Unforgettable Christmas - Gifts of Love (The Unforgettables Book 3)

by Mimi Barbour

  “I remember that really hot guy you had sex with all night, on the beach.” Porche tapped the toe of her stiletto. “It must have happened then!”

  Crysta felt Jimmi’s accusing, and judgmental, gaze. She nudged Porche backward by the shoulder. “Not that it is your business, but we used condoms. A lot of them!” She grabbed her navy blue Michael Kors purse and left the studio, her head high.

  She only stopped once to throw up in the bushes.

  ***

  She’d gotten a steal on an older condo with a view of the beach, scoring a primo bank loan because of her amazing salary from her amazing job that she no longer had. Could they take her home away, if the bank found out she didn’t have a salary?

  Crysta detoured and stopped at the drug store on her way home. She bought five pregnancy tests, just in case, and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, just in case, and hurried to her building, taking the elevator up to the tenth floor and her sanctuary. Style and fashion had been her escape, and she’d brought that into her apartment. Black and white with pops of red and burnt orange, her favorite color, for contrast.

  Reading the directions with distaste—pee on a stick, really? She did her business. Then she called her best friend, Lara, in tears. When Lara arrived, worry all over her pretty face, Crysta showed her the stack of tests.

  Lara winced. “You’re pregnant five times?”

  Crysta screeched.

  Lara grabbed a spoon and dug into the pint, crying with Crysta. She tucked a blonde curl behind her ear, her blue eyes shining wet. “I am so sorry. What are you going to do? Whatever you decide, I will help you. Have you told Dillon?”

  “I haven’t talked to Dillon in two months.” Sure, they’d texted a little after he went back to Jacksonville, but nothing too serious. She had plans! “He was working on a training thing, I think. I don’t even know if he’s around.”

  Crysta bowed her head, stabbing her spoon into the ice cream. This was the worst thing that could ever have happened.

  “What are you thinking?” Lara eyed Crysta’s stomach.

  “This can’t be real.” Yes, denial was the way to go. She counted the months back on the calendar hung up on the wall next to her refrigerator. 3 months had gone by just fine—there had to be a mistake.

  “And you are sure it is Dillon’s?”

  Crysta tilted her head and gave her bestie the stink-eye. “Positive. But I also know that we used condoms all night long.” It had been such a powerful connection that she’d imagined them getting together again sometime in the very distant future for a possible relationship. Possibly. If they were each free, say twenty years from now.

  “At least you have health insurance, right? Losing your job won’t affect that. I can’t believe this is happening, right before your trip.”

  The chocolate turned to ash in her mouth. Crysta was not ready to be a mom—she’d never wanted to have a child—other kids played with dolls, but she played with the makeup and hair. She cried harder.

  Lara put the ice cream down and wrapped her in a hug. “It’ll be okay.”

  Crysta shook her head in misery—she’d gotten off the pill, because she hadn’t been with Aaron and despite how quickly she’d gotten together with Dillon, that wasn’t her usual behavior.

  “Just call him.”

  “I can’t.” He’d been so freaking adamant about his adversity to kids. To family. Very much a man all about his next promotion.

  “You can.” Lara handed Crysta her phone. “I know you’ve got his number. You said you texted a few times.”

  Crysta stared at her phone. “Then stopped because we were too busy, with our lives, with our careers.” She looked around her apartment, her gaze falling on the suitcase she’d brought up from storage by the bathroom door. No Hair Expo. “Can you believe Jimmi fired me? What am I going to do?”

  Lara sat back down and scraped a sliver of chocolate onto her spoon. “Text Dillon, then, if you don’t want to call.”

  “He probably doesn’t even remember me.” Just because she would never forget Dillon Bakersfield didn’t mean the feeling was mutual. “He was very clear that he wasn’t about kids. I’m not going to bother him.”

  “Chicken.”

  “I am not.” Was she? Argh. Crysta picked up her phone and texted Dillon—the picture of his biceps she’d snuck while he was sleeping was his picture. She read her text aloud to Lara, “Hey stranger. Remember that moonlit night in the sand dunes?”

