Christmas in Lucky Harbor

by Jill Shalvis

  Sure, he could have just gone home, but Tara’s car was out front, and he… hell. She tended to look right through him, and in return, he liked to drive her crazy. Home was a short drive on the best of days, and a vast improvement from being ignored by her. He toyed with coming right out and asking what her problem was, but he realized that if she said, “You, Ford, you’re my problem,” he’d still have to see her daily for the duration of her stay here in Lucky Harbor. And that would suck.

  This was at least the hundredth day he’d come to this “realization,” and he was no closer to figuring out what to do than when she’d first come back to town six months ago. So mostly, he’d steered clear. It’d seemed the easiest route, and he was all about the easy.

  But today he had a gift to deliver. Lucille had cornered him when he’d stopped by his bar last night to check in after his trip, handing him a wooden box with the word RECIPES written across it.

  “Can you give this to Tara for me?” she’d asked. “Don’t peek.”

  So, of course, he’d peeked. There’d been nothing inside but plain—and blank—3×5 index cards. “For her recipes?”

  Lucille snapped the box shut, narrowly missing his fingers. “No.”

  Ford recognized the spark of trouble in Lucille’s rheumy eyes. There was no bigger gossip or meddler in town, and since Lucky Harbor was chock-full of gossips and meddlers, this was saying a lot. Lucille and her cronies had recently started a Facebook page for Lucky Harbor residents, bringing the gossip mill to even new heights.

  “Okay, spill,” Ford said, pinning her with a hard look that wouldn’t slow her down—she was unstoppable and unflappable. “What are you up to?”

  She’d cackled and patted him again. “No good. I’m up to no good. Just see that Tara gets the box.”

  So that’s what he was doing.

  Delivering the box to Tara.

  She wouldn’t be happy to see him, that was for damn sure. Her eyes would chill and so would her voice. She’d pretend they were virtually strangers.

  And in a way, they were. It’d been a damn long time since they’d known each other, and the past was the past. He wasn’t a guy to spend much time looking back. Nope, he liked to live with both feet firmly in the present, thank you very much. He didn’t do regrets, or any other useless emotions for that matter. If he made a mistake, he learned from it and moved on. If he wanted something, he went about getting it. Or learned to live without it.

  Period.

  Of course, as it pertained to Tara, he’d made plenty of mistakes, and he wasn’t all that sure he’d learned much except maybe how to bury the pain.

  He’d gotten damn good at that.

  But lately, whenever he caught a glimpse of Tara in those look-but-don’t-touch clothes and that hoity-toity ’tude she wore like Gucci, he had the most insane urge to ruffle her up. Get her dirty. Make her squirm.

  Preferably while naked and beneath him.

  Ford swiped the sweat off his forehead with his arm and strode up the steps to the inn. A two-story Victorian, it’d been freshly rebuilt and renovated after a bad fire six months ago. There was still a lot to do before the grand opening: painting and landscaping, as well as interior touches, and the kitchen appliances hadn’t yet been delivered. Still, character dripped from the place. All it needed were guests to come and fill it up, and Tara, Maddie, and Chloe could make a success of it.

  As a family.

  To the best of Ford’s knowledge, the whole family thing was new to the sisters. Very new. And also to the best of his knowledge, they weren’t very good at it. He just hoped they managed without bloodshed. Probably they should put that into their business plan and get everyone to sign it: Murder Not Allowed. Especially Tara.

  Bloodthirsty wench, he thought fondly, and walked across the wraparound porch. There were seedlings laid out to be planted along the new railings. Someone had a green thumb. Not Chloe, he’d bet. The youngest sister didn’t have the patience.

  Not Maddie either, since she was currently spending every spare second in Jax’s bed, the lucky bastard.

  Tara then?

  Ford tried to picture her pretty hands in the dirt… and then his mind went to other places, like her being dirty with him.

