Santa, Honey

by Sandra Hill

  And damn it, Emma noticed. “You’re blushing, Casey!” A smile tugged at her lips. “Just for a kiss? Must have been a good one.”

  “Em. It’s none of your business.”

  “You know, I don’t agree. You’re my sister. Your business is my business.”

  “Forget it,” Casey said flatly.

  “Not likely! You’re always so full of advice. Why shouldn’t I be the one to give out a tip or two once in a while? And you have to admit, this is my area of expertise. So tell me, Case. Just how long has it been since you’ve had sex? Ages, right?”

  “Emma! I don’t ask details about your sex life.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  Casey sighed. “Okay. Three years, all right? With Doug. You remember him, right?”

  “That long?” The horror in Emma’s eyes was unfeigned. “And with that loser? Holy crap, Casey. No wonder you’re so uptight. That settles it. You have to sleep with Matt. Tonight. Your mental health depends on it.”

  “If there’s anything affecting my mental health,” Casey retorted, “it’s my sister. Not the fact that I don’t want to jump into bed with a guy I barely know.”

  Liar, a little voice inside her skull taunted.

  “But you like the guy,” Emma persisted. “A lot. Admit it.”

  “So what if I do? That doesn’t change the fact that I just met him yesterday.”

  “Who cares when you met him? Does he make your insides melt?”

  Casey’s shoulders slumped. “Yes.”

  “And are you an inde pendent, adult woman?”

  “That’s neither here nor there. It would never work. Matt is just too…too hot.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Girl, there is no such thing.”

  “Honestly, Emma, look at him. Then look at me.”

  “You look fine,” Emma said. “Or at least, you would if you believed in yourself. Attitude counts more than anything.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Casey muttered.

  Emma huffed out a breath. “It’s easy to say because it’s true! Geez, Case, the guy already wants you. All you have to do is loosen up and give him a little encouragement.” She nudged Casey in the ribs. “I know you want to. I can see it in your eyes.”

  A little shiver ran up Casey’s spine. Emma was right. She did want to.

  There. She’d admitted it. At least to herself.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  “Oh, Casey,” Emma said, shaking her head. “For someone who’s so smart, you really are dumb sometimes. Thinking is exactly what you shouldn’t do. Promise me. When Matt asks, don’t think. Go with your heart.”

  Matt, wearing a white chef’s apron, carved a haunch of roast venison for Christmas Eve dinner. Jake emerged from the kitchen, a half-dozen platters of potatoes and vegetables balanced on his arms.

  “Oh!” Emma jumped up. “Let me help, before it all ends on the floor.”

  The platters were soon relayed down the table and the guests all seated. Aunt Bea carried in a tray of pastries while Uncle Fred lit a row of candles down the center of the table. Casey was all too aware of Matt sliding into his usual seat beside her.

  Uncle Fred bowed his head and said the blessing.

  “A fine Christmas Eve.” Aunt Bea beamed down the table at her husband after his hearty “Amen.” “With family and new friends.”

  Dinner and conversation began in earnest. Casey eyed the slices of venison on her plate.

  “Never had it?” Matt guessed.

  “No,” Casey admitted. She tasted a tiny piece. “Why, it’s not so bad.”

  Matt laughed. “Aunt Bea will be pleased to hear it. You know, Jake and I ate venison all the time when we were kids. Uncle Fred’s a good shot, and Aunt Bea refused to let any meat he brought home go to waste. Broiled, stewed, dried…you name it, she’s got a recipe.”

  After the dinner dishes were cleared, pots of tea were poured, and the tray of Dutch pastries was moved from the sideboard to the middle of the table.

  “Letterbanket,” Matt explained, placing a tubular pastry on Casey’s plate. “Shaped like the letters of the alphabet. Here’s a ‘C’ for you.” He took an ‘M’ for himself.

  Casey bit into hers. It was filled with almond paste. “Delicious.”

  After dessert, Matt and Jake swiftly cleared the table. As the guests finished their coffee and wandered back into the living room, Jake appeared at Emma’s side.

  “I need you,” he declared.

  She batted her eyelashes. “Oh, really?”

