The Christmas Cookie Collection

by Lori Wilde

  “I’m fine. I must have forgotten my phone at the Yarn Barn,” Carrie said, feeling irritated. That was one bad thing about living in a small town with your family. It was next to impossible to sneak off for a little hanky-­panky. She speared a hand through her hair, tossed back the errant strands falling into her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Nine o’clock,” Jesse supplied.

  Damn, she would be up until after midnight making fruit salad and cornbread for tomorrow’s stuffing. She and Dad had offered to host the holiday meal this year since Flynn was so pregnant. Her father was frying the turkey, and the rest of the guests were bringing the remaining side dishes.

  “Is that Mark?” Flynn asked, peering over Carrie’s shoulder, one hand resting on her distended belly. “Hello, Mark.”

  Carrie felt Mark come up behind her. He stood so close she could feel his warm breath fanning the hairs at the top of her head.

  “Flynn, Jesse.” Mark’s voice exuded his dimpled grin. She didn’t have to see his face to know that he was smiling from ear to ear.

  “We didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Jesse said, “but you know how worried your sister gets.”

  “You didn’t interrupt anything. Absolutely nothing at all.” Carrie stepped away from Mark and his distracting body heat. “We were just talking.”

  “Uh-­huh.” Jesse’s eyes narrowed knowingly.

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Flynn asked Mark.

  No, no, do not invite him to Thanksgiving dinner.

  “I had planned on having dinner at The Merry Cherub,” Mark answered.

  “Jenny does put on a delicious spread,” Carrie said. “You’ll enjoy it.”

  “Oh, you have to come to dinner with us,” Flynn said, and then turned to Carrie. “For shame, I can’t believe you didn’t invite Mark to Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Was her sister really that clueless? Carrie hadn’t wanted Mark at Thanksgiving dinner because, well, when you invited a date to Thanksgiving that meant something special, and she did not want to send that message.

  “Why, thank you for that generous offer, Flynn.” Mark flicked a mocking gaze over Carrie. “I accept. When and where?”

  “The old family place. You remember where it is. We’re eating around five-­ish.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Great. We’ll see you then.”

  Super. Terrific. Now she was going to have to spend Thanksgiving in the same house with her former husband whom she was still in love with.

  Carrie jammed her hands in her pockets and swallowed hard. Here we go again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The MacGregor house hadn’t changed a bit since Mark had last set foot in it. There was a fresh coat of paint and new draperies in the living room, but that was pretty well the extent of the changes. It made him feel both sad and soothed. It was comforting to know that some things never changed. But it made him realize how out of step he was with this world he’d once been a part of. A world he’d been so anxious to leave behind.

  Why? Had it been merely the restlessness of youth? What had made him long for the trappings of external success? And why, now that he’d achieved everything he’d set out to achieve—­fame, fortune, a fast car, a big house in the L.A. hills, gorgeous women on his arm whenever he wanted them there—­did it seem so empty compared with the rich friendships and strong family ties going on right here in this modest home?

  There was something comforting about consistency. Inside this bustling kitchen, he felt a connection to his roots, and the beautiful young woman lighting the candles at the holiday table had a whole lot to do with it.

  Carrie.

  She entranced him. He couldn’t stop watching her. The graceful way she moved. The way the candle glow caught her hair and brought out the auburn highlights. The saucy little butterfly tattoo on the inside of her wrist. She was exquisite.

  Watching her with her family made his heart feel too big for his chest. Her younger twin brothers, Noah and Joel, teasingly pulled her hair and trash-­talked. Carrie handed it right back to them, telling her brothers’ girlfriends about all their naughty antics.

  Carrie’s father, Floyd, had brought a date as well. Barbara, the local librarian. They were in the early stages of their relationship, casting coy glances at each other from time to time, but clearly love was in the air.

  Flynn and Jesse canoodled in the corner, sharing stolen kisses, murmuring to each other. Occasionally, Jesse would touch his wife’s belly and stare at her with wonder, as if he couldn’t believe he’d married the love of his life and they were about to have a baby.

  I want that, Mark thought. I want that, and I want it with Carrie.

  It was a stunning realization.

  Immediately, his self-­preservation instincts tried to backtrack. Whoa, slow down. You live in L.A. That’s where your job is, and Carrie’s whole life is here. Her business. Her family. Long-­distance relationships never work. You know that.

  Except he couldn’t reconcile what he knew with what he felt. Longing. Desire. Need. Such desperate, hungry need for her.

  He could give up hosting Fact or Fantasy. He’d lucked into the job. It wasn’t anything he’d actively sought out, and he realized now that he enjoyed it for the attention more than anything else. Honestly, he was a bit embarrassed to be hosting a reality show, but the notoriety had gone to his head.

  You used to want to be a novelist.

  Wistful, he remembered the old dream. It was a specter of the old Mark. The same Mark who’d married Carrie.

  It could be the new Mark. Doing what you love. Being with the woman you loved. Finding the real you. Exchange the rat race for the simple life. Back in Twilight. Back in Carrie’s arms.

  Are you nuts? Give up everything for a woman who might not even want you back? Yes, you’ve still got chemistry, but there’s a lot of water underneath that bridge.