  Shaking his head at himself, he stepped inside. Before the devastating fire, the interior decorating had been Little House on the Prairie meets the Roseanne Conner household. Things had changed once Tara had gotten hold of the place. Gone were the chicken, rooster, and cow motifs; replaced by a softer, warmer beachy look of soothing earth tones mixed with pale blues and greens.

  Not a cow in sight.

  As Ford walked inside on the brand-new wood floors, he could hear female laughter coming from the deck off the living room. Heading down the hall, he opened the slider door and found the party.

  Seated around a table were four women of varying ages, shapes, and sizes. At the head of the table stood Tara. She had eyes the color of perfectly aged whiskey, outlined by long black lashes. Her mouth could be soft and warm—when she was feeling soft and warm, that is. Today it was glossed and giving off one of her professional smiles. She’d let her short, brunette layers grow out a little these past months so that the silky strands just brushed her shoulders, framing the face that haunted his dreams. As always, she was dressed as if she was speeding down the road to success. Today she wore an elegant fitted dress with a row of buttons running down her deliciously long, willowy body.

  Ford fantasized about undoing those buttons—one at a time.

  With his teeth.

  She held a tray, and on that tray—be still his heart—was a huge pitcher of iced tea, complete with a bucket of ice and lemon wedges, and condensation on the pitcher itself, assuring him it would quench his thirst. He must have made a sound because all eyes swiveled in his direction. Including Tara’s. In fact, hers dropped down over his body, and then jerked back up to his eyes. Her gaze was gratifyingly wide.

  There were a couple of gasps from the others, and several “oh my’s” mixed in with a single, heartfelt “good Lord,” prompting him to look down at himself.

  Nope, he wasn’t having the naked-in-public dream again. He was awake and wearing his favorite basketball shorts—admittedly slung a little low on the hips but covering the essentials—and running shoes, no socks.

  No shirt, either. He’d forgotten to replace the one he’d stripped off. “Hey,” he said in greeting.

  “What are you doing?” Tara asked, her voice soft and Southern and dialed to Not Happy to See Him.

  And yet interestingly enough, she was looking at him like maybe he was a twelve-course meal and she hadn’t eaten in a week.

  He’d take that, Ford decided, and he’d especially take the way her breathing had quickened. “I have a gift for you from Lucille.”

  At the sight of the small wood box, Tara went still, then came around the table to take it.

  “It looks just like the one we lost,” she murmured, opening it. When she looked inside, a flash of disappointment came and went in her eyes, so fast Ford nearly missed it.

  “What?” he asked, ignoring everyone else on the deck as he took a step toward her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Tara clutched the box to her chest and shook her head. “It’s just that we lost the original in the fire. It was filled with Phoebe-isms.”

  “Phoebe-isms?”

  “My mom. She’d written these little… tidbits of advice, I guess you’d call them, for me and my sisters over the years. Things like ‘A glass of wine is always the solution, even if you aren’t sure of the problem.’ ”

  The four women at the table, each of whom had known and loved Phoebe, laughed softly, fondly.

  Ford had a soft spot for Phoebe as well. She’d been in Lucille’s “gang” and one of Ford’s best customers at the bar. As he smiled at the memory, Tara did that pretend-not-to-look-at-his-bare-chest thing again, then quickly turned away.

  Interesting reaction for someone who’d exerted a l
ot of energy and time over the past months not noticing him.

  “Get him a chair, honey,” one of the women said—Rani, the town librarian.

  Tara turned to Ford, panic growing in her eyes at the thought of him hanging around.

  Yet another interesting reaction. “Ford can’t stay,” she said, eyes locked on his. “He’s… busy. Very busy. I’m sure he doesn’t have time to bother with our little meeting.”

  “I’m not that busy,” Ford said, looking around the table. Each woman had an assortment of plates in front of her, filled with what looked like delicious desserts that Tara must have baked at the diner since the inn’s kitchen wasn’t yet functioning.

  They looked good, real good.

  There was also wine, mostly gone now, and everyone but Tara was looking pretty darn relaxed for a meeting. “Besides,” he said, “this looks more like a party.”

