by Nalini Singh
Good grief. “I’m not looking to be fertile!” They needed to take things one step at a time.
“It’s also the color of love and sex.”
That she’d take. Both of them. In large quantities, please.
“Which is why I bought you a green sweater to wear.” Bree finished tying off the red ribbon and pulled a cable-knit sweater out of another bag. “It’s plain and boring, just the way you like your clothes.”
How thoughtful. Charlotte rolled her eyes. Her clothes were not boring. They were classic, made from quality materials and designed to flatter her decidedly average figure. She was of average height, average weight, average backside, slightly above average bra size. She looked best in form-fitting sweaters with crisp cotton blouses underneath and a good old pair of cords or khakis and some boots with a kicky heel. Most of her sweaters were in pastels since she was blond, or occasionally when she was dressing up, she went with red. She never wore the emerald green Bree was shoving at her.
“This is furthering my conviction that I’m going to make an idiot out of myself.”
“Why? It’s not like I just gave you a push-up bra, a thong, and thigh-high stockings and told you to go for it. It’s a cable-knit sweater, loser.”
Charlotte yanked it from her sister’s hand. “You’re not being very nice to me.”
Bree stopped pawing through yet another bag and looked at her. “Hey. I just want you to be happy,” she said softly.
Shoot. Sister guilt. “I know. But you’re freaking me out with all this stuff. And I really, really think Will is going to have a heart attack, run screaming, and never speak to me again if I try to drag him under mistletoe and chant his clothes off of him.”
“No chanting in front of him—that would be a bad idea. We’re just going to load this mistletoe with a nice little hexen-symbol for lust. Then you can just pull it out and hang it up anywhere in his apartment and you’ll be good to go. He will rip his clothes off all by himself, no chanting required.”
Bree opened a pack of markers. “Now choose your symbols. Do you want sex, love, dominance, serenity, thrusting?”
Thrusting? The image of that both in actuality and how it might appear on paper rose up in Charlotte’s mind. She reached up and redid her hair knot, mouth dry. “How many can I pick?”
“As many as you want.”
“Then I’ll take them all except for the dominance.” Her friendship with Will was very balanced, and if they went beyond a platonic relationship, she wanted that aspect to remain the same. Then she added, before she totally lost her nerve, “And give me three of the thrusting ones.”
“Dang, girl,” was Bree’s opinion of that. “You got it.”
Charlotte could only sincerely hope that she would in fact be getting it before the night was over.
Four
WILL DRIED HIMSELF OFF WITH A TOWEL AND DEBATED calling Bree and asking her what the hell she had meant earlier when she’d sworn to take care of things between him and Charlotte. He’d been worrying about that promise just about every minute since, and had concluded there was really only one thing he could do.
He needed to tell Charlotte the truth about his feelings before Bree did. He was twenty-nine years old. It would be lame as hell if the woman he loved found that little fact out from her sister. Jesus, the only thing worse would be a note folded up and passed across the room.
Charlotte deserved better. She deserved him looking her straight in the eye and telling her he loved her.
Which was why he’d taken a shower in anticipation of her coming over to put up his Christmas tree. He figured a guy ought to smell good when professing love, and if Bree was at all right—which he had to admit, he was hoping she was—then maybe, just maybe, they’d wind up naked before the night was out.
In fact, he was determined they were going to get naked. If she felt the same way about him, then he wasn’t going to dance around the issue anymore. He was going to dust off his dormant seduction skills and show Charlotte where she really belonged, which was with him, in his life, in his bed. Forever.
Damn it.
He was a cop. He’d taken a bullet in the shoulder in a robbery a few years back. Why had he been such a freaking wimp when it came to Charlotte?
Because he hadn’t wanted to lose her altogether. Having half of Charlotte, as a friend, was better than not at all, so he’d settled all those years. But no more. He wanted all of her.
