by Kati Wilde
Aside from when we’re fucking. That’ll be real simple. So I’ll start with sex before easing her into the complicated shit, like living together and marriage and babies.
Except she’s fidgeting again, face averted and squirming a little in her seat, so I’ll have to hold off on the fucking, too. Until she’s not so jumpy around me.
And start with something even simpler. “What do you want for your Secret Santa gift?”
Her head swings around, that long golden hair tumbling over her shoulder in thick waves, her eyes wide. “You picked my name? Well, I’m easy. Just don’t get me anything.”
Like that’ll happen. “I didn’t get your name. My dad did.”
“Tell him the same thing, then. Tell him he doesn’t need to get me anything.”
“Yeah, you don’t know my dad. If he gets you nothing—or the wrong thing—he’ll spend the next few months worrying that you’re offended and planning to quit.”
Her brow furrows. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Try telling him that,” I say dryly. “He’ll worry anyway. But if I mention to him that I overheard you saying that you want…?” I leave that open, hoping she’ll fill that in. But when she remains quiet, I continue, “If I can tell him what to get you, he’ll stop worrying that he’ll give the wrong thing.”
“Oh,” she says softly.
“So what do you want? If you could have anything.”
My answer’s easy. I want Emma.
It’s apparently a harder question for her. She bites her lip again, and I glimpse naked yearning in her eyes before she faces forward, looking out the windshield.
After a long minute she says slowly, “Maybe a pair of pine scented candles? The tree in the office smells so good. It’d be nice to smell that at my apartment, too.”
The bank’s coming up across the street. I slow the truck and wait for a break in traffic. “Because you’ve got one of those artificial trees?”
“I don’t have any tree,” she says, and as a wood man, I can’t decide if that’s better or worse than having an artificial one. “It’s just me at home.”
It’s just me at home, too, but I’ve got two trees—one in my bedroom and one downstairs—and both are fully decked out.
I enjoy the hell out of Christmas. Hell, being the simple man that I am, I enjoy every day. But especially this one, since Emma ended up in my truck.
I cross the lane, pulling into the bank’s lot. “So I should tell him that you want your place to smell like a Christmas tree.”
“Yes.” She hands over the deposit envelope as I drive up to the teller window, then a moment later she’s looking past me with a gorgeous smile widening her lips. “Hey, Traci.”
“Emma!” The teller on the opposite side of the window clunks open the metal drawer. “How are you doing, girl?”
“Good.” Emma glances at me. “I finally got a new job.”
“Mmm-hmm,” is the skeptical reply through the speaker. “Well, he does look like a lot of work.”
Emma’s cheeks burst with color, but her laugh is light and easy. “No, really. Logan Crenshaw, this is Traci. We used to work here together when I was a teller. Traci, Logan is one of my new bosses.”
Oh hell no. If I’m Emma’s boss, then everything I plan to do to her becomes some fucked up sexual harassment shit. She likes things to be simple and that would not be simple. Or ethical.
Frowning, I shake my head. “Not a boss. Just an employee. My dad owns the place. I don’t.”
Emma looks at Traci again and they exchange one of those glances that women do, a flaring of their eyes that seems to contain an entire conversation.
Then Emma says, “How are your boys?”
“Texting complaints every minute since it began snowing.”
A little frown pleats her brow. “But don’t they like the snow?”
“They love it. They’re just upset because it started after school let out. So they’re complaining that the universe cheated them out of a snow day.” Traci huffs out a laugh, her long nails tapping rapidly at her keyboard. “And me, I’m thinking, ‘Hallelujah!’ No need to arrange for a sitter.”
“A Christmas miracle just for you.” Emma grins. “Are you doing anything special for the holiday?”
“Not a thing. Just my parents and my sister coming over. You?”
Emma shakes her head.
“Well, give me a call if you want to join us. You know there’s always a seat at our table for you. And here’s your receipt, Mr. Bossman.”
