Just In Time for Christmas

by Kim Boykin

  She undressed him with little gasps every time a piece of clothing hit the floor. She whipped back the covers, pushed him down on the bed and crawled on top of him. Sitting astride him, she unclasped her bra and leaned forward, kissing him. Rocking against his erection. Nipping at his bottom lip. Driving him out of his mind. “You’d better have a condom,” she whispered.

  His turn to take over. “I’m not sure there are enough condoms.” She laughed when he flipped her onto her back. “But I never disappoint a lady.”

  A look crossed her face that seemed out of place. She put her hand on his chest. “I don’t share, Logan.”

  “You don’t have to share. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. It just took us a damn long time to get here.” He sucked her nipple in his mouth. She arched into him, moaning, rocking her hips. His fingers trailed to the tiny scrap of lace between her legs, and she stopped his hand. Moved it to her belly.

  “I don’t share with anybody, Logan.”

  “God, Miranda. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you. There is no one else.”

  “There’s Candice.”

  “What? You suddenly feel bad about some girl on the Internet because we’re going to finally make love?” Had he really said make love?

  “She’s a problem,” she said, rolling away from him and pulling the sheet up to her neck. “I feel bad. She paid a lot of money for a date with you. What if—”

  “I promise, she’s not a problem,” he said, taking her hand that was clutching the sheet. He kissed her fingertips and sucked lightly on the last one, making her moan. “I’m crazy about you.” He slid the sheet down to worship her body. “I’ve always been crazy about you.”

  “She. Is. A. Problem, Logan,” she said steadily, covering herself.

  “Jesus, Miranda. She can’t be a problem.”

  “But she is to me.”

  “She’s not a problem because she’s not real.”

  The world stopped for a moment as she took in his words. The words he’d wanted to tell her for weeks. In the beginning, she probably would have gotten a kick out of him trying to keep Pammy from winning the date. But every time he promised himself he would tell her, she’d messaged Candice, him, and he was able to pull a little more out of her about what she thought of him.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, I knew Pammy was going to win. The last thing I wanted was to go out with her. So, I put in a ridiculous bid I knew she’d never match. I did it for you.”

  “Jesus, Logan, it was one date,” she bit out. “It wasn’t like you were being auctioned off for good.”

  “But I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you. Why the hell do you think I shelled out all that money? Joined a damn committee? All of this has been for you.”

  “But you lied to me.”

  He opened his mouth to protest.

  “Don’t you dare say a word. You baited me. Made me say things—”

  “What? Things you felt? I didn’t make you say anything.”

  “I can’t trust you,” she threw back the sheet. “Get out of my bed, Logan.”

  “What? Miranda. No. I love you.” Shit. Had he really said it? Yeah, he did, and he did love her.

  “You don’t love me, Logan. Get out. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  “You don’t mean that. Please, Miranda, don’t do this.” God, was he begging. He wasn’t down on his knees, but, yes, he was. “Please.”

  “Get out.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‡

  “You’re biased,” Miranda snapped, uncorking a bottle of chardonnay. Two days before Christmas, all of the Chicks had gathered at Hannah’s home for their annual Christmas Eve Eve party. An unbelievable spread of food was laid out along side a bowl of Dusty’s famous peach champagne punch.

  “I’m having punch,” Darcy said, helping herself.

  “I’ll have the chard,” Stacia said, holding her glass for Miranda to fill.

  “And maybe I am a little biased,” Darcy continued, “because I have a Mauldin in my bed.”

  “Stop bragging,” Emma huffed playfully. “You’re always bragging about your super sexy fiancé.”

  “I’m just saying that whatever happened with Logan, he loves you. He obviously screwed up, and he is miserable without you.”

  “Logan’s hot. On the Six Chick scale,” Emma said, “He’s a—”

  Miranda glanced in the living room mirror. Her face was flushed with jealousy. Or maybe it was the wine. But it was a free country, Emma could lust after whomever she wanted.

  “He doesn’t love me,” Miranda said, flatly. “And he never had me.”