  He grinned. “Not for that. At least, not yet.”

  He grabbed her hand and tugged her to the piano. Casey, left alone, watched her sister and her new lover bend their heads over a stack of sheet music. They made a handsome couple, Jake’s brown hair brushing Emma’s blonde head. Their body language was so in tune, and their laughter was genuine. It was as if they’d known each other for years, rather than just a day.

  Aunt Bea and Uncle Fred began herding the guests toward the piano. “Time for carols,” Aunt Bea explained. “You too, dear,” she said when Casey hung back from the rest.

  Reluctantly, Casey joined the outer fringe of the group. Everyone in the lodge was present, except Matt. Was he still in the kitchen, tackling the cleanup on his own?

  Jake settled on the piano bench. Emma stood at his side, poised to turn pages.

  “Sing loud,” he told her with a wink.

  He struck the opening chord to “Deck the Halls.” Emma added her beautiful voice, and the other guests soon joined in. The farmhouse reverberated with song.

  Jake’s fingers flew over the keys. He really was a talented pianist, Casey mused. Maybe his musical career wasn’t as frivolous a pursuit as she’d assumed. He kept song after song coming, with hardly a pause in between. But Casey found her attention straying. She couldn’t get Matt—and the long night ahead—out of her mind. He’d put the ball firmly in her court. I’ll ask whatever you want me to ask, he’d said.

  The problem was, what was that?

  Emma’s advice spun circles in her head. Should she really throw caution to the wind? Go with her heart? Even if Casey wanted to, she was hardly sure what her heart was saying. The flapping butterfly wings in her stomach were drowning it out.

  Jake struck the last plaintive chord to “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Then his touch softened on the opening bars of “What Child is This?” All other voices fell away as Emma’s sweet soprano filled the air.

  A rush of pride filled Casey’s chest. Her sister was as talented as she was beautiful, and, despite her tendency to act first and think later, she had a good heart. And maybe, on occasion, she was wise, too. Emma had only met Jake yesterday, but he was already enthralled. Could Casey dare hope Matt felt the same way?

  Emma held the final, lingering note until it evaporated into the air. A heartbeat of silence ensued, followed by hearty applause and enthusiastic praise.

  “Beautiful,” Uncle Fred declared. “Truly beautiful.”

  Aunt Bea smiled. “With talent like that, dear, I’m sure you’ll find yourself on Broadway someday.”

  “I can only hope,” Emma sighed.

  Jake and Aunt Bea exchanged a glance. “Oh, I think you can do more than that,” he said, shuffling the sheet music. “One last song.” He sent Casey a pointed look. “And I want to hear everybody this time. That means you, Casey.”

  Casey laughed and dutifully joined her voice to a lively arrangement of “Santa Claus is Coming To Town.” As the song drew to a close, a voice boomed from the foyer.

  “Vrolijk Kerstfeest! Merry Christmas!”

  The singing abruptly changed into a chorus of laughter. “Sinterklaas!” Uncle Fred called. “Welcome!”

  A tall old-world Santa Claus, complete with long, curly beard, gold-trimmed red cape, and high bishop’s hat, appeared in the archway under the mistletoe, a sack slung over his shoulder. Aunt Bea went up on her toes to buss his cheek. Santa’s blu
e eyes caught Casey’s gaze over the top of Bea’s head.

  Matt’s lips curved into a rueful smile behind his fake beard.

  Casey started to laugh.

  “Oh, my God,” said Emma, elbowing Casey in the ribs. “Matt is one sexy Santa.”

  He was, Casey had to admit.

  “Vrolijk Kerstfeest!” Matt slung the pack from his shoulder. “Gather round, ladies. Sinterklaas has something for each one of you.”

  He presented Aunt Bea with her gift first—a beautiful embroidered shawl. “From your nephews,” Sinterklaas told her.

  “And now, from the Van der Staappens to their Christmas guests.” Matt made a show of rummaging about in his sack, handing out gaily wrapped boxes to the female guests. When he came to Emma and Casey, he looked from one to the other and hesitated. “There’s only one left.”