“Thanks,” I say gruffly and reach for the slip. “Nice meeting you, Traci.”
“You, too.” She looks past me at Emma and winks. “Enjoy your new job, hon. And every time you make a deposit, make sure you come to my window to tell me about it.”
“I will.” Emma’s face is pink again. “I’ll see you soon.”
She falls quiet as I drive forward, my jaw clenched against boiling frustration. Because she claims relationships are difficult and she prefers balance sheets to personal interactions. Yet here she is, sweet and funny and obviously on easy and friendly terms with this woman. Just as I’ve seen her be with Marianne and my dad.
But not me.
I feel her studying my profile, and there’s another of those maddening hesitations before she says, “Traci didn’t mean anything by any of that, you know.”
I shoot her a sharp glance. “Any of what?”
“Nothing,” she whispers and turns her face away from me again.
Goddammit. “Why are you so fucking scared of me?”
Her head whips around, eyes wide. “What?”
“You. Scared.” My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Of me.”
“I’m not!”
“Bullshit. Then why are you always shrinking away from me?”
“Because you’re always growling at me!” she shoots back. “And I don’t know what I did to piss you off!”
That surprises the shit out of me. “You think I’m angry?”
Her eyebrows abruptly draw together, as if she’s as surprised as I am. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
She eyes me warily. “You look like you are.”
“That’s just my face.” My I’m going to fuck you good and hard face. Which she ought to get used to, since I’m not sure I can look at her any other way. “I’m not pissed.”
“Oh.” It’s a soft realization, and I see some of the tension in her posture fade as her gaze searches mine—as if recalibrating what she thought my expression meant.
And she thought I was angry. All this time. Marianne saw a rutting bull moose, but she knows me well. Emma doesn’t.
But now we can start over. “All right?”
“Yeah.” Then her brows arch and she gives me a little smile. “Though now I’d hate to see how scary you look when you are angry.”
“It doesn’t happen a lot.” Frustrated, yes. Angry, no. And this time with her is too damn short. We’re only a few minutes away from the office and I’m not ready to give her up yet. “Is there anywhere else you need to stop before we head back to your car?”
Pressing her lips together, she shakes her head.
Shit. “The longer your battery is hooked up, the more it’ll charge.”
“That’s okay. I just need it to start.”
“We could stop at Murphy’s, kill some time over a few drinks.”
She hesitates again, but this time I know fear of me isn’t causing that uncertainty. And that sweet yearning touches her face, as if she’d like to go.
But she says, “I shouldn’t.”
“You got something better to do? You said you were heading straight home.”
“I am.”
“So you’ve got someone coming over or picking you up for a date?” It’s Friday night. No way she made it through this week without someone asking her out.
Shaking her head, she laughs as if me asking that was a joke instead of the deadly serious question I meant it as.
“Then come out with me,” I tell her.
Again that yearning. Again she shakes her head. “I really can’t.”
“Why?” I’m pushing hard, I know it. Maybe too hard. Because I can see that armor go up.
Tearing her gaze from mine, she slowly says, “Well, I’ve got a new battery to buy.”
Ah. Little Miss Balance Sheet. I bet she budgets every expense for months—and she was out of work for a while, so her budget probably looks pretty damn thin.
“My treat,” I tell her.
Still she shakes her head. “I don’t know when I can pay you back.”
“Pay me back?” That frustration rears up hot and hard again. “A treat doesn’t go into a balance sheet.”
The look she gives me says she doesn’t believe that for a second.
And then there’s nothing left to say. Because she’s withdrawing again, going quiet in the passenger seat. Not in fear, but just…pulling away from me.
Fuck.
If I push now, she’s just going to withdraw further. So I’ll back off tonight. But I’m not giving up. I’ll simply find another way to get beneath her armor. I just need an in.
And thanks to a name and a Santa hat, I’ve already got one.