  “Oh, God, he didn’t do you? Left you high and—not dry? No wonder you’re acting like the Grinch,” Hannah grinned. “Want me to get my gun?”

  “I am not acting like the Grinch,” Miranda snapped. “And if anybody’s going to shoot Logan Mauldin, it’s gonna be me.”

  “I’m calling bullshit,” Shelby said.

  “Don’t,” Miranda said, knowing full well that when one Chick calls bullshit against another, by oath, she’s forced to spill. The truth. But Miranda wasn’t even sure what the truth was anymore.

  “Yes, I can, and I am,” Shelby pointed her empty punch glass at Miranda. “Bullshit. You tell us what has your Magnolia Bay bloomers in a twist this instant.”

  “It’s that Candice girl,” Stacia said, “isn’t it? She paid a boatload of money for Logan. He went out with her and you’re jealous.”

  Miranda looked at the Chicks. Shelby cleared her throat to draw attention to herself. “Bullshit,” she coughed.

  “Oh, all right,” Miranda threw back her drink. “Everything was fine. Actually, everything was wonderful and hot and we were so close to finally—. To having sex.”

  “And?” Dusty prodded.

  “And I told him I don’t share.”

  “Well, you don’t,” Hannah said, “none of us do.”

  “I was peeling his clothes off when I suddenly felt kind of bad that Candice girl had shelled out all that money to my mom’s foundation.”

  “Two thousand dollars is a shit load of money for one date,” Emma said. “But it wasn’t like the foundation was whoring him out.”

  “No. But I didn’t want him to go out with Candice.” Or anyone but her. Ever. “So I stopped him.”

  “And just how far had you gotten when you stopped him,” Darcy said, in her best lawyerly voice.

  “I’d just asked him for a condom.”

  “No wonder, Logan’s been so pissy,” Darcy said. “Trent came home the other night, wanting to kill him. Said if he hadn’t left the bar, he would have.”

  “So, what happened?” Stacia asked.

  “He said it was okay because there was no Candice. He’d made her up. He’d bid on himself because he didn’t want to go out with Pammy or anyone. He wanted me.”

  “But you said you messaged Candice all the time,” Hannah said. “I saw you message her.”

  “Yeah, and he messaged me back. I spilled my guts to him; I said things I wouldn’t have if I’d known it was him.”

  “I can’t believe he let you go on like that,” Dusty said. “That ass.”

  “I told him I was done with him and then he says he loves me.” It was hard for her to say the words. Logan Mauldin loves her, and before he shattered her trust, she was ready to admit that she loved him too. That she’d always loved him. “He’s a liar. I told him to get the hell out.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to get my gun?” Hannah offered.

  “Wait a minute—” Stacia said.

  “Don’t,” Miranda cut her off, “try to psychoanalyze this into some sort of thing that makes him look like anything other than the liar he is, Stacia.”

  “Fine. But look at what he did for you. The committee. The donations. Taking every moment you’d give him. He does love you, Miranda,” Stacia said.

  “That doesn’t changed the fact that he pretended to be someon
e he wasn’t. He lied to me.”

  “But you lied to him too,” Darcy said. Miranda gave her a look. “Save it missy. I’ve had worse in the courtroom.”

  “I did not lie to him.”

  “You told this Candice girl you met online just enough about Logan to keep her bidding,” Darcy said, full-blown attorney mode. “You didn’t tell Logan how you really felt. Yet you told Candice all the things you didn’t want him to know, what you thought about him, how you felt. How is your lie of omission any worse than what he did?”

  “Stop it, y’all,” Dusty said. “Are you forgetting why were here? It’s Christmas Eve Eve. We’re Chicks. Sisters.”

  They all looked at each other, and Emma raised her glass. “To peace on earth,” she said.

  “To peace in the Lowcountry,” Hannah added.

  To peace.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‡

  “How bad did you screw up, sport?” Trent asked, laughing.

  “Bad.” Logan said, but he’d anatomically turn himself into a Candice before he told his brother, or anybody for that matter, what he’d done.