  “Because I wasn’t supposed to be here,” Casey said, hiding a twinge of disappointment. “You take it, Emma. It’s your vacation.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very.”

  Emma accepted the gift. The paper was gold, with silver stars. “It’s heavy,” she said, weighing it in her hands.

  “Open it,” Casey urged.

  Emma set the box on the piano, tore open the wrapping, and lifted the lid. “Oh! How beautiful!”

  The old-fashioned snow globe was real glass. Inside, flakes of white surrounded a tiny replica of Dutch Lodge. The words Romance of Christmas 2009 were inscribed on its polished wood base.

  Emma inverted the globe and turned it upright again. Snow swirled all around the miniature farmhouse. A glance around the room told Casey the other women had received identical gifts. All were as charmed as she and Emma.

  “Pretty, huh?” Jake said. “Uncle Fred found a local artisan who makes them by hand.”

  “It’s lovely. I think I’ll go thank Fred and Bea right now.”

  “Sure thing,” Jake said. They stepped away, leaving Casey alone with Matt.

  She smiled. “You know, you make a very nice Santa.”

  He tugged off his beard and placed it on a nearby table. His bishop’s hat joined it. “Sinterklaas,” he corrected. “The Dutch version of Santa Claus. Not as fat as the American one. And much more dignified. Normally Uncle Fred does the honors, but this year, I asked him to let me do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted Sinterklaas to give you this.”

  His hand disappeared into the folds of his cape. “It’s not wrapped, though, so close your eyes.”

  A thrill of anticipation ran through Casey. Her lashes swept down. Matt caught her hand and pressed something smooth and cool into her palm.

  Her eyes flew open. “Your mystery box! But…I couldn’t possibly accept this. It’s part of your childhood.”

  “I haven’t opened it in ages, and it really seemed to intrigue you. I’d like you to have it.”

  She turned the box over, marveling again at the workmanship. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He seemed uncertain for a moment, as if waiting for her to say or do something else. Finally, he drew a breath. “Do you remember how to open it?”

  His voice had dropped to a near whisper. The intimacy sent a jolt of awareness through Casey’s senses. “I…I think so.” Her fingers searched for the hidden catch. “Let me see…”

  She found a small, folded sheet of paper nestled inside.

  “Open it,” Matt said.

  She extracted the paper, her fingers trembling slightly as she unfolded it. There was a single symbol on it. A question mark.

  “What’s this?”

  “A question.”

  Her eyes collided with his. “What kind of question?”

  “Your question. The one you want me to ask.” He lifted his hand and cupped the side of her face, tracing the arch of her cheekbone with his thumb. “Do you know what it is yet?”

  She closed her eyes and turned her head into his hand, brushing his palm with her lips. Heat gathered low in her belly. She couldn’t capture a clear thought in her head—her emotions were too tangled. Desire, fear, anticipation, uncertainty, foreboding, excitement…She was so mixed up over this man she’d just met. And yet, in some strange, primal way, she was drawn to him. Could someone really fall in love that quickly? She didn’t know.

  His hand slid around to the back of her neck, urging her closer. She went, her eyes still closed. His heavy cape enfolded both of them, shutting the rest of the room out.

  Emma had told her to go with her heart. That organ was pounding loudly now, and she knew exactly what it was saying.

  She opened her eyes. And was immediately seared by the heat of his gaze. An answering fire flashed through her. Her knees went weak. She grasped the embroidered edge of his cape as his arm came around her, holding her steady.

  “Yes.” Her throat was dry. “I know the question I want you to ask.”

  “Consider it asked,” he said. His lips touched hers. “And your answer?”

  She felt her heart take a flying leap of faith.

  “Yes,” she said. “My answer is yes.”

  Chapter Eight

  The walk from the kitchen door to the cabin in the woods passed in a blur. Casey was aware, on an intellectual level at least, that it was very cold outside. But the hunger in Matt’s eyes left room for nothing but slow, dark heat.

  His arm around her waist was solid and sure, and it seemed her boots barely skimmed the snow as he hustled her down the path to his cabin. The door swung closed behind them.