3
Emma
Saturday morning, I wake up buried under my mound of blankets and lie there for a while, my mood strangely buoyant. I don’t realize why until after my quick shower, when I’m scrubbing a towel over my shivering skin.
The heavy knot of anxiety in my stomach is gone.
It shouldn’t be. My apartment’s freezing because I’ve been staying one partial payment ahead of the electric company’s cutoff notice for months, and to keep the bill manageable I don’t set the thermostat above fifty five. And last night after I drove home, I added the expense of a car battery to the spreadsheet I use to calculate my budget. When I was hired at Crenshaw’s, putting in my anticipated income was an enormous relief, but many of the columns still remained in the red until June. With the purchase of a battery, the red will creep into July.
But Logan Crenshaw isn’t angry with me.
When I head outside, my car doesn’t start. I don’t expect it to, really, but last night in the parking lot when I turned the key and my dash indicators didn’t even light up, months of despair and worry crashed in on me in an overwhelming rush. This morning, that dead battery doesn’t seem so dire. It just needs to last two more weeks, and jumping it each morning has worked well so far. When I’m at work, I can ask them to hook up that charger again. That’ll get me to and from the office until the end of the month.
And Logan’s not angry. He just looks that way.
That shouldn’t matter so much. When I weigh Logan’s not-anger against those red columns, that anxiety should still be chewing at my gut.
It’s not, though. Instead I feel hopeful as I start off through the snow. The best thing about my apartment—aside from my awesome landlord who let me pay only half my rent this month on the promise to settle the balance out of my first paycheck—is that the location is within walking distance of everything I need. So I spend a few hours at the wonderfully heated library, then walk to the grocery store armed with its weekly ad flyer. I don’t buy anything. Instead I head to the bakery aisle and try to figure out how I’m going to afford a dozen cupcakes.
I work it all out back at home, sitting on my sofa wearing a stocking cap, fingerless gloves, my heaviest sweater, and a blanket tucked around my legs. My back is wedged up against the sofa arm, because my ancient laptop battery doesn’t hold a charge any better than my car battery does, and whoever designed this apartment put only one outlet in the living room—and in the most inconvenient possible spot—so I’ve got my adaptor cord strung across the floor in a taut line from outlet to couch. But I’m cozy warm because the laptop is like a heating pad on my thighs, I’ve got a peanut butter sandwich filling my stomach, and I’m no longer dreading the gift exchange so much.
This Secret Santa thing might turn out okay, after all.
Buying store-made cupcakes would be cheaper than making them—only five dollars versus eight dollars for a cake mix, chocolate frosting, a dozen eggs, and cupcake liners. But the mix only calls for three eggs, which means I’d have nine left at home. Plus it yields two dozen cupcakes, so after giving half away, I could eat the remaining cupcakes for breakfast or lunch. Add a bag of potatoes and I’m set for next week.
Not exactly healthy, but I can make up for that when all those red columns are in the black.
I’m already dreaming of hashbrowns and eggs on Christmas morning as I put away my laptop and grab one of the paperbacks I picked up at the library—The Martian. It’s a re-read, my third time through in as many years, because its such ridiculous fun.
And compared to growing potatoes in human feces while stranded on an alien planet, those red columns don’t seem so bad.
That red won’t last forever, either. Only seven more months of pinching every single penny and barely keeping my head above water. Then I’ll catch up on all of my payments and those columns will be in the black.
And Logan isn’t angry. He’s just absurdly sexy.
Maybe next time—when those columns are in the black—I can go out for that drink. If there is a next time. He’s not angry, but my answer yesterday didn’t make him happy, either. So maybe he won’t ever suggest it again.
My chest suddenly aching, I settle deeper into my sofa cushions—then almost jump out of my skin when someone pounds on my front door.
Holy crap. Someone’s got a huge fist. And I’m not expecting anyone—I rarely have visitors—but I suppose it’s not too late for a delivery. Not that I’ve ordered anything. But I can’t imagine any of my neighbors or friends banging on the door like that. The UPS guy, though, maybe he would.