  “You love her?” Trent asked, handing him a beer from the man cave fridge. Logan answered with a what-do-you-think look. “Then, fix it.”

  “I don’t think there is anything that can fix this.”

  “Is there another woman?” God. He had to ask that question? “Jesus, Logan, you are an idiot.”

  “There isn’t another woman,” he barked. But since he fessed up to Miranda, he had wished like hell that there really was a Candice or that he hadn’t been stupid enough to answer Miranda when she sent those messages.

  “So what do you think it’s going to take to fix it?” Trent asked, crushing the can and tossing it in the trash.

  “A freaking miracle,” Logan said, finishing off his beer and doing the same.

  “Well, it is Christmas, little brother. Make it happen.”

  *

  Logan’s cell phone signal was shitty. He’d put off making the call, but it had to be done.

  “But you never miss Christmas Eve,” his mom said firmly.

  She was right. Since his parents split when he was a kid, he’d always spent every Christmas Eve at his mom’s house, then got up Christmas morning, opened presents and headed over to his dad’s for the day.

  “It’s important,” he said, knowing if he told her what he was doing, she wouldn’t be able to keep it to herself. And the last thing he wanted was Miranda finding out what he was up to.

  “Does it have anything to do with Miranda?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “You wear her down yet?”

  “I’m working on it,” he said, as the call dropped.

  Logan had been surprised his dad had said yes when he’d asked to borrow the truck. Didn’t ask Logan what he wanted it for, just whether or not he knew how to drive it. He thought he could until he got into the cab of the big rig. Nope. Not happening. He planned on getting Miranda back; he didn’t want to die in the process.

  His dad made a call to Darrell Jennings, a really old guy who’d retired from his dad’s construction company. An hour later, the two of them were headed north up I-77.

  “This is just about the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of,” Darrell said.

  “No argument there,” Logan said.

  “You step out on her?” Darrell asked with a knowing look.

  “Jesus. No.”

  “Worse that that? All I got to say,” he said as he down shifted. The engine whined as it took the steep curve. “You piss a woman off, you’re gonna pay for it. Piss her off at Christmas time and your ass is grass. Maybe you ought to just save yourself the effort. It don’t sound like it’ll matter.”

  Logan had to make it right. He had to keep trying and pray for a miracle.

  *

  Christmas Eve and Christmas day were the two days out of the year Ivy Cottage belonged only to Miranda. Her only sure days off.

  Over the years, she’d occasionally booked guests for Christmas, but reservations were hit or miss. Then Dusty’s parents, sold Dusty the Carousel House B&B and bought a condo on the Isle of Palms. Since then, Miranda had spent Christmas Eve with the Rice’s on the IOP and Christmas day in Magnolia Bay with Hannah and her huge family.

  “Love these Lowcountry winters, lying in the sun on Christmas Eve,” Miranda sighed.

  “But you’re still smarting,” Dusty said, lifting her shades.

  “Not talking about it. Do you think we need sunscreen? It’s seventy degrees,” Miranda said.

  “Nah,” Dusty said, turning onto her stomach and untying her straps like it was July. “The sun feels good, but it isn’t that strong.”

  “Eggnog smoothies?” Mrs. Rice sang, delivering a tray with two yummy-looking drinks in Tervis tumblers out onto the deck. “By the way, I’m proud of you girls, turning your cell phones off, so that we can all spend some quality time together.

  “Your dad will be up from walking on the beach soon. It’s so nice out, I think I’ll put my suit on and join you. What a way to spend Christmas Eve with our family.”

  “Yes, but you know Miranda doesn’t drink eggnog, Mom,” Dusty said, taking a glass off of the tray.”

  “I’m just calling them that, they’re really pina coladas. Think of it as Isle of Palms eggnog,” she said handing Miranda her drink. “And I know for a fact she likes those.”

  “Thanks,” Miranda said sweetly. Then, she and Dusty cracked up laughing.