  “Could you be any more vague?” Lara frowned her disapproval.

  “If he’s doing more chicks in the dunes then I definitely don’t need to tell him about this…besides, I…” I just don’t know what I’m going to do.

  A few minutes passed while she and Lara waited pensively. Then, stomach knotted, she sucked on her empty spoon. Crickets.

  “He must be on deployment,” Lara suggested.

  Then, an answer appeared.

  Crysta dropped her spoon and shrieked.

  “Who is this? What a jerk! I guess that will be a no, on the sharing with the father of the embryo thing.” Then she burst into sobs.

  Chapter Three

  Dillon hung up the black office phone and looked at Davey. His fellow pilot sat across from him, dressed in his camo uniform. He’d opted not to go the officer route, which was a lot less headache. What was I thinking?

  “That was the commander—he wants you to bring him the training curriculum we put together for next week, and go over it with him—he might want to add in something about the rotor blade maintenance.”

  “Why doesn’t he just tell you?” Davey sat back in the chair with a snort.

  “Because you get to be my bitch.” Dillon shrugged and grinned. Oh yeah, that was why he’d wanted to be lieutenant. He and Davey both flew helos in the same squadron, but Dillon had his eye on a long-term career. Teaching looked good to the higher-ups.

  In the old days, being a helicopter pilot wasn’t as cool as flying jets, but with the latest technology on the birds, trained pilots could get into tight areas and drop off supplies while rescuing people. There was more prestige than there used to be—though the helo community was still thought of as the laid-back cousin of aviation.

  “Fine,” Davey said. “Do I have the latest version at my desk? I’ll go print it out.”

  “Here,” Dillon offered, turning to his desktop computer. “I’ll print it for you. It’s only ten pages. There might be space for what he wants before the lunch break on page 4.”

  Davey got up and stretched, reading the notices on Dillon’s corkboard. He tapped the calendar. “We’ll be gone for two months. Hey, we’ll be close to Vegas, right? We should go play poker.”

  “Maybe. Vegas can be fun—if you’re winning. If you’re losing? It’s the worst.” He’d experienced both and being up a cool grand was a lot better than going home broke. Dillon heard the ding of an incoming text and searched the desk for his phone, which he’d thought he’d put away after lunch.

  Davey pounced like a cat, digging the phone out from under sheet of paper. Dang it.

  “Hey stranger,” Davey said in a sing-song voice as he read the message. “Remember that moonlit night in the dunes?”

  Holy crap—Crysta Jones. Black hair, teal eyes, sexy mouth. Tattoos and long legs. The woman had never gone too far from his thoughts since that incredible evening/into the morning, though life—his as well as hers—had kept them too busy, he thought, to stay in touch. “Give me that,” he said.

  But Davey was in his thinking he was funny mood and turned away to text a reply.

  Dillon got a sick feeling in his stomach. “What did you just say?”

  “I asked who it was!” He chuckled slyly. “She’s all you talked about since we left that place. Not the incredible diving, but the girl.” Davey made a disgusted expression. “You fell for her.”

  “I didn’t fall for anybody. I am thirty, jackass, not a teenager.”

  “So, why do you have a picture of her tattoo on your phone?
What is that, anyway? It looks like one of those paintings of the flowers that are supposed to be, you know…”

  Dillon lunged for his phone and snagged it by the corner edge, which sent it flying across the room where it hit the metal shelves, right next to the printer. The screen splintered as the protective guard broke. Shit.

  Davey quickly rushed over and snatched the curriculum from the machine and hightailed it out of Dillon’s office. “Sorry about that, bro,” he called over his shoulder. “Hope you have a warranty?”

  He did. Flying a helicopter on and off an aircraft carrier required skill but it had its dangers no matter how good you were. Anderson being a prime example. Getting insurance on his smartphone made sense, though he hadn’t broken one before now. Davey. Curiosity got the better of anger as Dillon picked up the pieces. Why had Crysta texted him, out of the blue?