  Maybe, maybe, but he had to try. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t try. Since coming back to his hometown, everything had changed for him. The thought of returning to his life in L.A held no appeal. Odd, since he’d stayed away from Twilight because it represented everything he’d lost—­but now, this was where his future lay.

  Carrie glanced up at him. He winked at her. Her cheeks pinked and she ducked her head again.

  “Can I do anything to help?” he asked.

  “Put the rolls on the table.” She pushed a wicker basket of fresh homemade yeast rolls that Barbara had brought as her contribution to the meal into his hands. In the exchange, her knuckles brushed lightly against his fingers and sent a flood of goose bumps spreading over his body.

  Unbelievable! No woman had ever generated that kind of reaction in him. Even after all this time, she had the power to light his fire like no other.

  The meal was sumptuous, and after dinner everyone pitched in to help clean up the kitchen. Noah and Joel scraped scraps into a big pan for the compost heap. The giggling girlfriends, Amber and Ashley (Mark couldn’t keep straight which was which) carried the dishes to the sink, where Carrie was drawing up hot water. Jesse took out the garbage, while Flynn put the leftovers in Tupperware containers. Barbara grabbed the broom and started sweeping up crumbs. Floyd went outside to take care of the turkey fryer.

  “What can I do?” Mark asked, wanting to be treated like part of the family.

  “Dry dishes,” Carrie said. “But you’re going to need an apron so you don’t get that fine suit wet.”

  He’d worn a suit in concession to the holiday. Over the years, he’d developed the habit of overdressing, because he figured it was better to be overdressed than underdressed, but all the other men were in jeans and western shirts and cowboy boots. He slipped out of his suit jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair and rolled up his sleeves.

  Carrie came up behind him, dropped a frilly
blue gingham bib apron over his head and then reached around his waist to gather the strings and tie them.

  Mark had to shut his eyes to fight off his body’s reaction to her touch and he was suddenly grateful to have the apron as camouflage for his stirring erection. Damn! The woman turned him inside out without even trying to be sexy.

  They stood at the sink together. Her washing, him drying, occasionally bumping elbows, while all around them her family laughed and joked. Soap bubbles floated in the air along with the citrusy aroma of lemon-­scented detergent.

  As an only child, he’d never had this kind of family camaraderie. He remembered how much he’d enjoyed the MacGregors, although back then Carrie’s mother had been really sick and the laughter had been muted. The family seemed to have overcome its loss and grief and took joy in simply being together. Mark was jealous of the easiness of their lives.

  The elaborate holiday celebrations he threw in Hollywood paled in comparison. Once in a while his parents came to L.A., but mostly they took a holiday cruise, just as they’d done this year. His family had never been very traditional in that regard. Maybe because there had only been the three of them. He usually threw lavish catered events, his house filled with movers and shakers, but when he got right down to it, there were only a handful of ­people he could call true friends. His line of work attracted status-­seekers and hangers-­on.

  Once the house was spick-­and-­span, Noah and Joel and their girlfriends announced they were going to the movies. Barbara invited Floyd back to her place to watch the football game. Flynn yawned, put her hands to her back, stretched and said she was really tired. Jesse jumped up to get her coat, and within ten minutes, the house was empty except for him and Carrie.

  He couldn’t help feeling her family had orchestrated the whole thing in order to give them some time alone. Carrie looked uneasy.

  “Well,” she said once everyone was gone. “Well.”

  “We’re all alone.”

  “So it seems.”

  They were standing in the big farmhouse kitchen on opposite sides of the table.

  “Do you want me to go?” he asked, his chest tightening up, terrified that she was going to say yes.

  She didn’t answer, didn’t meet his gaze, busied herself with dusting a nonexistent crumb from the table with the hem of her apron. He still had on that silly gingham apron she’d tied around his waist.

  “Carrie?”

  Finally, she raised her chin. “What are we doing, Mark?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “The only thing I know is that I want you.”

  “It’s not that simple, is it?” Her eyes turned murky. Her bottom lip quivered so slightly he barely noticed it. She let out a long sigh and he couldn’t stand being so far away from her.

  He ripped off the apron and stalked across the kitchen toward her. She let out a little squeak of surprise, but she did not run. Of course she wouldn’t run. Carrie MacGregor was the bravest woman he’d ever known.

  Without another word, without another thought, Mark bent and scooped her off her feet. She felt so good in his arms. The best thing in the entire world. He asked her only one question. “Are you still sleeping in the same bedroom?”

  In Mark’s arms, Carrie felt incredibly cherished.

  Don’t fall for it. Won’t last. Can’t last.

  “Carrie,” he murmured. “My sweet, Carrie.” He nibbled her earlobe as he slowly undressed her. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  He’d been her first lover. The template she’d used to gauge all lovers against since, and no one had ever measured up to him. She wanted so much to believe they could have a happy ending. That the silly sweetheart legend was indeed true.

  They were lying naked together, face-­to-­face on her bed, peering deeply into each other’s eyes. The air between them smelled of Thanksgiving.

  Mark’s mouth found hers with unerring accuracy.

