The cool way he said it abraded her nerve endings. “But…but…” She craned her neck to get a read of his face. “There’s got to be other duties—”
“Sure. Desk job. Counterfeit work.”
That wasn’t so much to his taste, obviously. “But you said ‘skills.’ Your vision, that’s one skill. What else have you lost?”
He didn’t bother looking at her. His voice went cold and hard. “Nothing you can give me, GND.”
The simple words hit her square in the chest. Back off, he might as well have told her. I don’t want you to know any more about me. She stumbled away, surprised by how much the rebuff hurt. Her palm rubbed the ache between her breasts. She wasn’t supposed to feel pain when it came to Finn.
When it came to any man!
Rattled, but determined to hide the fact from him, Bailey retreated from the ladder and moved toward the front of the house. Maybe a glass of water or one of the Christmas cookies she’d brought home from the bakery would settle her back down.
A luxurious motor home rolled to a stop across the street. That wouldn’t have caught her attention without the pumping strains of “Start Me Up” blasting from the half-open driver’s window. Her stomach clenched, tight enough to make her belly ache along with her chest.
A man with a lion’s mane of gray hair leaped out, exuding enough energy and charisma to replace his beloved Mick on any concert stage. “Bailey!” he crowed as he jogged across the street.
She hadn’t seen or spoken to him in two and a half years.
“How the hell are you, little girl?” He enfolded her in a sinewy embrace.
Her mouth moved into a smile. It always did. Even when she’d been dragging his suitcase to the car for him as he prepared to leave her forever, she remembered smiling at her daddy.
She’d smiled at him maybe a dozen times since: often at Christmas when he’d drop by without warning. Once on her mother’s birthday—he’d mixed it up with Bailey’s. At her high school graduation.
Her father moved back, clapping his palms together in his hearty way. “Surprised, huh?”
Her smile flitted again. “Surprised.”
“But tell me this is a good time to visit.” He propped his fists on his hips.
“A great time. It’s always great to see you.”
It was always great to be reminded of the hard lessons of a lifetime, she told herself, especially when the two men who had meant the most in hers were suddenly so close again.
Taking a step away from her father, she checked over her shoulder. Finn was still high on the ladder. The distance from the both of them made it easier to breathe.
* * *
Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas
Facts & Fun Calendar
December 18
England’s King Henry III was known to put a merchant out of business if he didn’t like the size of his end-of-year cash gift.
* * *
Chapter 18
Finn watched Bailey close the door to The Perfect Christmas, the bells on the handle chiming cheerfully, in direct contrast to the scowl on her face. “Thank God that’s over,” she said, peering through the glass at the thirty four-year-olds marching down the short front walk. “I’ll need at least the next hour until we open to wipe their finger smudges off everything.”
She made her way toward his place by the cash register, then stopped short by one of the round display tables, her scowl deepening. “Will you look at this? Somebody mixed up the reindeer ornaments. Now the antlered ones and the ones without antlers are all mixed up.”
Finn rubbed his chin. “I think I noticed a few of your, uh, guests playing with them. They wanted to start some reindeer families.”
Bailey looked up. “What?”
“How else are you going to make reindeer babies?”
Shaking her head, she started resorting the ornaments into their side-by-side baskets. “Who invited the little Santaholics anyway?” she muttered. “It’s not as if any of them had a dime in their itty-bitty pockets to spend. We need cash flow, not a crowd of penniless browsers.”
Preschoolers, penniless browsers. Okay. Finn swallowed his grin and threaded his way through the displays. God, he couldn’t resist her, not her smiles, not her scowls, not even her bad temper over being stuck with the store this Christmas. Yeah, he was still having his own bad moments, times when he felt like he was an eyelash away from putting his fist through a wall, but just a stroke of Bailey’s skin, the touch of her lips eased his edginess.
She was the channel for all his frustrated energy.
Standing behind her, he brushed the hair away from her nape so he could kiss the soft, warm skin, and tried to keep the laughter out of his voice. “Wouldn’t that be you?”
Her fingers went lax at the touch of his lips. She leaned her head back against his chest and he kissed her temple and then licked the lobe of her ear. She shivered. “Wouldn’t that be me, what?”
“Who invited the Santaholics in?” She was melting like butter against him and he cupped her shoulders, then ran his hands down her arms so they could link fingers. “Wasn’t that you who came in early today to host this special visit?”
“I came in early today, but I didn’t invite them to make this ‘special visit.’ That would be the bedpan-wielding battle-ax Mrs. Mohn. It was a reflex from the days when she was my school principal. I had to say yes when she phoned. She has a mean voice.”
And you don’t have a mean bone in this pretty little body of yours, no matter how hard you try to make people believe it. Finn snuggled his cheek against hers. “Admit you liked them here, GND. Admit you love The Perfect Christmas.”
She stiffened in his arms. “Give me a break. You know how I feel about this place. About the whole stupid season.”
He thought he really did know and suddenly it seemed imperative for her to admit it. “Bailey—”
“Let’s talk about you instead.” She pulled free of him and spun around, crossing her arms at her chest. “How did your dinner go last night?”
