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

by Mimi Barbour

  “Yeah,” Chapman said. “I mean, I think about her all the time. I know you don’t care about that stuff and you want to play the field until you croak, but I can imagine having holidays together—she invited me to her place yesterday, but we were working.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “If she wanted to have kids, I wouldn’t be so opposed. Don’t start yelling at me…I know what I said about not wanting a family. But, a man’s allowed to change his mind, isn’t he?”

  God, I sure hope so. “Of course. Listen, I wish you nothing but happiness. Maybe you should go talk to her, and I’ll take the sandwiches down to the park with Marty.”

  “Are you sure?” Chapman looked at him, then clapped his hand on Dillon’s shoulder, his grin wide. “Yeah. I’m gonna call her.”

  Chapman zoomed out the back door, leaving Dillon to lock up the kitchen. What was odd, after taking stock of his actual feelings, was that he really did wish the guy luck. Way better luck than he’d had yesterday talking to Crysta.

  She’d been pretty damn clear that she didn’t want to see him again.

  He could take rejection. He’d been turned down before—but never by someone he’d felt so connected to, which was the part he was having such a hard time accepting.

  Dillon’s phone dinged a message, and he pulled his phone from his back pocket, thinking it would be Chapman.

  Davey—asking if he’d changed his mind about going diving next weekend. His first response was hell no. Crysta’s refusal to talk to him or explain made him so damn mad he couldn’t think straight.

  There was something going on that he didn’t understand. He knew she cared. The truth was that even if things went nowhere, he still wanted to know that she was okay—because it felt, emotionally, not logically, that there was something off.

  He texted back that he would think about it.

  Maybe Crysta would see him and remember why she’d fallen for him in the first place. He put the thought out of his mind.

  They had chemistry, and you couldn’t fake it. But if she still did not want him after this then he’d pack up his scuba gear and go home.

  ***

  Crysta practically waddled from the salon chair to the sink next to it, soaking her scissors and comb. Seven and a half months pregnant and she was huge. Her back ached. Even her thighs hurt. She wiped her hands on a paper towel and shuffled back to where Lara sat waiting for Crysta to finish.

  For the most part, she was accepting of the life that had somehow found a way…three condoms later. Another kick made her wince and she pursed her mouth. This moment was not one of the better times.

  “What just happened? You made a face. I swear, I am never having a baby. That looked like it hurt.” Lara turned in the chair toward Crysta. “Did it?”

  “It’s fine. These days everything hurts.” She forced Lara to turn back toward the mirror. “Stay still.”

  She smoothed a streak of platinum through the honey gold color she’d applied to Lara’s hair. Crysta stood back, her hand to her mouth as she studied the length. “Want me to make it shorter?” The blonde curls rested at Lara’s collarbone.

  Lara tilted her head one way, then the other, making the curls bounce. “Nope. I love it.” She blew her image a kiss. “Want me to do yours?”

  “No. I think I like having it my natural color for right now. No fuss.” Dark brown, with natural waves.

  Lara grabbed Crysta’s hand and lifted it to the light. “I think you’re actually getting a tan.”

  “From walking every day on the beach. I wear sunscreen, but I’m still getting color. I might have to invest in one of those broad-brimmed straw hats.”

  “You look great,” Lara declared, getting up from the salon chair. She tucked a platinum curl over her brow. “Thanks, my friend.” She then tugged the gold plastic clothing protector from around her neck. “I am ready to hit the stage tonight—not singing for a whole month makes me fidgety.”

  “I know what you mean. I miss working with my hands.” Crysta wiggled her fingers. “More importantly, I miss making money.”

  Unofficially, she’d trimmed and cut hair for the past week to warm up before the main event. The idea was to work six days a week, from 11 to 4, with Mondays off, unless there was an appointment scheduled. Crysta’s prices were 25 bucks a cut through the end of the year, just to get people in the door.

  Lara put the plastic cover in the hamper by the sink for that purpose. “When can I start sending people over?”