  Of course he remembered that night. He hadn’t been with another woman since—she’d set the bar so high that he wasn’t even interested in anybody else. He’d spent the last three months settling into shore duty. He volunteered with the Wounded Vets, hung out with his friends at Red’s Bar, and worked overtime—prepping for the next two months of being away and training.

  They had agreed that their intense attraction would be a distraction until their lives settled down. Texting, the occasional phone call—they’d tried a few times to make plans but something always happened—like her last minute trip to LA for a hair show.

  Hell, maybe she was texting him to tell him she was moving to New York City. Hair Expo, or something to do with fashion. He hadn’t really understood what she was talking about, but he remembered the excitement in her voice.

  He sounded like that when he talked about flying to the new recruits. There was nothing like hovering over the wide blue ocean as a pod of dolphins swam below, or banking around a steep mountain to ride the tailwind on the other side. Being in the sky allowed him a different view of the world—he bet Crysta would like it. Maybe once he came back in two months he could arrange for her to take a ride.

  His desk phone rang, startling him from his thoughts of being up in the air with Crysta at his side. Back to work. “Lieutenant Bakersfield speaking.”

  Later that week, Davey burst into his office. “Hey, the commander just emailed me approval for the curriculum. I tried to call your cell but it isn’t working.”

  “Because you broke it,” Dillon drawled. “That’s good, about the approval. Why don’t you go ahead and make up 200 binders.”

  “Sure thing. Listen, do you want me to go get you a new cell?”

  “Nope.” He looked at his calendar and shut down his computer. “I’ll leave early, if you don’t mind manning the phone.”

  “I kind of owe you one,” Davey grinned apologetically.

  “No worries. I’ll call you later.”

  Dillon got into his truck and headed for the nearest AT&T. When he arrived at the strip mall, he overheard a harried young mom yelling at her son, a kid about six, to hurry up as she held his hand across the parking lot. “You are dragging your feet on purpose. Don’t be a brat!”

  His stomach clenched and it was all he could do to keep his mouth shut, but the scene immediately brought him back to his own childhood.

  Some women just shouldn’t be moms, he got that. Especially single moms. His mother had thought his dad would stick around and marry her but the jerk had left in the middle of the night—ditching her with a crying baby and a broken heart.

  His mom had let him stay at her house until graduation, even though he was eighteen, but nudged him out the door right after he turned in his cap and gown. The Navy had given him direction and purpose.

  He would never put a woman in that position, which is why he always took precautions. His friends teased him, but he didn’t care. And man, Crysta had totally understood that, growing up in the foster care system. Abuse of all kinds was rampant and she’d earned her edginess the hard way—a true survivor. She was cool, sexy, independent, and just the kind of woman to make him think about dating someday.

  Maybe sooner, rather than later. This was the 21st century and surely they could figure out a way to be friends, long distance.

  It took about two hours, but at last Dillon had a brand new phone. With a heavy duty case that he hoped was Davey proof. He left the strip mall, eager to call Crysta back. Dillon got into his truck and hooked his new phone to its hands-free system.

  Strangely nervous, he exhaled and then dialed Crysta’s number. The phone rang, and rang. His stomach tensed.

  Surely she wasn’t mad at him? Shit, he’d explain about Davey being an ass and then they’d share a laugh. Or maybe she’d call him a jerk before inviting him down for a few days.

  He couldn’t wait to see her again—and that was a first. So, why wasn’t she picking up the phone? The call went to voicemail.

  “Listen, babe, don’t get your panties in a twist. I could never forget you, especially in the moonlight. I’d love to see you again.” He bit his tongue, regretting his tone. He’d been going for funny and epically failed. But dang it, she made him jittery.

  “I broke my phone.” And that sounded like an excuse. He smacked his hand against the steering wheel. “Just, uh, call me.” What if she didn’t recognize the number? “It’s Dillon. Bakersfield.”

  He ended the call, very disgruntled. Then he stopped and picked up a six pack of beer to drink on the back patio, overlooking the bay.