  “It’s the Garden Society.” Tara was still blocking his way from moving farther onto the deck. “The ladies here were gracious enough to come and sample some snacks that I hope to have available for our inn guests upon request.”

  His belly stirred, reminding him he’d skipped lunch. “I’m an excellent taster,” he said with his most charming smile.

  “But you’re so busy,” Tara said, with her most charming smile, although her eyes were saying Don’t You Dare.

  “Aw, but I’m never too busy for you.” Ford had no idea why he was baiting her. Maybe because she’d spent so much time pretending he didn’t exist, and this was much more fun. Plus there was the added benefit that he knew her Southern manners wouldn’t allow her to say what she really wanted to, not in front of company, anyway. Heaven forbid we be rude in front of guests.

  Tara was now giving him the look that assured him that she was indeed imagining wrapping her fingers around his neck. He smiled wider. He couldn’t help it. For the first time in too damn long, he was feeling alive. Very alive.

  Admitting defeat with her usual good grace, Tara never let her smile falter as she shifted to the railing, where she had supplies stacked up. She grabbed a spare plate and loaded it with her goodies before wrapping it in foil.

  Ford was getting the to-go version.

  “He looks thirsty, too, Tara,” Rani said.

  Ford loved Rani.

  “Yes, dear,” another of the women said. “Pour the poor, overworked man a glass of tea. You don’t let a man of this caliber drink from a garden hose.”

  “Thank you, Ethel,” Ford murmured, and since he was watching Tara’s arresting face, he saw the flicker of surprise cross her features. Yes, he knew Ethel, too. She ran the Rec Center. She’d been there when, twenty years ago now, he’d hit a baseball through her office window, nearly decapitating her. Good times.

  “Please stay,” Ethel said to Ford, and patted an empty chair right next to hers.

  “But he’s not dressed for this,” Tara said, once again eyeing Ford’s bare chest. Her pupils dilated. “There are health codes, and—”

  “We won’t tell.” This from Sandy, the town clerk and city manager of Lucky Harbor. “Besides, we’re outside. He’s dressed just perfect.”

  Sandy had gone to school with Ford. She’d been class president, head cheerleader, and a lot of fun. Ford smiled at her.

  She returned it with a saucy wink. “My sister’s husband is looking into buying a boat,” she told him. “A fixer-upper. I told her that I’d ask your opinion.”

  “It’s a good time,” Ford told her. “The market’s down so you could get a deal. If he wants my help working on it, have him call me.”

  “A man who can wield a set of tools and read the market,” Rani said on a dreamy sigh.

  “Yes,” Tara said, grinding her back teeth together as she looked at Ford. “Bless your heart.”

  She didn’t mean it, of course, which only made him smile again. Sure, her voice was all gentle and soft, but her real feelings were visible if you knew her.

  And whether she wanted to believe it or not, Ford knew her. He knew she wanted to knock him into next week.

  “A moment?” Tara requested sweetly.

  “Sure,” he said just as sweetly as he leaned back against the railing and got comfy.

  “Alone.”

  And then, without waiting for an answer, she dropped his foiled to-go goodies into a pretty bag, poured one of the glasses full of iced tea, and walked right past him, hips swinging with attitude, inside the inn.

  Clearly assuming he’d follow.

  He watched her go, enjoying the view, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t much into being bossed around, even by an incredibly beautiful woman who was anal retentive and a bit of a control freak.

  Well, unless they were in bed. He didn’t mind then, not as long as he got to return the favor.

  But there was something about Tara that drew him in spite of himself, that snagged him by the throat and held tight. Maybe it was the tough-girl exterior, which he knew barely covered a bruised and tender heart. He’d seen that heart once, and truth be told he wasn’t all that interested in going back there. But he wouldn’t mind seeing her other parts.

  He couldn’t help it. She had really great parts.

  And he wanted that cold iced tea, bad. Almost as much as he wanted…

  Her, he realized grimly. Against all caution and sanity, he wanted her. So he followed her inside the inn.