  “December 15th I will officially be in business—after you get Santa to draw the winner of the name contest to kick off the festival. Don’t forget.”

  Crysta and Courtney, from the Chamber of Commerce, had decided to have a “welcome to the neighborhood” open house, including a drawing. Crysta had peeked at some of the suggested names for her salon—they ran the gamut from A Cut Above to Curl Up and Dye—which in the old days might have been a winner.

  “I will give you a lot of shouts out,” Lara promised, giving her hair one more caress. “You will be so busy you’ll have to hire a second stylist.”

  Crysta crossed her fingers.

  “Listen, I might need your help tonight, hanging on to the prize for the raffle.” Her friend walked slowly toward the door.

  “Sure!” Crysta’s back twinged and she pressed her hand into the aching muscle.

  “It’s the kick-off of the holiday season. There are a lot of prizes being given away this weekend—I’ll be doing a drawing every hour.” Lara checked her red polish for smudges before taking a mint from the bowl by the register.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll stay, though, okay? I’ve been really tired lately.”

  “You are pregnant, in case you forgot.” Lara popped the mint in her mouth. “It will do you good to let have some fun.”

  “I have fun!”

  “You sleep.”

  “These days, that is fun. Besides, I’m not sure I have anything that will fit.” She’d refused to buy a lot of maternity clothes which meant her closet was very limited.

  “A dress always fits.”

  “Have you seen these boobs?”

  “Jealous.” Lara looked down at her less than curvy chest. “You have a terrific wardrobe. I’m sure you can find something—then this weekend, we can go shopping if you want.”

  “That sounds like it might be a necessary evil.”

  “I’ll save you a seat at my table—and I’ll try to get the Paddle Up folks to bring the prize instead, but I’ll text you, just in case.”

  “I am not carrying a paddle board.” She crossed her arms over her the top of her stomach.

  Lara kissed Crysta on the cheek and headed out the door, singing These Boots Are Made For Walkin’.

  Crysta locked up the salon and took a shortcut across the beach to her condo. This exercise thing was supposed to help with labor. She’d already asked Dr. Mary if they could just knock her out and wake her up when it was over, but the doc had just laughed. Not a positive sign.

  She shuffled up the path to her place and opened the side door, pressing in the code that led to the elevators. There was no guard in the building, but she felt safe with the security system. Arriving at her condo, she opened the door and breathed in the homey, festive scents of cinnamon and pine. Her tired body sank into the couch and she stretched her feet out, not even bothering to kick off her shoes.

  Just a little nap, Crysta thought, bringing the fuzzy blanket to her chin as she closed her eyes. A tiny snooze.

  And just maybe, she’d fall asleep and skip the whole night—Lara couldn’t get mad at her, when she was pregnant.

  It was against the best friend rules.

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday afternoon at 3:00, Dillon was still undecided on whether or not to go diving with Davey. It wouldn’t be about the dive, but about maybe seeing Crysta and that was just not okay.

  A man did not stalk a woman just because he thought something “might” be wrong. The problem, his problem, was that he had
an emotional connection with her that she obviously didn’t feel. He had to let it go. Dillon stared out at the bay before him—not seeing the sailboats, or the sparkling water.

  He remembered the softness in Crysta’s eyes, and the answering desire in her kiss when he’d held her—hell, any single time that he’d held her, she’d responded.

  Which brought him to where he was now. Conflicted.

  Her words didn’t match her actions. And he cared more than he should about a woman he hardly knew.

  By 3:30, he packed a bag and called Davey. “I’m driving—taking my own truck, because I’m not sure how long I’m staying.”

  “Dude—I mean, Lieutenant.” Davey cleared his throat. “Bakersfield. Come pick me up. The ride is too boring to do alone. If you leave for home early, I’ll fly back later. You can pick the music.”

  Dillon scoffed, “It’s my truck. Of course I can pick the music.” Classic rock—no more of that ballad bullshit.

  Davey, openly eager to see Lara, chattered non-stop about the latest music artists. Then, how totally awesome Lara was, then a song, then a Lara tidbit. Song, Lara, song, Lara, until Dillon knew way too much about them both.

