Her eyes brightened. “Right this very minute?”
“Yes,” he said, feeling a smile take hold of his face. “We need a little Christmas. But the same rules apply. You won’t ask me about anything and I won’t tell you. Also, you should know—if I can get my snowmobile out, I’m going to town on Christmas Eve. There’s a big party there every year and this year I’m Santa. The roads in town might be cleared, so you can have someone come get you.” The twinkle in her eyes faded. “You can get your car later.”
She dropped her gaze to the coffee cup and took a slow, steady breath. “You really don’t look very much like Santa.”
“Looks aren’t everything.” Before she could respond to that, he clapped his hands. “Normally, I’d already have decorated some by now but things have been a little...different this year.” As in, he had been busy trying to keep Natalie Baker from finding out who he was—and failing somewhat spectacularly. The thought of his father’s two great lies suddenly being exposed hadn’t exactly put CJ in the holiday mood.
Even though the room was still a washed-out gray, he could see the color in her cheeks deepen. She was the thing that was different this year—there was no getting around that obvious fact—but he still felt bad reminding her of it. “Come on.”
* * *
“Hold the light,” he told her. It’d taken twenty minutes to get breakfast squared away, but now they were downstairs, poking around in the bins of decorations.
When his mom had been here for Christmas, every square inch of the house had been decorated until the entire place was red, green and shimmery silver. Bell Wesley loved shining tinsel and, even though Dad hated the stuff, he let her go wild. Claimed that what made his wife happy made him happy. Therefore, the house had always been completely decorated from the Day of the Dead until January first. They had storage containers stacked four high and three wide for all of the holiday decorations.
CJ wouldn’t get all of them out. First off, he didn’t really want to drag out all of the Mexican decorations. The papel picado—the colored paper cut in lace patterns—and the ornaments of tiny piñatas and sombreros would be dead giveaways. But things like his mother’s manger scenes and Virgin Mary ornaments—those were fine. “Can you shed a little light over here?”
Natalie adjusted the beam. “This is a lot,” she said in amazement. “Is this all Christmas?”
“Maybe seventy percent of it.” He began pulling the appropriate bins—each labeled with tags like Manger, Lights and Wreaths—and setting them to the side. He stopped in front of a bin labeled CJ’s Handmade Ornaments. Crap, he’d forgotten about that one. If they weren’t talking about the past, he didn’t want to pull out the collection of ornaments he had been making for his mother, one per year, every year for the last thirty-two years. The early ones were nothing more than little handprints in clay or scribbled paper trees with yarn strung through the top.
He hadn’t even given her this year’s ornament before they left—a wooden star he’d cut on his drill press. It sat out in the barn, finished except for some sanding and maybe another coat of lacquer.
He must’ve stared at that bin too long because when he finally moved to pull it off the shelf, Natalie stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to,” she said in a soft voice.
He tensed. Even through all the layers of clothing, he could feel the warmth from her touch, just like he’d felt last night. “Don’t have to do what?”
“That.” The beam of the flashlight bounced off the bin. “You don’t have to show me those.”
He turned to stare at her, although there wasn’t much to see in the basement. “Don’t you want to know?”
She swallowed, then appeared to catch herself. Her mouth twisted off into a half frown. “I do,” she said, looking frustrated, “but I don’t.”
CJ stared at her. He had no hopes of ever understanding her, none whatsoever, but still, times like these, when she almost made sense... And then didn’t.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s called plausible deniability, CJ. If you don’t show me the ornaments, I don’t have to ask about them and you don’t have to lie. Then, if anyone asks me if I’ve seen any of CJ’s homemade Christmas memories, I can say no, I did not.”
See, that was a prime example of her making sense and no sense at the same time. He understood what she was saying... But the fact that the woman who had stalked him for three weeks was the one saying it? That didn’t make any sense. “You’re not going to pry?”
This time, he didn’t see her swallow at all. “I gave you my word I wouldn’t.”
Abruptly, she turned off the flashlight. CJ tensed, but she didn’t make another pass at him. Instead, she leaned down and picked up one of the bins. “This basement is cold,” she said, hauling the bin up the stairs.
He was never going to understand women. Specifically, this woman. Because everything she had just said was completely at odds with everything she had said prior to this. Was this some sort of persuasion technique he wasn’t familiar with? Reverse psychology, maybe? Was she hoping that, by telling him she didn’t want him to share secrets, he would be more likely to start blabbing?