His hair was bristle short, so it only required a quick rub for drying then he was done with it. Pulling on his boxer briefs, he opened the bathroom door to let out the steam and heard the phone ringing.
“Crap.” If that was Charlotte canceling, he was not going to be a happy man. Or worse, the police station calling him in. He loved his job, but at the moment, he had a woman to seduce.
He grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“Will, it’s Amanda Delmar Tucker. How are you?”
The ex–Chicago socialite turned farmer’s wife had also ventured into real estate in the past two years. Will had approached her about looking for a house for him. “I’m great, how are you? Feeling okay these days?” When he’d seen her a few weeks past, she’d been green around the gills from her pregnancy.
“Yes, the morning sickness is gone, thank God. I haven’t puked that much since I was rushing my sorority in college and I just about had to drink my weight in cocktails to prove my so-called worth. How stupid is that? Why do we go along with lame things like that when we’re eighteen? Anyway, the puking is past, and I have a house for you.”
“Really? Where is it?” He had been going slow on the house search, wanting to be in town, but not really in one of the cookie-cutter subdivisions that had popped up in the last ten years. He didn’t envision himself in a vinyl-sided box on Turkey Trail in the Pheasant Hills subdivision. He just wanted a solid house, with some character, and a place for him to toss his muddy boots by the back door. A garage for his weight bench and boxing bag. A house like the one Charlotte was living in with Bree, though maybe not so big.
“It’s the gray house on Second Street. The Weeping Lady house. Jessie Stritmeyer wants to unload it now that she bought a condo in Florida and is going snow bird on us.”
“Maybe she can say hi to my folks. They’re living down in Florida now, too.” Will immediately knew the house Amanda was talking about. It was on a street with a dozen other hundred-year-old Victorians. A five-minute walk from downtown, with big old oak trees lining the street in front of the sidewalks, the neighborhood was one of elegant wide porches and an eclectic mix of people. Families, singles, and older folks who were fifth-generation townies all lived there, along with the occasional yuppie newcomer who worked in management at the plastics plant, or the new-ager attracted to the reputation of Cuttersville as Ohio’s most haunted town.
He’d like it there. As would Charlotte.
“When can I see it?”
“Whenever you want. Jessie left the keys in the mailbox and said you can go in whenever you feel like it. I guess she trusts you not to vandalize the place since you’re a cop.”
That was heartwarming, in truth, because Will had found out over the years Jessie was a shrewd businesswoman who trusted about no one. “Alright, thanks. I’ll drop by tomorrow. I’ve never seen the inside.”
“It’s small. I lived there for two months when I first came to town. But it’s in good condition, new roof, five-year-old furnace, and a damn good price. Plus it’s charming, and all that.”
There was a knock on his door. “Cool. Thanks. I have to go, Amanda. Charlotte’s pounding on my door.”
“Alright, tell her I said hi and that I love her for bringing Caribou Coffee to Cuttersville.”
Will laughed. “I can do that.”
He hung up and called out, “Come on in, Char, I’m getting dressed.” Not waiting for her response, knowing she was comfortable letting herself in, he went back to his bedroom in search of pants. While he wanted to end the night naked, he didn�
��t think it would go over well if he started things out in his underwear. Could be a bit awkward.
But he did hurry, just cramming himself into a pair of jeans and pulling on a random T-shirt. When he came out, Charlotte was staggering into his apartment, carrying two shopping bags in each hand. He rushed to help her.
“What’s all this?” he asked, taking all four bags from her.
She brushed her hair off her forehead, looking a little flushed. “Christmas decorations.”
“Oh.” Will peeked in a bag. A giant glittery tabletop snowman stared back at him. “Wow, that was nice of you, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have.” Really. She shouldn’t have.
“I wanted to. You need to get in the spirit of things.” She smiled at him, and he knew he’d let her outfit his entire place in candy canes and angels, right down to his toilet paper, if she wanted. He was that whipped, and manly enough to admit it. “There are a few more bags in the car,” she added.
