Christmas With You

by Tracey Alvarez

  Instead of sitting, West perched on the edge of the desk. “My mother rang after an interesting phone call from Betsy Taylor.”

  The creases on his brow chased away the last feel-good-pheromones floating around her body. Double-dammit. She’d forgotten about her landlady. She bit down the urge to apologize for boinking a staff member, because she didn’t owe West squat. Unlike Del, her brother in every way that mattered, West had never made any secret of the fact he didn’t want her around.

  “Mrs. Taylor told your mom about me and Kip?”

  “I believe she used the term holiday romance,” West said. “And she wanted your mother to ask me to have a little talk with Kip.” An eyebrow rose. “To make sure his intentions were honorable.”

  Carly had no freaking idea if Kip had any kind of intentions toward her, let alone honorable ones. A lead weight settled in her stomach at the thought. Maybe Mrs. Taylor was right. Maybe this was a holiday romance, over once Christmas Day blasted by.

  She swallowed hard and met West’s gaze. “My relationship with Kip doesn’t concern you, as long as I’m doing my job well, and I am.”

  “I’m not talking to you as your employer—”

  “It’s the only way you talk to me.” Embarrassing even having this conversation with West—how dare he imply their relationship was based on anything other than business? The feel-good-pheromones were replaced by red-hot-temper. “You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear. You barely tolerate me as an employee, you don’t consider me a friend, and you can’t even say stepsister without pulling a face. So don’t pretend you give a crap about me and Kip having a holiday romance.”

  “Is that what the two of you are doing?” West’s voice grew pitchy and strained.

  “I. Don’t. Know.” She glared at him. “You haven’t earned the right to ask. You want me to listen to some advice about what the hell I’m doing sleeping with Kip Sullivan?”

  West got a pinched look on his face, which inflamed her temper more.

  She stabbed a finger at him. “Then get Del in here, because at least when he yells, I know it’s because he loves me—not because he’s still got a stick up the ass about something our parents did thirteen years ago.”

  “If your father hadn’t married my mother, she might’ve brought Del home.”

  Carly’s heart clenched. “You know that’s not true,” she said softly. “Stewart Island was never home to Claire, and she and my dad really loved each other.”

  He shoved his hands into his hair, after a moment dragging them down his face. “Shit. Sorry. I’m outta line.”

  “You missed your brother and your mum, and I understand. But for me, the day Dad and your mom got married, the day I got a big brother, well, it was the happiest day of my life.”

  With a grunt, West walked around to sit behind his desk.

  “I’d asked Santa for a new mom and brothers or sisters for Christmas—I thought he’d come through.” She’d even bugged her dad for a while about why West couldn’t come and live with them in LA. “I never considered the cost to the rest of Claire’s family in New Zealand.”

  “Why would you? You were just a kid. And I guess I’m a jackass for subconsciously blaming you for it.”

  “Yep.”

  He sighed, propping his chin on his fists. “So. How do we do this brother-sister thing? Because I have no fucking clue.”

  “You need to give me a chance to be part of your family.”

  “How would that work in practical terms?”

  Jeez, bowl her over with enthusiasm. She shrugged. “I’ve been trying for so long to get through to you, maybe it’s time you man up and figure it out.”

  West cracked a grin, swiveling his office chair from side to side. “Man up, huh?”

  She arched her brows and stared down her nose. “Was that all you wanted? To ask inappropriate questions about me and Kip?”

  “Pretty much. And to tell you Del and I are prepared to take him down if he misbehaves. Just say the word.”

  “Seriously? Threatening the guy I’m sleeping with?” Carly hid a smile as West grimaced. “Clichéd big-brother reaction, much?”

  West folded his arms on the desk. “Like I said, I don’t know how to do this. If you want a sitcom brother who hugs and babies you while making charming wisecracks, I’m not your guy. I’ve never had a sister, but I married the woman who was like one to me growing up. If anyone dissed her or her friends, they’d be in a world of trouble, but I don’t treat those women like precious snowflakes—unless someone hurts them. So, if you still want me as your brother, you take me OTT, protective instincts and all.” He flicked a glance over her shoulder to the door. “Those cans behind the bar aren’t going to restock themselves, by the way.”