  Chapter 3

  “Change is good but dollars are better.”

  TARA DANIELS

  Tara waited in the freshly painted hallway off the inn’s large, open living room with what she felt was admirable calm until finally, a half-naked Ford slowly strode inside.

  Not hurrying.

  Of course not. Ford never hurried when he could saunter. He never rushed a damn thing in his life. The big, sexy lug moved when and where he wanted.

  She knew she was just damn lucky he’d decided to move at all. He was unpredictable.

  Spontaneous.

  Not to be confused with uncontrolled. Because Ford, for all his sense of humor and smart-ass-ness, was one of the most controlled people Tara had ever met. It was one of the few things they had in common. She did her best to keep her eyes on his, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She’d seen him without a shirt before, of course. But it’d been a while.

  Watching her watch him, he reached out and played with the lace on her collarbone. “Why are you always dressed like you’re going to a business meeting?”

  “I am at a business meeting. Sort of.” She paused and admitted the truth. “But mostly I wear dresses or skirts because I don’t have a good butt in jeans.”

  With a laugh, Ford stepped close, so close that she could smell the ocean on him. He was salty and tangy, and so indelibly male that Tara almost closed the last inch between them simply so that she could lick him like a lollipop. Just one lick, she told herself, from sternum to the very low waistband of the basketball shorts…

  His eyes lit with wickedness, as if he knew her secret longings, but he said nothing as he leaned over her shoulder to view her backside.

  Ford Walker, Resident Butt Inspector.

  “Looks fine from here,” he assured her in a low, husky voice that scraped at every single erogenous zone she owned. “Damned fine.” He paused. “Maybe I should give it a hand test to be sure.” Before she could say a word, he slid a hand down her spine, heading south with wicked and nefarious intent.

  With a shocked laugh, she shoved him away. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “So,” he said, recovering far faster than she. “Still constipated?”

  Tara choked. “What?”

  Ford lifted a broad shoulder and unsuccessfully bit back a smile. “After the other day, it got around town that you were having troubles.”

  “ ‘Got around town,’ ” she repeated faintly and closed her eyes to count to ten. For peace and Zen.

  Neither made an appearance.

  “I think Lucille tweeted it, and it ended up on Facebook,” he said, am
usement heavy in his voice. “She took the opportunity to put up a recipe to fix the problem. You take a few plums, pit them, get a blender and—”

  “I’m not—” Tara broke off, glancing through the inn to the sliding glass door before purposely lowering her voice. “Constipated!”

  “You sure?”

  “Very!”

  He grinned, and she felt conflicting reactions—her brain melting, and steam coming out her ears.

  How could this be? How could he drive her so insane and make her want him with equal intensity? She didn’t understand, she really didn’t. “Here,” she said and thrust the glass of iced tea and the bag of desserts at him. “And you should know, regarding your friend request the other day at the music fest, I’ve thought about it. Us.” Fact was, she’d done nothing but think about it. But they’d failed once. More like crashed and burned, spectacularly, and she shook her head. “I can’t go there again, Ford.” The last time had nearly destroyed her. Only he seemed to have the power to do that, and she wouldn’t, couldn’t, let it happen again.

  “I didn’t ask you to go there again,” he said.

  She met his gaze, his giving nothing away, and she flushed because he was right. He hadn’t asked her to fall in young, crazy love; he’d only suggested they have sex. Very different. “That’s an equally bad idea. You know it, and I know it. Now please go.”

  “You’re big on that word,” he noted. “ ‘Go.’ ”

  His was a not-so-subtle rebuke, and an unpleasant reminder of their past. And she resented like hell that he was throwing it in her face. By leaving as she had, she’d done him the biggest favor of his life. And not for one minute did she believe he hadn’t been thrilled to see the last of her, given how she’d turned his life upside down. He certainly hadn’t chased after her. He’d just let her go. The painful memories reared up and bit her, making her voice tight. “We are not doing this now, Ford.”

  “Fine. Later then.”

  “Never.”