  They’d gotten in at the Windjammer, thanks to a last minute cancellation, which put them a few blocks from downtown and right on the beach. He parked, they checked in, and got cleaned up.

  “Have to call it an early night,” he said, denying the flutter of nerves in his gut. “We go out at 7 in the morning, right?”

  “Yeah,” Davey scoffed. “But don’t talk to me about an early night, dude. You were the one who disappeared last time we were here.”

  “I’m here for the diving, not the girl.”

  “Why do you lie to yourself like this?” Davey demanded. “There is nothing wrong with admitting that you like her. Maybe even more than like. Chapman told me that you two had a conversation about his new lady. He said he warned you about ending up like one of those creepy old guys in a bar.”

  “I am not creepy. I’m not even old, not for another twenty years. What are you? Twenty-seven?” Dillon tied his shoes and straightened. “A child still.”

  Davey snorted and gave his jeans and dark green Santa Ho shirt another look, leaning forward to kiss his own image in the mirror. “This,” he gestured theatrically, “is no child. All man. Ready to beat back the losers and take Lara home.”

  Dillon, less festive in Levis and a crimson Henley, shook his head. “Let’s go. You owe me at least two beers for listening to you sing the whole way. I don’t think you hit one note.”

  “Hey. Not everybody is as gifted as Lara.”

  Dillon raised his hand with frustration. “Enough about Lara.”

  They left the hotel and walked outside. The December night was a balmy seventy degrees. The band played a medley of Christmas rock songs and Lara’s smoky tones pulled them toward the center of downtown. An artificial Christmas tree about forty feet tall was decorated with seashells and lights in the center of the roundabout. Inflatable reindeer, Christmas elves and plenty of ornaments on the palm trees. A Florida native, this was Christmas to him.

  A breeze came off the ocean from the east, adding a hint of salt to the smells of grilled meat from the crowded restaurants. Unlike when they’d been here in the summer, where it was low-key, this atmosphere was high-energy. A party. Bright lights and holiday music, laughter and plenty of cheer.

  “Where’s the snow?” Davey demanded. “We need cold weather, egg nog and a big fire.” He gave a disdainful look to a Santa figurine wearing a swimsuit, riding a dolphin outside of a tourist shop.

  “No snow. But you can play in that giant pile of sand if you want.” Dillon pointed to the mound of white sand that took up a quarter of the paved area in the square. “See? With the other kids. One of them has a sled.”

  “Ha, ha.” Davey elbowed him to look the opposite direction, near the stage where Lara and her band were entertaining. “There’s a bar.”

  An outdoor set-up with kegs in the middle, and a canopy over the top. Tall white tables made a makeshift counter. Good enough. Davey ordered and handed Dillon a large amber draft, keeping one for himself. He stood next to a speaker on the west side of the street and the music reverberated through his body.

  Lara finished one song, and launched into the next, shimmying her way up and down the stage. Red cowboy boots clicked as she danced to the front of the stage, crooning about Santa, and being a very good girl. Her red mini dress glimmered. The bass player came up behind her, singing a duet with her.

  Davey lifted his hand in greeting, but Lara had her eyes closed, very into her performance. Dillon scanned the crowd for Crysta. He buried the disappointment when he didn’t see her anywhere. What would he say, anyway?

  He would not overreact, or make her uncomfortable. He just had to know that she was all right. If she was with someone else, he would be cool. It would suck, but he’d deal. That was the pact he’d made with himself before coming all this way.

  “Hey, you okay?” Davey pulled his gaze away from Lara to look at Dillon.

  “Yeah.” Dillon quickly drank his beer, doing his best to act like he was in a festive mood. He didn’t give a crap about Santa Coming to Town…he’d hang out for another half hour and then go back to the room and watch a movie. The idea that he would just drop into town and expect to see Crysta had been ludicrous. He’d call her tomorrow and ask if they could meet. Coffee. No games.

  Then, as if by magnetic pull, he turned toward the beach.