  With an eye-roll, Carly muttered, “Yeah yeah,” and flounced out of the office.

  Warmth spread through her chest, as feel-good-pheromones flooded back. Sitcom brothers were overrated; she’d take OTT protective but authentic any day.

  Chapter 10

  Kip lay sprawled on his back, blood thundering through his ears, wondering if he should Google the odds of a twenty-seven-year old man having a coronary episode after morning sex.

  Carly, tucked against his side, ran a hand down his stomach. “Seven times in three days. Must be a record.”

  He stared at the ceiling, panting like a greyhound after a race. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll make it an even eight.”

  She pressed a kiss on his chest. “You’ll tire yourself out on your big day. Happy birthday, Christmas miracle.”

  Grabbing one of her sweet butt cheeks, he pulled her closer. “Will you roll your eyes if I tell you you’re my Christmas miracle?”

  She giggled. “Yes. But it’s nice to hear.” She wriggled upright. “And since we’re awake and you need recovery time, I’ll get on with making your birthday breakfast.”

  “I’d rather you stay here and let me have something else for my birthday.”

  He leaned forward and captured the tempting peach-colored tip of her breast in his mouth. God, she tasted divine. If he could bottle her essence in a liqueur, men would queue up at Due South for a taste. Not that he bloody planned to share.

  Carly moaned, as his tongue flicked her nipple into a hardened bud. His cock jerked under the sheet. Make it a minute. Her fingers fisted in his hair and dragged his face away.

  “Pancakes,” she said, whiskey-colored eyes gleaming in the shaft of sunlight beaming through the cracks of the window drapes. “With whipped cream, fresh strawberries, and syrup.”

  He poked out his tongue and waggled it at her breast. “I’ve got a better idea for what we can do with the whipped cream.”

  Carly laughed, turning his insides to mush. Was it possible to become addicted to a woman’s laugh—to her warmth, beauty, and spirit—in such a short amount of time? She pressed her lips to his, a lingering kiss that finished the job of waking him up entirely.

  “Sweetheart…” he said, but she’d already pulled away.

  “Breakfast first, and then I’ll let the birthday boy play with the leftover whipped cream.”

  She slid off the bed, giving his cock another wake-up call with a display of her naked curves, helping herself to his tee shirt, which he’d tossed onto a chair when they’d stumbled inside after their shift together last night. A celebratory night in with champagne—since Due South was closed over Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day. Three days to wrangle non-stop play-time with his sinfully sexy redhead.

  Clattering noises drifted through the open bedroom door. The fridge opened and closed. He let his eyelids drift shut at the sound of a whisk meeting the sides of a metal bowl. Maybe a power-nap while Carly got the batter ready, then he’d go out and give her a hand. His lips curved. Or maybe two hands.

  The mattress bounced underneath him, jerking him out of a light doze.

  “Kip. Kip.”

  Carly shook his arm, her eyes wild, darting panicked glances over her shoulder.


  “Wha—?”

  “Get up, get up!”

  Laughter bubbled in his gut, and he gestured down at himself where he tented the sheet. “Baby, I am. C’mere—” He reached for her, only to have his hand slapped away.

  She ripped the sheet off with one hand and shoved at his chest with the other. “Your father’s walking down the road!”

  The cold air on his bare skin didn’t tame his raging hard-on, but the news his dad was outside was a bit of a boner-killer. Still…“We’ve nothing to be embarrassed about, and Dad’s pretty open-minded.”

  Carly picked up a pillow and smacked it into his face. “Your nephews and niece are with him, too. Move your ass!”

  An effective means of both killing his libido and propelling his butt out of bed. He pulled on a pair of shorts in record time, and bolted for the door, pausing to toss over his shoulder, “I’ll get rid of them—don’t go anywhere.”

  He flung open the front door before his father, with Logan and Lucas beside him carrying gift-bags, could knock. Kip stepped out onto the deck and closed it after him. Hopefully, his dad would take the damn hint.

  “Happy birthday, Uncle Kip,” the twins shouted, loud enough to startle a tui out of a nearby flax bush. They thrust the balloon-printed gift-bags into his hands.

