Mistletoe at Midnight

by LB Gregg

  I surprised my father and myself by pulling him from the couch and hugging him with a little more force than necessary. His bones practically creaked while I soaked his best clothing.

  “It’s okay.” He squeezed me back. The whole family stared goggle-eyed at my display, but screw it, I hugged him hard. “Really. It’s good news.”

  “I know it is. But you have to do what Dr. Larson says—to the letter. You need to follow the protocol.” I let him go gently.

  “I will.”

  “I want to meet with your oncologist. We’re going to have more Christmases together. As a family.” I choked as I laid my demands on the table.

  “Of course we will.” My father patted my hand.

  I gathered what dignity I had left, as well as my wet clothing. Looking around, I realized exactly who was missing from our family scene. For the space of a single breath I was convinced he’d left for good. But he wouldn’t make that mistake twice. He loved me.

  He should be here with the rest of us—he belonged here as much as I did. “Where the hell is he, anyway?”

  “Jake?” Ryan answered. “He’s sleeping in the kitchen and waiting for the cat to have kittens.”

  I moaned. I had completely forgotten. Our first patient in St. James and Jake was a better vet than me.

  “She’s fine, though.”

  “Thank you.” Fortunately Rex wouldn’t be ready for another day or so. “But that’s not who I meant.”

  “Oh. Well, my guess is Caleb’s already packing.”

  “Ryan!” May’s eyes went round as saucers. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying someone oughta hightail it to the attic and see what’s what.”

  I stared at my brother as if English were my second language—or maybe it was his second language. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I didn’t bother to wait for his answer—he wasn’t making any sense so I left. Every step in those weighted boots was punctuated by my mantra—He can’t leave. He wouldn’t. When my foot hit the bottom stair, Ryan’s hand clamped my shoulder.

  “Whoa.” He spun me around and the festooned railing chimed with ringing bells. “Before you have a meltdown, I have a confession to make.”

  “What?” All I could hear was Christmas music coming from the parlor. They were singing again and somewhere on the fourth floor of this rambling house, Caleb was leaving.

  “First, I want to give you something.” I fully expected him to give me a bottle of lube or pack of ribbed condoms. Unprecedented, Ryan took my hand. “You’re freezing.” He laid something in my palm and grinning like an idiot, my brother said, “Secret Santa delivery service. Merry effing Christmas.”

  “What the hell is this?” Mistletoe. Delicate and green. Tied with a sheer silver ribbon. I stared in confusion at my brother.

  “This is your Christmas present. I wanted to give you something you’d never give yourself. A second chance. I knew about you and Caleb. My God, you fooled around four inches from my room. I figured love was a worthy present for you, so I looked and lo, here he was.”

  “Can you just say it plain? Because it sounds like you gave me Caleb Black as a Christmas present.”

  “Pretty cool, huh?” He nodded, so incredibly pleased with himself, I could do nothing but believe him. “And I didn’t even spend twenty bucks.”

  “But…” I couldn’t seem to process what my brother was telling me. “How did you find him? Here?”

  “The internet. We were in the same Fantasy Football league. It was unbelievable. When you said you wanted to leave Boston, after that thing with Keith, I contacted May. She sent me the links for Dr. Shapiro’s practice. She hooked me up with the Realtor and with Evergreen…”

  I was stumbling through the information. He’d conspired with May to…set us up? It was so preposterous. So…Ryan. “Are you high? Because this is probably the most insane thing I’ve ever heard of. And…Jesus Christ, Ryan, what if it didn’t…what if…” I wanted to sit down.

  “She’s Caleb’s best friend. I found him on May’s Facebook page and she not only knew who you were, she knew exactly who I was. He talks about you. Still. Fifteen years later and neither of you can move on. He loves you.”

  Ryan stopped for a moment. He looked away and I swallowed past the incredible lump in my throat.

  “If you could see the way you look at him. I’ve never… May and I wanted to do this for you both. Because you love that guy. You always have. I thought it was worth the gamble.”

  “Holy shit.” Facebook. I’d changed my entire life on the whim of my visionary brother. I didn’t know whether to hit him or hug him. “Did…does he know?”

  “Not a clue, the poor bastard. Just May. She says you were his ‘one that got away.’ She’s so devious I am in awe. Plus, I felt called upon to save you before Mom finds you another actuary.” He poked the berries on the mistletoe and his reindeer horns wobbled. “He’s not your past, Owen, he’s your future. You know what I mean?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Good. You’re speechless. A little less talk and a little more action. We won’t hold supper.”

  And with that, my scheming brother loped back to the parlor, whistling.

  In shock, I fumbled my way to the attic. The railing shook as I crashed up the stairs two at a time in my heavy boots. Silver bells and shiny Christmas balls tinkled, and the nutcrackers chattered on the shelf as I hit the landing with both feet.

  He was there. Backlit by the flickering firelight, Caleb Black waited in the open doorway of the yellow room. He leaned as if leaning was an art, with one shoulder against the doorframe, and my crazy heart fluttered inside my chest. He wasn’t holding a suitcase or an overnight bag or even his coat. The only thing in Caleb’s hand was the end of a towel. It was clasped loosely to his hips.

  He’d taken a shower. His feet were bare and his blond hair was slicked from his forehead. His smile was soft and his voice was pure magic. “Owen McKenzie. I see you everywhere I go.”