  Crysta—tall, her hair longer now, to her shoulders in chocolate brown waves, her eyes electric blue in the near dark. His entire being released with relief.

  She might not want to see him, but he had to see her.

  She held a big, red and white striped bag before her as she made her way through the crowd toward a small table beside the stage. Lara gave Crysta a wave as she kept dancing, her gaze to the east instead of where he and Davey stood, on the west.

  Crysta sat down, her back to them. Was she meeting someone special for drinks? He’d wait and see, uncomfortable now with his decision to be here and hope.

  Davey nudged Dillon’s shoulder. “Go say hi. I don’t think she sees you.”

  “I can’t. Listen, I’m going to go back to the room. She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to see me.”

  “She is sitting by herself,” Davey said, pushing Dillon forward.

  “She has a gift for someone. She won’t be alone for long.”

  “Now’s your chance!”

  Dillon took a step toward the table but then stopped. He tossed his empty beer cup into the trash and looked for the bar. “Maybe I’ll have another glass of liquid courage.”

  “Fear nothing.” Davey chuckled. “What happened to that guy?”

  “That guy had his heart kicked to his throat.”

  Davey shook his head, but grinned. “Never thought I’d see the day that Player Bakersfield went down for the count.”

  He exhaled and looked from the kegs, to Crysta. Her profile as she turned toward Lara on the stage turned golden with a splash of holiday lights from the restaurant on the corner.

  Lara danced and wagged her finger at Crysta as she sang about being a bad girl, and getting nothing from Santa.

  Crysta shrugged and swayed to the music, her smile wide and beautiful. Thirty people shifted from side to side, or shook their shoulders as they listened to the familiar lyrics. A big guy with a long, thick brown beard and a bald head came between he and Crysta, and Dillon lost sight of her for a moment.

  It was like a cloud blocking him from the sun.

  Dillon stepped toward her, making his way between the folks dancing. It seemed more people arrived, just to slow him down. Beer, cigarette smoke, perfume—his senses were on overload.

  The music pitched higher, and faster, signaling that the song was coming to an end. Lara held a particularly long note and the crowd started cheering. Dillon walked around a woman dancing with her friends, looking over t
he big guy’s shoulder and sighing with relief to see Crysta’s brown hair. She stayed seated.

  Didn’t she like dancing? He didn’t care for it, either. He was just glad she hadn’t disappeared.

  The music came to a jarring end as the song finished. The people around him clapped and whistled their approval.

  He’d made it to the center of the throng. Davey was at his back and cat-called up to Lara on stage. Lara pumped her fist to the crowd whipping them into a frenzy. “We are about to take a break,” she said into the mic, her breaths coming hard but her grin and shining eyes showed how much she loved entertaining. “But before you amble off to get a drink from the bar, I have a prize to give away.”

  Her boots clicked along the stage as she went toward the corner and a giant red fishbowl painted with holly leaves.

  Crysta remained seated. A waitress brought her a drink with a slice of lemon. Something fizzy. Had she started drinking again? If she had a problem with alcohol, what would he do? Not your business, he told himself. Maybe he could be a friend, through Lara, without Crysta having to know. There was literature he could send at the very least.

  “Well, not me, personally, but one of our business sponsors. And my dear friend Crysta has the prize.” Lara pointed down to where Crysta sat.

  Crysta, smiling, lifted the red and white bag.

  He felt a moment’s relief that she wasn’t meeting someone special after all. Dillon briefly closed his eyes. Now what move should he make?

  Lara made a big production of reaching into the bowl of raffle tickets and drawing out the suspense as she finally read, “503! If you have 503, you’ve won a brand new paddle board, and lessons, from Paddle Up!”

  A woman in the audience shouted and rushed toward Crysta.

  Dillon, without thinking, also drew closer. The woman, slightly intoxicated, grabbed Crysta in a hug.

  Crysta awkwardly got to her feet, laughing as she handed the woman the bag. “The paddle board wouldn’t fit in here, but you have the certificate. Congratulations.”