  He toed off his boots, and left her briefly to light the lamp. Casey removed her own boots, then shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the hook by the door. She rubbed her arms at the sudden loss of warmth as Matt crossed the room to build up the fire, his long red cape swirling behind him. He tossed in two logs, then stood against a background shower of sparks.

  Casey hadn’t moved from her position by the door.

  He approached her slowly. “Second thoughts?”

  “No.” She swallowed hard. “Should there be?”

  “I hope not.” He caught her hand. “I’m praying there’s not.”

  “I—” She cut off as a low, mournful wail, like a deep, rich foghorn, sounded in the darkness outside the cabin. “What’s that?”

  Matt smiled. “A Dutch midwinterhoorn. It’s an ancient custom. Uncle Fred always blows it on Christmas Eve, over the old well in the front yard. It’s supposed to chase away evil spirits.”

  The horn sounded again. “That’s lovely.” Casey toyed with one of the hand-tooled gold clasps on the front of his cape. “And what about this costume? Is it from Holland? It looks old.”

  “It is. It’s a family heirloom. And yes, it’s from Holland. My grandfather brought it with him when he emigrated.”

  “When was that?”

  “1940. Just before Hitler invaded. Granda had a cousin in New York, and was able to get his wife and two young sons out just in time.”

  “That was your father and Uncle Fred? How old were they?”

  “My father was about six, I think. Uncle Fred was an infant.”

  He unclasped the cape and swung it off his shoulders, draping it over the back of a chair with reverence. “I remember my father wearing this. Not on Christmas, though. On Saint Nicholas Day, the year before he died. It’s one of my few memories of him.”

  He turned back to her, just Matt now, dressed in his usual jeans and sweater. The fire in the hearth leapt, throwing dancing shadows across his face. Out of the corner of her eye, his double bed loomed large. Casey tried to picture herself in it. With him. The image didn’t quite appear.

  Despite Emma’s pep talk, it was still so hard to believe such a beautiful man really wanted her.

  His warm palms descended on her shoulders. “Hey. Stop thinking. Relax.”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “Casey.” His voice was sober as he guided her toward the fire. “I hope you know I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.
In fact, if you want to stop right now…If all you want to do is talk, or play cards, or…whatever, that’s all right with me.”

  She inhaled, for courage. “No. It’s not that. It’s just that it’s been kind of a long time for me, since…”

  God. She could hardly say it. How was she going to do it?

  A little smile played on his lips. His thumbs played on the bare skin at the neckline of her sweater. “How long?”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “You would ask.” She tried to look away, but he caught her chin and brought her gaze back to his.

  “Three years,” she admitted.

  “Wow.” His lips quirked. “Jesus. An eternity. You’re practically a virgin.”

  She laughed. “Hardly.”

  His eyes turned serious. “Ever been in love?”

  Yes. Since just this afternoon. “No. Not really.” She paused. “What about you?”

  He gave a half laugh, and looked away. “Me? Not even close.”

  The silence that ensued threatened to stretch into awkwardness. With a slight frown, Matt tugged her a few steps backward to the couch. He shoved the blankets she’d used the night before to one side and sat, drawing her down beside him.

  He didn’t speak. That was good, because as far as Casey was concerned, talking led to thinking, and thinking led to second guessing. Go with your heart, Emma had told her. Was that good advice? Casey’s heart was reaching toward Matt, and telling her to let him in.

  He exhaled a slow breath and leaned toward her, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa. With his free hand, he fluffed her curls around her face.

  “Oh, stop,” she laughed, catching his fingers. “I must look like a witch.”

  “A very sexy witch.” His eyes were intent.

  Desire unfurled in Casey’s chest. The musk of his cologne teased her senses. In a sudden burst of boldness, she slipped her hands under his sweater and shirt and splayed her fingers on his bare skin. His heart thumped against her palms, beating almost as quickly as hers.

  He grasped the hem of his sweater and, with one smooth motion, pulled both sweater and shirt over his head. God, but he was solid, his muscles taut under her fingers. His skin was hot, almost burning. Her hands skated up to tangle in the dusting of hair on his chest.