“Fine.” Damn it, she was dodging. And damn it, he was dodging too, but this was his line of questioning and he needed to follow it through. “But let’s get back to—”
“You.” She dropped her defensive arms and moved forward to wrap them around him instead. Her smile was as much crafty as it was seductive. “You left my inner sex fiend panting yesterday. You had her all hepped up with no place to go.” She rubbed her hips against his, the witch. “Or come, as the case may be.”
He groaned, knowing any protest was futile. He was a goner against this grown-up GND. “Bailey…” She cut off further words by drawing his head down and sliding her tongue into his mouth. Heat rocketed up his spine and his hands splayed along her back.
“I’ll make it up to you now,” he said against her mouth. His lips trailed to the sweet spot behind her ear. “Don’t make me wait until tonight.”
She stiffened against him again. “I’m…I’m afraid I have something I have to do tonight.”
“What?”
“My, uh, father stopped by the house yesterday.” She pushed his chest away. “When you were dealing with the lights.”
“I didn’t see Dan.”
She shook her head. “Not Dan. My real father. He shows up from time to time. The law firm told him where he could find me and he stopped by on his way to go beach camping in Mexico. He wants to take me out to dinner tonight.”
There was a weird, forced little smile on her face, which caused Finn’s sixth sense to start whispering in his ear. “Maybe—”
The jingle of the front door bells broke in. They turned their heads, then separated from each other as two people—a woman and a little boy—entered the store.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” the woman said. She had on red sweat pants and a white sweatshirt. An official-looking badge from Beachside Preschool was pinned on her collar and stated her name was “Miss Michele.” Her mouth pursed and she sighed as she glanced dow
n at the scruffy charge by her side. “Angel has something to say to you.”
Naming her son Angel must have been wishful thinking on his mother’s part. If his dark, wavy hair had been clean and combed at some point, he’d long ago found some sand to rub through it. There was a rip in the pocket of his shorts, and the neck of his stained T-shirt was stretched out as if he’d been hanging from it.
His black-lashed eyes were trained on the toes of his grubby sneakers that had parted company with the soles. If Finn had to guess, he’d say the kid was pretending he was somewhere else.
Miss Michele gripped the little boy’s upper arm, giving it an impatient shake. “Angel?” She cast an apologetic look at Bailey. “This one causes us trouble.”
Finn felt himself twitch. This one causes us trouble. The class would be quiet if it wasn’t for this one. This one got us all kicked out of the museum. We’d have peace in the family, Rita, if it wasn’t for this one.
Frowning, Bailey flicked him a glance as if she’d noticed his reaction, then she crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her gaze between Angel’s face and Miss Michele’s. “What’s the problem?”
Miss Michele shook the little boy again. “An—”
“You can let go of him.” Bailey had enough ice in her voice to build igloos at the North Pole. Finn didn’t know if she was pissed at the woman, the kid, the interruption of her morning’s work, or all three. “Just tell me why you came back.”
“One of the other children let us know he broke something,” Miss Michele answered, dropping the little boy’s arm.
Bailey gazed around the room. “Broke what?”
Still staring at his toes, the kid dug his fingers in the pocket that wasn’t ripped. Out came a palm-sized, ceramic figurine of Santa Claus, now decapitated. He held the two pieces out in both grubby hands.
“The children were told not to touch anything,” Miss Michele intoned.
Bailey face appeared etched in stone. “I remember. I believe I was the one who made that request.” She stepped forward and the little kid jolted back, as if expecting a slap.
Finn froze. Then he shot a look at Bailey, wondering if she’d read it as he had.
“Accident,” the kid mumbled. “Didn’t mean to.”
Miss Michele sighed, looking less of an ogre now, and more just worn out. “Yes, well, Angel, you sure have a lot of didn’t-mean-to moments. The preschool’s sorry, Ms. Sullivan, and I’m sure Angel is too.”
It was Bailey’s turn to say something. “I—”
“Santa won’t bring me nuthin’ will he?” Angel’s words rushed out and he looked up, his gaze latching on to Bailey like a laser beam.
She stilled—the pose of a deer hoping she’d be lost in the forest camouflage.
“My brother says there’s no such thing as Santa. And that my mom won’t bring us nuthin’ either.” Angel didn’t blink. “What do you say?”
Slowly, oh-so-damn-slowly, Bailey turned her head and looked at Finn.
He didn’t know what the hell she was thinking, but he could imagine any number of things she might say in response to the boy.
You might as well find out now, kid…
Nothing in life comes for free…
Or perhaps what she’d told Finn in his loft that fateful night: We thought it was magic. But there’s no such thing.
His gut clenched, his breath backing up in his lungs.
With a little shrug, she turned her gaze back on the boy. “Angel. Buddy.” She took the ceramic pieces out of the boy’s hands and fitted them back together. Then she held up the almost-as-new figurine. “All I can tell you…” She cleared her throat, started again. “All I can tell you is that you just gotta believe.”
Finn and Angel exhaled in identical relieved puffs of air. Even Miss Michele had her holiday face back on. Finn walked the boy and the woman to the front door. The two left for the Beachside Preschool with a happy jingle of the front bell. He thought he saw the little guy skip a couple of times down the sidewalk.