  The minute their lips touched, Carrie’s body bloomed like a parched desert flower opening to the rain. Their excited tongues greeted each other. They kissed and kissed and kissed. They were sublime kisses of hope and reunion.

  They melted into each other, the past merging with the future. They knew each other’s bodies so well. Every touch, taste, sound, and smell was forever carved into them.

  Carrie murmured a low sound of pleasure and wrapped an arm around his waist. Mark’s fingers tangled in her hair, his touch hot and fierce. They were like two tuning forks vibrating at the same intense frequency.

  She traced the landscape of his face, her fingertips exalting in the recognizable ridges and planes—­the apples of his cheek, the hollow beneath, the scruff of his hard jaw, the softness of his earlobe. She felt the shape of him. His head, his neck, his sturdy shoulders.

  Time.

  So much time had slipped away from them.

  The time they’d lost, never to recover.

  But they were here now. Touching and tasting. Drunk on each other.

  He gently rolled her onto her back, looked deeply into her eyes.

  Bridged. Transcended. What they’d lost was within their grasp. How did they keep it from slipping away again?

  She still loved him. More than ever before. The time apart added a melancholy richness to their joining, a sad loveliness that hadn’t existed before. She allowed herself to ride the river of pleasure, to surf the tide of hope.

  Dangerous. It was so dangerous to hope.

  His tongue swept her up in the oblivion of pure bliss. A special bliss she believed she would never again experience. Sweeter now.

  He ran hot palms up her bare belly. She arched her back, moaned a soft encouragement. Never mind the danger. Never mind her hopeful heart that was taking such a chance. She had to have him. Could not live without feeling him move inside her one more time.

  Prickles of expectancy rippled from the base of Carrie’s neck, rolled across her face, over her scalp, slipped along her shoulder blades, trickled down her belly to the spot where she burned for him.

  His muscular thighs pressing against her soft ones. His erection hard against her pelvis. Hard and throbbing and big. She’d forgotten exactly how big he was.

  He dipped his head and his mouth found the tip of her hardening nipple. Carrie inhaled sharply at the delicious shock of his warm, moist mouth on her tender breast. She sighed against the magical fusion of electricity and chemistry.

  The stubble of his beard scratched provocatively along her chest as his mouth shifted, seeking to find her other aching nipple. The brilliant sensation sent a set of delectable chills shivering down her spine.

  He sucked gently on her aching nipple. She wriggled her hips against him and smiled when her movements pulled a shuddery groan from his mouth. Lifting his head, he went for her lips again.

  This was so beautiful. So wonderful. To be held in his arms once more. A maelstrom of emotions swirled in her—­jumbled and nonsensical. All the lies she told herself—­how she was long over him, how she didn’t care that he’d never come home—­lies that built hard calluses over the scars of her heart, dissolved into the truth. She still loved him and always would.

  “Carrie?” he asked and pulled back.

  That’s when she realized she was crying. Dammit! Last night she’d managed to fight off the tears, but now without her even knowing it, the maelstrom streamed salty down her face.

  “Babe, what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak. Unable to believe she was crying. She wasn’t a crier. Hadn’t cried one tear since her mother had died. Why was she crying now? Oh, dammit, she was going to ruin the moment. A moment she could never get back.

  “Not,” she managed to squeak. “Crying.”

  “Ah, babe.” He kissed the wetness from her cheeks and she could see a glimmer of tears shining in his eyes. “I know, Babe. I know.”


  Carrie started giggling then. Laughing through the tears. She was happy. Right now she was one hundred percent utterly happy. Nothing at all to cry about. She slipped her arms around his neck, pulled his head down for a long soul-­stirring kiss.

  Her skin quivered beneath the heat of his fingertips. They were both panting and desperate. Her mind was oblivious to anything but this man. He was all around her, lighting fire to her senses. His spicy cologne filled her nose. His quick breathing swept over her ears. The feel of his hard body clouded all objective reasoning. Passion ignited her blood, snatching her up a thick swell of sensation.

  She had to have him or die. Damn the consequences.

  That same thinking got you married in Vegas at the age of seventeen and broken up two days later.

  Apparently she was still as hopelessly addicted to him now as she had been back then. What was this magnetic power he had that made her forget all common sense?

  He kept kissing her, doing devilish things with his tongue. She’d missed this so much. He licked a sizzling trail down her throat, going back to tease her nipples. She sucked in a deep breath and forgot everything but the feel of his tongue against her skin.

  “Hold on,” he whispered.

  She had a brief moment to catch her breath, while he hopped off the bed, found his pants, extracted a condom and was back beside her, rolling it on. He stroked her again, building the fire until she begged him to take her.

  Slowly, in measured increments, he entered her body, and once he was all the way in they drew in a single breath. Together again. Velvet and steel.

  “Mark.” She moaned.

  He moved inside her in a lazy rhythm. Heat spiraled out from her solar plexus, engulfed her. In and out. In and out. Such control. That was new. Back in the day, he’d been Johnny on the spot and jackrabbit quick. She admired his new skills. Maturity had its pluses.

  On and on he went, making slow sweet love to her until she was on the edge of crazy.

  He cooed her name. “You are so damn beautiful.”