  I lost a boot at the door, one by fireplace and left my wet shirt and my dry socks on the rug. I stumbled over my big, dumb feet, stopping only to swoop down and take Caleb’s mouth in a searing kiss. I marched him backward to the eyelet-covered bed and snagged his towel and tossed it. And at long last, a real Christmas miracle—he was naked. “Where were we an hour ago?”

  “Right here.” He flipped me onto the mattress, lithe as a gymnast. “Take these off.”

  My pulse swished through my limbs as Caleb stripped me of my wet pants. He smelled of soap and shampoo and he’d shaved. His body was still as smooth, but he’d filled out with maturity. His shoulders were broad, his stomach muscled. I rubbed my whiskered chin against his neck until he laughed.

  “I missed you.” He straddled my legs and pinning my wrists to the mattress, he slid our palms together until his fingers laced through mine. He wriggled and friction made our skin hot. From somewhere below us, Christmas carols blasted and I knew my brother was sending a message. Make all the noise you want.

  Caleb’s bush scraped against my stomach and I nipped his chin. “I still can’t believe you’re here. You’re really here, right?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” He thrilled the utter hell out of me when his tongue stole into my mouth again. “Open up, Owen.”

  “Oh…shit…yeah.” I couldn’t hold him close enough as we moved together in a fluid give-and-take, rocking the bed, swinging that canopy of eyelet and cabbage roses. We wrestled and laughed and I wasted time marveling over the difference in our hands, our feet, our dicks.

  Things turned serious as he shouldered my legs wide and slid between my knees to seal his mouth around my cock. From somewhere a bottle of lube popped open.

  I sifted through his hair, holding him as those graceful fingers strummed the delicate skin under my balls. He nudged an oil-slickened finger in the dark entrance of my body and one minute I was begging and the next Caleb sank two fingers knuckle-deep
and stroked my prostate. “So good. It’s so good.”

  His tongue worked over my erection. He petted me below and suckled me above and he teased me, but he was the one who broke first. Caleb slipped away and I cradled him until he suited up and pushed inside me.

  He’s inside me. He’s always been inside me.

  We were slow at first, moving gently. His beautiful hands dug behind my knees, and finally Caleb buried himself as far inside me as he could reach.

  We pushed and pulled, tensed and released—sliding in and out. I gripped his narrow hips, digging my fingers into his perfect flesh, and trusted Caleb to bring me there. I let go. Scrubbing my head into the pillows, my neurons misfiring on each spasm of climax as Caleb bit my shoulder and hauled us through an orgasm so hard that the stars I saw had nothing to do with firelight through the bedding. It was him. I came over him, on him, on me. At last, at last.

  He kissed my wrist, my neck, my chin and I followed, tasting his shoulder, his stomach, his nape. “I love you. Is it too soon to say that?”

  “Yes. But shit, I’ve always loved you—I never stopped loving you.”

  We slept. It must have been hours, because when I woke, the clock was chiming from the hall down below and someone had let Jake in. He grunted and dreamed by the fire. It was stone quiet in the rest of the house, and the Vermont wind heaved across the porch until the shutters shook. It was officially Christmas and my stomach growled because we’d slept through supper.

  It took two seconds to clue Caleb in, and when I finished, he chuckled beside me. “I can’t believe Ryan orchestrated this. I feel like a puppet.”

  “You? He sent me here, months ago, to look at the practice. I bought a house. It was so…”

  “Inspired.”

  “Exactly. My God. How the hell do we ever top that kind of generosity?”

  “We will. By making this work.” Caleb picked up the mistletoe, which was a little worse for wear. “Owen McKenzie. I’ll never get tired of seeing you in my bed.”

  “Careful. That’s my token Secret Santa gift.” I was going to have it bronzed.

  Caleb shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. Whatever Ryan did, he did out of love. I had your name. I left your present here about two seconds before you attacked me.” He snagged a book off the doily-draped bedside table and laid a dog-eared copy of The Hobbit in my hand. “Open it.”

  It was mine. The one he’d left with that last night. Property of Owen McKenzie.

  “When did you get this?”

  “I went back to the house when we were in town—I’m sorry I didn’t spend twenty dollars, though. I understand that’s a cardinal rule. But I can give you cash if you like.”

  I hugged him tight. “Thank you.”

  “Well, Merry Christmas. And…tradition dictates that you reciprocate. You have my name. I read your list.”

  “That’s cheating.” I kept my expression neutral as I handed him his present and it was his turn to stare.

  “A new copy of The Hobbit. This is perfect because, as fate would have it, I just gave my only copy away. Maybe…you could read it to me?”

  “Anything.”

  About the Author

  LB (Lisabea) Gregg began writing in the spring of 2008 at the encouragement of friends and family. She never once looked back (although occasionally she looked down and tripped over her own feet). 2009 saw the publication of her bestselling Men of Smithfield books; 2010 she introduced her hilarious new series, Romano & Albright.

  LB is passionate about travel, wine, skiing, visiting friends, reading, writing and all things New England. She’s rafted the Pacuare, sailed the British Virgin Islands, zip-lined the jungle canopy, backpacked Europe, and most impressively—she’s wrangled three rascally children for over twenty years. She hates to cook; she loves to eat, and she enjoys container gardening. LB Gregg is obsessed with a certain German soap opera.

  Lisabea lives somewhere in the Connecticut hills with two lazy dogs, three above-average children and a smoking-hot husband who, thank the good Lord, loves to cook.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4268-9093-2

  Copyright © 2010 by LB Gregg

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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