He turned around to find Bailey at the front counter, organizing the already organized space. “GND—”
“Do me a favor. Call that preschool. Get that boy’s last name. Get his brother’s name. And see if you can charm them into an address.”
He stared at her, silenced.
Her head jerked up. She pinned him with glittering eyes. “What? What are you thinking? Did you suppose I was going to spread my cynicism instead of holiday cheer? Thanks a lot.”
“Bailey—”
“He was just a little boy!”
A little boy with a label Finn knew only too well. He’d noticed the child during the class’s visit to the store, because he’d recognized the kid’s buzz of energy, his too-big movements, the way the teachers rode herd on him before he even had a chance to breathe.
And still he’d broken something.
Finn had broken dozens of things in just that very same way, until he’d stopped caring about the “bad” label they’d given him and started embracing it instead. Then had come Bailey.
Never impressed with his bad-ass attitude. Never put off by it either. He supposed he’d fallen in love with her that very first day when she’d sprayed his sullen, sorry face with a blast of cold hose water.
And, he realized now, his heart slamming to a stop, he was still in love with her today.
Finn hung around The Perfect Christmas the rest of the day but steered clear of Bailey, which was easy enough to do because there were customers all over the store, not to mention the welcome—though surprising—presence of both of the surfing sales kids. He could have gone back to Gram’s, but she was spending the day doing a salon thing with her friend Jeanette. He could have gone back to Gram’s anyway and used the alone time to dissect his reaction to dinner the night before.
The job offer. The very nice money that went along with it. The notion of never being a Secret Service agent again.
Trying to forget about that, he could have gone to Hart’s and hit the booze. A few drinks to take the sting away and smooth out all his rough edges.
But neither peace and quiet nor company and whiskey would help erase the latest screw-up in his life. When he was supposed to be plastering over ten months of uninvited emotions, he’d just added another lethal feeling to the mix.
Love. For Bailey.
Fuck.
His throat felt dry at the thought, and he reconsidered a quick trip to the bar. That first shot would go down quick and the beer chaser would go down easy. But no, there was something that scared him more than the idea that she still had his heart, and it kept him nearby.
He was afraid she was going to run from him again.
Late afternoon, he was outside the back of the store, looking for fresh air and some hope that he wasn’t really once more at the mercy of the woman who’d already eviscerated him. A car stopped in the narrow alley with its “No Parking” signs, and Bailey’s mother, Tracy, slipped out.
Her face registered the same surprise he felt. “Oh,” she said. “Uh, Finn.”
He sketched a wave. “Mrs. Willis.” His gut cramped. Her mother’s return to working at The Perfect Christmas would send Bailey speeding to her other life for sure. She’d be gone—poof—before he figured out how to hack out of himself the part that still belonged to her. “Back at the store?”
“No.” The word was quick. “I’m only dropping off some things.”
Relieved, of course he volunteered to help her with them. So he let her load him up with an armful of boxes.
“For the Grandma’s Attic room she told me about,” Tracy explained, as she held open the door that led to the rear storeroom for him. “I had some things tucked away that came from who-knows-where. She might be able to use them.”
“You like the idea of selling vintage?” he asked.
A smile flitted across Bailey’s mother’s face. “It’s a very Bailey idea. Timely. Smart…”
“Profitable,” they said together. Shared a smile.<
br />
He set the boxes on the room’s worktable as Tracy sidled up to the half-open door that led to the downstairs display rooms. He followed her there, watching her watch her daughter at the front register. For all her anti-Christmas rhetoric, Bailey didn’t appear unhappy to ring up yet another sale.
“She fits here,” Tracy murmured. “More than at that cutthroat law firm she runs.”
Finn cocked a brow. “She can be pretty cutthroat herself.” He had the old scars to prove it, and worried like hell he was on his way to only more wounds.
“Sometimes…sometimes people hold the knife, keeping others away to avoid being hurt themselves.”
“But Bailey—” He swallowed his words as Tracy jerked, sucking in a gasp. “What?”
Her gaze trained on the older man striding through the front door, she edged back, her heels just missing Finn’s toes. But he wasn’t giving an inch, not when it was obvious something was up. Not only was Tracy’s body quivering, but so was his sixth sense’s antennae.
Bailey was wearing that weird forced smile again. “Dad!” he heard her say to the newcomer.
The lean man had a headful of wind-tousled gray hair and a careless smile. He beamed it about the room as he turned in a circle. “I haven’t been in here in twenty years.”
“Twenty-three,” Tracy murmured.
“I thought you weren’t picking me up for dinner until six,” Bailey said, her voice sounding thin and anxious. “I can’t leave right now.”
The other man—her dad—turned back to her, his smile no less dim. “Ah, here’s the deal, honey.”
Bailey’s face betrayed no emotion as he gave her a litany of excuses. People he promised to meet for margaritas. A possible business deal in the making. No raincheck because he was on his way first thing in the morning after overnighting at a local state beach campground.
Must Love Mistletoe Page 19