  Women.

  ***

  Crysta heard her phone ring, but it was in her purse, across the room. And since her feet were in stirrups and the doctor’s head was between her legs, she let it ring.

  She hoped it was Jimmi, offering her a job back. Maybe not as a stylist, working in the front with their snooty clientele, but she could do accounts, or inventory. Something to pay her mortgage until she figured out what to do.

  The volume was up on her messaging program as the person went to speak. She heard Dillon’s sexy rumble tell her not to get her panties in a twist, felt Dr. Mary chuckle, though when the doc straightened, her expression was neutral.

  Crysta had confided the whole story; Dr. Mary had listened and handed over the occasional tissue. The older woman had been both doctor and surrogate mother at times since Crysta was in high school.

  “Condoms leave a 2 percent chance of pregnancy, even when used correctly. You know,” the doc said, gesturing with a wooden tongue depressor she took from her front pocket, “that most people don’t put them on right? Then, the chances are higher.”

  Dillon’s sure hands made it seem like he knew what he was doing, all three times. But maybe he’d been in a hurry, or in the dark, or hell, maybe something had slipped.

  “It’s apparent that you did not plan this pregnancy,” Dr. Mary said with sympathy. “We’ve discussed your options. I will put together a packet of information for you. If you choose to terminate the pregnancy, we can do it in-office until your third month—which,” she did some math in her head, “will be next week.”

  Crysta sighed and rubbed her flat stomach. “It doesn’t seem real.”

  “Not every woman feels pregnant right away, or even until their sixth or seventh month. You are tall, so it is possible that you will carry more in the back. If…”

  If. That was the big question. The main question she asked herself was why she wasn’t jumping all over to make an appointment before next week.

  But there was something inside her that was shifting. Changing. “Thank you, Dr. Mary.”

  “Don’t be afraid, okay? Call me if you want to talk some more.”

  Crysta took a cab from the doctor’s office to her condo. She had never bought a car, choosing instead to walk or use other modes of transportation. DeVine Studio had been a mile away, the sidewalk mostly shaded. Grocery and drug stores within a half mile or less. She had her driver’s license but owning a car seemed more hassle than it was worth.

  Until now. She would need a car with a baby, wouldn’t she? She co
uldn’t just borrow Lara’s little Honda every time she needed to scoot to the store. What if she ran out of diapers, or food? Or if there was an emergency?

  In a panic, she called Lara, who also worked part-time as a waitress to supplement her singing gig. She worked for the town, too, but less than ten hours a month.

  “Well?” Lara answered on the first ring. “How did it go?”

  Dr. Mary had been gentle, but Crysta, poked and prodded, faced the harsh reality that she was almost three months pregnant. “Terrifying.”

  “Did you make a decision? You know, about whether or not you will-”

  “No.” Crysta cut her off. The only decision that felt right didn’t make sense, at all.

  “I’m coming over. Bob’s got leftover beef stroganoff; if you want I can bring some for you. One of the best perks of working at the restaurant. Does that sound okay?”

  Dr. Mary had let her know that if she wanted to be healthy, she’d need to eat more than lettuce. “Sure. Thanks.”

  When Lara arrived, dinner in two paper bags, Crysta replayed Dillon’s message for her. His deep tones sounded sexy, despite the word choice.

  “Hey babe?” Lara snorted. “He doesn’t have a clue.”

  “I don’t want to tell him.” Crysta, barefoot, got out plates and silverware and quickly set the table. “I mean, I haven’t really decided for myself yet.”

  “I’m calling bullshit,” her best friend said as she handed Crysta a buttered roll to dip into the beef sauce.

  “What?” She had the roll halfway to her mouth for a second delicious bite.

  “You haven’t eaten butter since tenth grade. It’s pretty good, isn’t it? Which means that you are thinking of eating for two.”

  Crysta felt the blush begin at her throat and rise. “Is it wrong, to raise this baby on my own? What if I screw up?”

  “What if you don’t? What if you love this kid, and give him or her the kind of life you never had?”