More? Either that was a sign of how pathetic she viewed his life, or she cared enough to spend a ridiculous amount of time and money foisting Frosties on him. He was hoping it was the latter. Charlotte was heading back to the door but he sprang into action, not wanting her rushing around in the snow on his account. Beside, he didn’t know what the hell to do with any of that stuff in the bags she’d already brought in. Decorating wasn’t something he’d picked up on in the police academy.
“I’ll get them. You stay here and start unpacking. Put everything wherever you want.” Will shoved his feet into boots sitting by the door on a mat and held his hand out for her keys.
When she put them in his hand, she gave him a strange look, head down, eyes peeking up at him from under her pale eyelashes. “Okay,” she said, and her voice was a little husky, her fingers brushing across his skin.
Holy crap.
Something had just changed between them. Bam. Just like that. It was different. Every day for ten years it had been the same—they were best friends, they cared about each other—but all of a sudden it was off. She was different. A little nervous, hesitant. Sly.
Alright then. This was good. He thought.
Will turned to the door. “I’ll be right back.” Because he was going to run.
CHARLOTTE LET OUT THE BREATH SHE’D BEEN HOLDING when Will went out his front door, his boots loud and aggressive as he obviously jogged down the stairs to the parking lot. She wasn’t sure she could do this. He’d given her a funny look when she’d handed him her keys. Like he knew she was up to something.
Which she was. She had a mistletoe sprig in one of those bags loaded up with lust symbols, and if she were smart, she’d toss it in the trash pronto before Will even came back. And she would not visualize his zipper going down ever again.
If he ever dropped his trousers in front of her it was going to be of his own free will.
Which would be never.
Argh. She was back to the beginning again.
Charlotte yanked a snowman votive out of a box and plunked it down on Will’s coffee table. She was noticing a snowman theme in Bree’s shopping. That was the third happy chunky snowman she’d pulled out in one form or another. No mistletoe in this bag. She turned and searched a different bag. Not in there, either. A quick search revealed it wasn’t in any of the four bags she had hauled into the apartment.
Would it be a bad thing if Will was carrying the bag with the lust-loaded mistletoe? Did he actually have to touch it, or if it was just in his vicinity, would it affect him? Could he be walking up the stairs, suddenly overcome with random lust, encounter the twenty-something waitress in 2B taking out her trash, and think it was her he wanted? Dang, Charlotte should have asked Bree for better instructions. All her sister had told her was to hang it up anywhere. That’s it. Nothing else to go on.
So the only thing she could really do was act normal.
Which wasn’t achieved by her yelling, “Give me those!” and yanking the final three bags out of Will’s hands the second he crossed the threshold.
“Uh…okay.” His eyebrows shot up. “Did I bring the wrong bags or something? I can take this back down if there’s something personal in them.”
Like what? Condoms or sex toys? Her face went hot. She was a wreck. An absolute appalling mess of a woman who was so in love with her best friend she was capable of mentally undoing his clothes. “Your Christmas present is in one of these.”
It was a decent save, pulled straight out of her behind. His face relaxed.
“You shopped for me already? You must really like me.” He swiped his finger over the tip of her nose and gave her a grin.
“I can live with you,” she said, because it was an auto-type response and she was trying desperately to act nonchalant, friendly, and totally nonsexual. Then she realized how exactly that sounded—like she wanted to live with him or something—and mentally kicked herself. Whirling around, she burrowed into a bag, ripping out a couple of red pot holders. Pot holders? Why the hell had Bree thought Will would want festive Christmas pot holders? Will was a guy. He probably used a dishtowel and cussed in pain when he lifted a lid.
“You’d love living with me,” he said, shaking up a snow globe and watching the flakes settle. “You could toss all my boring bachelor furniture and do an extreme home makeover.”