  “Thanks, guys. You shouldn’t have.” He took the bags and raised his gaze to his father. “Really shouldn’t have.”

  His dad grinned and patted the boys’ shoulders. “Ah, well, they were up early and causing mayhem waiting to give you your birthday presents. Grace and I volunteered to bring them down.”

  His niece gave an epic eye-roll, and then her lips peeled wide in a sly smile.

  “Uncle Kip?” Lucas tugged on his shorts and pointed to the big windows looking in on Kip’s living area and kitchen. “Something’s burning.”

  Kip whirled. A stream of smoke coiled out from a frying pan on his stove. “Shi—shitake!” He dived inside and flicked the element off under one very burnt pancake.

  “Look, boys, your uncle’s making pancakes for breakfast. Shall we join him?”

  Kip’s father’s voice sounded from directly behind him, of course, because trying to keep James Sullivan’s nose out of Kip’s business was wasted effort.

  His nephews answered with a chorus of excited squeals.

  “Well, well, look who else will be joining us,” his dad said.

  Kip followed his dad’s gaze to the small window overlooking the side yard and road, to where a mussed-haired Carly, dressed in a rumpled Due South polo shirt and black pants, crept along the house.

  Before he could warn her, his dad added in a megaphone-loud voice, “It’s Carly.”

  The name put a rocket under the twins’ feet, and they hurtled out of Kip’s front door, yelling for her. Kip watched through the glass, as Logan and Lucas raced to her side, grabbed a hand each, and towed her toward the house. Their eyes met as she allowed the boys to tug her inside.

  Her cheeks flushed a pretty rose, she glanced from James to Grace and back to Kip. “I’m here to wish Kip a happy birthday.”

  “Mighty nice of you to get up so early to do so,” his dad said.

  Carly’s cheeks got substantially redder.

  Logan tugged on her Due South shirt. “How come you’re wearing your uniform? Poppa said the hotel’s shut until after Christmas.”

  Her gaze shot left. “I, ah, love the color of my shirt so I decided to wear it again today.”

  Lucas tugged on the other side of her shirt. “Didn’t you bring Uncle Kip a birthday present? We did—see?” He pointed at the gift bags.

  “Oh, well, er…dang. No, I didn’t.”

  The twins looked scandalized, and Grace snorted. As pretty as Carly looked all pink and flustered, he couldn’t let his family tease her anymore. “She doesn’t need to give me a present, but how about we have breakfast? I was making myself pancakes when you all arrived.”

  Carly’s shoulders sagged. “I’d love to. Thanks.”

  His dad clapped Kip on the back. “Nothing says happy birthday to me like a stack of heart-shaped pancakes, eh, son? Kind of you to share.”

  Kip sighed, as two excitable five year olds, a snickering teenager, and his father—wearing a big-ass smirk—took over his kitchen. Divide the bowl of whipped cream on the bench by six hungry people, and there wouldn’t be much left over for later.

  Happy-frickin’-birthday to him.

  ***

  Mission five was underway.

  Three heads bent over a small patch of garden at his parents’ rental property—one with hair that trapped sunbeams and spilled fire across her shoulders.

  “Come on, Uncle Kip,” Lucas said, crouched by Carly’s right side.

  “You found the magic jellybeans, so you have to help, too,” Logan said on her right. “And after we’ve planted the beans, Mummy said we can all have ice-cream.”

  Speaking of cream—and not the two extra bottles Carly had the foresight to stock—his woman needed some more SPF 30 applied to her nose.

  They’d rolled out of bed just before midday, had a full-on Sullivan lunch, and then spent the afternoon horsing around on the beach. Countless swims, games of cricket and volleyball, and constant sand-in-the-butt-crack thanks to rolling around in his board shorts with the twins. And all the time, sneaking glances at Carly in her modest, but oh-so-sexy swimsuit. Good times. Good, good times.

  Kip crouched beside Logan and tousled his hair.

  The boy squinted up at him, holding out his palm with six sand-speckled jellybeans in the center of it. “What do we do now?”

