

  “You could say that. She didn’t even wait for Thanksgiving to be over. As soon as November first hit, the Chris
tmas decorations would begin popping up everywhere.”

  His gaze moves around the room, and he releases a slow breath. “Six weeks before Christmas, she wanted to go to a house-warming party with her friends. I wasn’t a huge fan of the women. To be honest, I thought they were stuck-up bitches. I told her that. Told her I didn’t want her to go to the party.” His eyes return to me. “As you can imagine, that didn’t go down too well. She told me off, told me she was her own boss and didn’t need me thinking I could control her life.”

  “Did she break up with you because of that?”

  “No, she went to the party with her friends. I was playing in a competitive hockey league at the time, like I am now. My team had a game that night. I can’t even remember who we were playing or if we won. I had no idea she’d gone to the party.”

  That deep sense of foreboding? It switches to dread—I have a feeling I know what he’s going to say next.

  But I’m wrong.

  “Her friends quickly grew bored of the party, but Sarah was still talking to a colleague of hers. So they ditched my girlfriend and went out for drinks elsewhere.

  “Sarah had driven with them. Instead of calling me to pick her up—even though she knew my game would be over by then—she decided to walk the short distance home.

  “Some guys at a local frat party saw her leave and followed her. They were drunk and being idiots. The best the police could figure out was that she got scared and tried to cross the street without checking for oncoming traffic first.”

  Landon’s voice tightens, and his hands fist on his lap. “Two weeks before Christmas, her family finally removed her from life-support. She’d been on it for a month.”

  The chill inside me from a moment ago turns into an arctic freeze. “Oh, God, Landon. I’m so sorry.”

  “I was working for an engineering firm,” he says, without acknowledging my reaction. “I couldn’t get my head in the game after Sarah died. So I joined the military, figuring I was supposed to do something bigger.”

  “That you were supposed to protect those weaker than you?”