  They were barely sixteen that night Dusty’s parents went out to dinner. Her and Miranda headed down to the Rice’s boat at the marina to hang out. One thing led to another and the next thing Miranda knew, Dusty was mixing their fifth or sixth drink. Dusty’s dad came down to check on the boat and then hauled the two of them up to the house for Dusty’s mom to deal with. Before that night Miranda and Dusty had never had anything stronger than root beer. They were so sick off of the overly sweet drinks, which Mrs. Rice seemed to enjoy that a little bit, they stayed away from the Isle of Palms eggnog for years.

  “I love your family,” Miranda said, settling down on her lounge chair again.

  “You are my family,” Dusty said.

  *

  Logan watched the front-end loader work, and suddenly this didn’t feel like such a good idea. But it was all he had.

  “You’re nuts. This isn’t going to work,” Darrell said.

  “It has to,” Logan said.

  “I’m not even sure I can get us back to Magnolia Bay in one piece.”

  “Don’t quit on me now, Darrell.”

  The truck groaned under the load.

  “You love this girl? You gonna kill both of us proving it?”

  “I do love her, but we’re not gonna die. And you’re going to get us back to Magnolia Bay, just in time for Christmas.”

  *

  Miranda lay awake in one of the twin beds in the guest room, listening to Dusty breathe. It was after two a.m. and officially Christmas day. As much as Miranda loved Mr. and Mrs. Rice and Dusty, she missed her folks, and the ache in her chest made her feel like a little child.

  She got out of the bed and dressed. “Dusty?” she whispered. “Dusty?”

  “What?” Dusty awoke with a start and sat up. “What’s wrong? Why are you dressed?”

  “Thank you for a beautiful Christmas. You know I love your family. You.” They’d had a wonderful dinner earlier and had opened presents. Yes, Dusty’s family was one of those who open their presents on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas morning. “But I need to go home.”

  “You okay?”

  “I miss my folks. I miss—” She would not finish that sentence. “I just want to go home.”

  “Okay. I love you,” Dusty got up and hugged her. “I love my sweater.”

  “And I love my present too,” Miranda said, putting the vintage glass snow globe with a lovely scene of Magnolia Bay homes into her purse. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”

&n
bsp; “Miranda?” Dusty said, flopping back down on the bed and drawing the covers up to her chin. “You miss Logan, don’t you?”

  She nodded her head and left.

  *

  “You are freaking crazy,” Darrell had said when he dropped Logan off and unloaded the truck.

  That was six hours ago. Since then, Logan had spent all day trying to make a Christmas miracle. And he had every reason to believe it was possible. They’d made it out of the North Carolina Mountains alive through treacherous roads, and now here Logan was shoveling. Snow.

  He’d threatened everyone he saw with their lives if they let Miranda know what he was doing. The Chicks were a problem. They didn’t keep secrets from each other, but he’d told all of them except Dusty, and they had made an exception this time.

  Darcy even told Logan, Miranda was at Dusty’s family place on the IOP. That he’d have until Christmas morning to dig his way out of the mess he’d gotten himself into. He sure hoped so.

  Even with gloves, his hands were raw. He’d taken his shirt off hours ago. The temperature dipped down in the forties when the sun went down, but he was still blazing hot. His body ached, and he was beyond exhausted. Hungry. And, with a pile of melting snow, he was determined.

  He’d started around the front of the house first and had laid a six-inch blanket of snow around the camellias. He’d started lining the walkway on one side when bossy old Miss Miller had come over. She’d told him the snow would kill the camellia bushes. Logan was so tired, he just nodded at her and kept working on the massive pile of snow. If the camellias died and Miranda forgave him, he’d buy her new ones. He’d buy her new ones even if she didn’t forgive him. But she had to.

  Trent, Tanner and Dane had come over when they heard what he was doing. Like an idiot, he’d only bought one real snow shovel before they left the North Carolina Mountains, so his brothers used puny garden ones. They helped Logan make a pretty good dent in the pile. Around six-thirty, when it got dark, he insisted they go to his mom’s house.

  “You got a ways to go,” Tanner said.

  “We’ll stay,” Dane added, and Trent agreed.

  “It’s Christmas, y’all get over to mom’s. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”