I throw the blanket from my lap and the skin on my thighs immediately goosebumps in the cold air. I’m not completely bare, though—I’ve got on flannel sleep shorts and striped knee-high socks—and my sweater is long enough that I could belt it and wear it as a dress. With my hat and gloves, I probably look like a complete dork, but…that’s pretty accurate. And I’m sure the UPS guy won’t care.
Book still in hand, I go up on tiptoe to look through the peephole.
No one’s there.
My apartment building is basically two buildings separated by a breezeway that leads to the parking lot. Through the fisheye lens I can see the unit doors across from mine, along with most of the breezeway. It’s all empty. With my security chain connected, I open the door.
A small white gift box sits on my step, topped by an envelope with OPEN ME NOW, EMMA scrawled across the front in thick black marker.
Weird. But okay.
The box is light. I rip open the envelope. There’s a typed note inside—on Crenshaw Woodwork’s letterhead. So this isn’t some random gift drop. It’s starting to make more sense. But only a little. Because the message is:
Open the box and find your first gift. Put it on.
Unlock your door and wait.
Don’t remove your gift until I’m gone.
Signed,
YOUR SECRET SANTA
The signature is scrawled in the same thick marker. Then there’s another little handwritten note, a TRUST ME, EMMA with an arrow pointing to the logo on the letterhead.
Because I’ll be unlocking my door so that someone can come in. He’s trying to reassure me that I’ll be safe.
He won’t be a stranger. I know my Secret Santa is Bruce Crenshaw. Logan told me he was.
Logan was also supposed to tell his dad to give me pine-scented candles…and the gift exchange is supposed to take place during the Christmas party. We’re not at the Christmas party, and the gift isn’t heavy enough to be candles. Unless they’re tea lights.
My breath stops when I open the little box.
A blindfold. Or more accurately, a sleep mask—one that Santa might wear, made from red satin and trimmed with white fur. But since I won’t b
e sleeping, the intended purpose is the same as a blindfold’s.
So I’m supposed to cover my eyes and let Bruce come in? The note seems to suggest he’ll quickly go, and the blindfold is just so that I won’t know who he is.
So he must be bringing something in, then leaving it here. And although I’m hesitant…I’m also so curious. I’m charmed by all of it, too. I like Bruce. He’s so sweet—and he’s apparently taking this Secret Santa thing to another level. And no one’s ever put this much effort into a gift for me before.
And, okay—this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in a very long time. Which is sad. But there it is.
I leave the door open a few inches. Backing up against the wall so I’m out of the way, I take a deep breath.
And put on the mask.
I have to pull off my stocking cap to fit the elastic strap over my head. As soon as I tug the satin into place, every sensation seems to sharpen.
The prickle of the cold against my thighs. The softness of the mask’s furred trim against my cheeks. The rapid thundering of my heart.
And from the breezeway, the approaching tread of boots on concrete.
A shiver works over my skin. Not cold. Not really. It’s just that my head is trying to make up for the blindfold, and I’m imagining what I can’t see.
But I’m not imagining Bruce. I’m imagining Logan.
It’s because of that tread. The unhurried pace of it. Logan moves like that, his stride slow and long, as if he’s never in a rush to do anything. I’ve noticed it so many times.
Maybe Bruce does, too, though. My impression is that when he walks, he’s quicker and more focused. But the truth is…I haven’t paid as much attention to Bruce as I have his son.
So I try to adjust my mental picture. I try to imagine Bruce’s lean height and his salt-and-pepper hair and his easy smile.
But when my hinges softly squeak, I imagine Logan’s dark scowl, instead. I imagine his broad frame filling my open door. I imagine him spotting me standing here, my back pressed against the wall, my hair in a thick messy braid, wearing a satin mask and knee-high socks and with my breath skimming quickly through my parted lips.