If he only knew how many times she had mentally decorated a house for the two of them, right down to a locker in the garage for his sports equipment and a drawer to lock his gun in. “You would be in for the shock of a lifetime if you let me into this place with the authority to decorate.” And was that her testing the waters? Because she actually felt like she was asking permission, like if he was willing to let her decorate for him, then in some way that indicated an emotional depth greater than friendship. It was a massive leap in logic.
“Why? You have good taste. Classy.” His eyes dropped down to her chest. Briefly. If she hadn’t been hyperaware, she might not have even noticed it. But there was no denying he had looked at her breasts. “Nice sweater, by the way. It fits you really well.”
The lusty green sweater. Holy crap. It was working, because in eight years Will had never once commented on how her clothes sat on her body. “Thanks. It’s new.”
“I know. You’ve never worn it before.” He glanced down at her chest again, she was certain of it. “Green looks good on you.”
“No, it doesn’t. Not really. I look better in red or pastels. But thank you.” Where the hell was that mistletoe? The whole situation was making her nervous as hell. She couldn’t go through with it. She couldn’t sleep with Will to satisfy her own curiosity if he was doing it under the influence of magic. She would be way too aware the entire time that what she was experiencing was false.
“I think you look good in everything, actually. Except for black. You’re too…feminine for black.”
Okay. Charlotte glanced over at the man she’d known for nearly a decade. The mistletoe must go. He was acting random and strange. And he was giving her a look that she knew. Couldn’t misunderstand. She wasn’t naïve nor was she clueless. That was a look of lust. It was in his rich, brown eyes. It was in the way he was standing, legs slightly apart in his jeans, the T-shirt straining over his muscular chest. He’d gone out for the bags without bothering to put on a coat, despite the foot of snow outside, which she found highly sexy. He’d always had very short hair, and it went well with the chiseled cheekbones, stubborn jaw, and the ever-present five o’clock shadow. Will was rugged, the epitome of masculinity, and for the first time in her memory, he was looking at her the way a man looks at a woman when he wants to get in her pants and do bad boy things.
Which aroused, frightened, and confused her. So when in doubt, avoid. “Where would you like to put your Christmas tree?” she asked him, standing straight up and assessing his apartment. “And why haven’t you bought more furniture?” He only had one sofa, a paltry end table, a coffee table, and a flat-screen TV. Half the room was empty. And he had always eaten his meals on the couch or at the
breakfast bar because he had no table and chairs. “You’ve been here almost five years, and you said you were going to decorate about two years ago.”
“I didn’t say decorate.” He tossed the snow globe up in the air and caught it. “I said I was going to get new furniture. Men don’t decorate. They buy stuff and put it in their apartments.”
“Whatever you want to call it, you still haven’t done it.” Charlotte picked up the remote for his iPod and turned it on, searching the menu for Christmas music. He didn’t appear to have any. Big surprise.
“Maybe I’ve been waiting for a woman to help me pick it out.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? He wanted a girlfriend? He had a girlfriend in mind?
“Know anyone who could help me out?”
“What, decorators? Probably.” Will was walking toward her, slow and steady, that look all over his face again. He was confusing her, and she didn’t know what to think, so she backed up slightly.
“I can’t afford to pay much. I was kind of hoping she’d do it out of the kindness of her heart, and so we can spend time together.”
“Did you have someone in mind?” Charlotte wiped her sweaty palms on the front of her jeans, suddenly clued in as to where this was going. Possibly. Maybe. She hoped. Or feared.
“Yep.” He was right in front of her, and the only piece of furniture of any size was somehow right behind her, trapping her against the back of it.
She leaned away from him from the waist up, but he just slid in closer, his legs trapping both of hers.
“I want you.”
Hello. How many times had she wished he would say something like that? Now he had, and he merely meant he wanted her decorating services. Something was really wrong with that. Though honestly, he didn’t look like he had window treatments on his mind.
“I never claimed to be an interior designer.”
“I bet you have plenty of ideas. And you know what I would like. You know me better than anyone.” His hand slipped around her waist.