  “Carly’s the expert. She told me the elves used to drop off magic jellybeans on Christmas Eve when she was a kid.”

  Eyes swiveled to Carly.

  “They did?” asked Lucas. “And did they really turn into candy canes the next morning?”

  Carly nodded. “Every time. But when you plant the beans you have to say the magic words, or it doesn’t work.”

  She dragged a finger through the loose topsoil, and the boys placed their beans in the groove.

  After they’d patted the earth back into place, Carly said, “Now we hold hands, close our eyes, and think of our happiest Christmas memories. Then I’ll say the magic words.”

  Both boys obediently grabbed her hands and squeezed their eyes shut.

  She glanced over, and catching his stare, raised a brow. He winked and closed his eyes, little fingers clasping his palm. Slitting open an eyelid, he lost his breath. Carly’s chin tilted toward the horizon, and a single tear traced down her cheek as her voice, clear and strong, wrapped around them.

  Kip’s heart rolled over in a barrel dive. Movement in his peripheral vision snatched his focus from Carly to the house behind. Up on the balcony overlooking the garden and beach stood his parents, their arms around each other, watching the four of them with unmistakable smiles on their faces.

  Were they doing what he thought they were doing? Kip didn’t need psychic abilities to know they were.

  His mother had been match-making all along.

  ***

  With a belly full of roast lamb and Pavlova from dinner—not to mention the birthday cake, served before the kids were hustled off to bed—Kip lounged in an armchair. Maybe he’d only imagined his parents’ smugness when he’d caught them watching him and Carly plant jellybeans earlier. And hell, it wasn’t as if he didn’t want to be matched with the woman squeezed between Lizzie and Steve on the three-seater couch. He couldn’t seem to think of any woman other than Carly.

  Adam had the unenviable job of getting the twins to sleep, while Tara and Grace went for a walk along the beach, and Vee settled Ruby in her room. His father poured them a whiskey, while his mum handed Carly a frothy glass of egg-nog—made especially for her. Burned his ass a little that he could tell the gesture both touched and saddened her. Anyone would think they were a lot more serious than just casually…hooking up? Is that what they’d been doing?

  Kip sipped his whiskey
, keeping his gaze trained on the fairy lights covering the Christmas tree—stacks of gifts now piled underneath. Not wise to ponder such things when his parents kept exchanging glances.

  His mother sat in the armchair next to his. “Honey, there’s one last present we wanted to give you today.”

  “God, you are so spoiled, baby brother,” Lizzie grumbled.

  Carly shot him a small smile, and the knot of ice forming in his gut melted a little.

  “Mum, you’re making my sisters jealous. You know reminding them I’m your favorite makes them bitchy.”

  Lizzie poked out her tongue.

  His dad, sitting in the opposite armchair, cleared his throat. “It’s not that kind of present.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Your mum and I have done a lot of thinking since you’ve been gone, and we understand now why you left. We were still treating you like a teenager, not the man you’d grown to be. You wanted to do things your way without following orders from me, but I refused to listen until it was too late, and you felt you had no choice but to leave. So, once calving is over in July, I’m retiring and handing the farm reins over to you, Kip—where they rightfully belong.”

  His mum squeezed his arm. “You can come back and do what you love, and this time, you’ll be in charge.”

  Every single hair on Kip’s nape spiked to attention, as if someone had dumped ice cubes down his shirt. For a moment, he was speechless, blinking dumbly at his parents’ earnest expressions. His gaze switched to Carly’s wide-eyed shock, and the frost slicking down his spine turned to liquid fire.

  “Back to my old bedroom, I guess, since the two cottages are occupied?”

  Heather chuckled, oblivious to the tension firing through Kip’s body. “Oh, no, honey. Barry is moving out of one of the cottages to live with his new fiancée, so you can base yourself there. Or in the big house. Dad and I are down-grading to a smaller property, so there’ll be plenty of room for you and”—his mother’s warm smile aimed toward Carly on the couch—“whoever you like, to spread out.”

  “Ah.” He ignored the warmth coiling through him at the thought of waking to Carly in his bed each morning. “Room for a wife and two-point-five kids then?”