He’d never much been one for psychology. So, as dangerous as it might be, he was going to take her at face value. She wanted plausible deniability? Fine. He would give her all the plausible deniability she could handle.
* * *
It took everything Natalie had not to ask questions. Because obviously, some of these decorations had been in his family for years. Decades, even. The manger scene that he arranged on the mantel over the fireplace? It was so old that the baby Jesus’s face had been rubbed off and one of the donkeys was missing a leg.
The sleigh bells CJ told her to hang on the front doorknob—which was freezing cold—looked even older than the manger. But the silk poinsettia arrangement that she set in the middle of the big dining room table, that was newer.
Then he pulled out one of those things that she’d never known the name for—it was shaped like a Christmas tree but it had candles and a little propeller at the top. If you lit the candles, the heat turned the propeller. It was like a Christmas tree crossed with a helicopter. She had always wanted one and had once, when she was a little girl, asked Santa for one.
Her parents had told her Santa wasn’t real but Natalie had held out hope that maybe, just maybe, Santa existed and that she’d been a good girl. She’d tried so hard, hoping that if she could just act right, everything would be good. Or, at the very least, Santa would bring her a present, one that said she was worth something special.
Foolish childhood delusions. And she’d gotten so upset when her special Christmas toy hadn’t appeared that she’d cried. And that was when her mother had walked out because Natalie had ruined Christmas for everyone.
Still, it was exciting to see a Christmas helicopter in person, Natalie thought, dragging herself back to the present. CJ had said it himself—the past didn’t matter. Not today.
And since CJ seemed to have a lot of candles, maybe they could light it up and she could watch the wheels spin. “I always wanted one of these when I was a kid,” she said, stacking the layers on top of each other. “Where do you want it?”
“Here,” CJ said, pointing to a side table. “You didn’t have one?”
“No.” Carefully, she set the assembled whirly thing on the table. “I hope we’ll be able to light it. I always wanted to see one in action.”
She could feel CJ looking at her. He did that often. Maybe too often. Was he thinking about the way she’d thrown herself at him last night? Was he regretting saving her life and bringing her into his home? She was trying so hard not to make him regret it.
“Yes?” she asked as she turned to face him. There it was again, the look that told her he was trying to figure her out.
“I think we got that thing when I was a kid,” he offered. But even as he said it, he looked mad at her again. “What kinds of decorations did you have growing
up?”
“Oh.” She turned back to the bin and pulled out a bag full of beautiful, hand-tied bows made of lustrous, sheer ribbons. Someone had put a lot of love into those bows—the same love that went into the apple pie, she’d bet. “Where would you like these?”
She felt him step closer a moment before he touched her hand. “Do you celebrate Christmas?” When she didn’t answer right away, he added, “One of my best friends from college is Jewish. Hanukkah, the eight nights, the candles—it’s all really interesting,” he added, as if he were trying to make her feel better for not having Christmas.
“We aren’t Jewish.” Being Jewish would give her a reason to avoid Christmas, but it wouldn’t have made those years of miserable holiday seasons any more bearable. “I’ve seen pictures,” she said, helpless to stop the words that were inexplicably rolling off of her tongue. He was sharing so much with her that it suddenly felt wrong not to share anything with him. “Back when my mom was still with us, there’s a picture of me and her and Dad all sitting in front of the tree with ornaments and lights and presents and everything.”
Unexpectedly, her throat closed up. She had that picture in a box under her bed. The one time the Baker family had been happy—and she was too young to remember it. Instead of memories, all she had was a picture. “So I know we used to celebrate it.”
The words hung in the quiet room and mortification swamped her. It was the truth—but that didn’t make it sound any less sad.
She dug in the bin again and turned up a pair of snow globes. “Where do you want these?” she asked, ignoring the way her voice cracked.
“I’m sorry you lost your mom,” he said gruffly.
This whole situation was so ridiculous that she couldn’t help but laugh. “She’s not dead. At least, I don’t think she is. She just...left me. Us,” she quickly amended.
But she hadn’t been quick enough. “Natalie.”
Damn it all, she should have lied. She made the executive decision that the snow globes belonged on opposite sides of the mantel. “What do you think?” Before he could answer, she dug back into the bin and came out with two cut-tin candleholders. With a lit candle inside, they would throw the shadows of trees and stars and snowflakes onto the walls. “These are perfect. We’re already using candles,” she said brightly.
“Natalie,” he said again, this time with more force.
But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t think about what she had just said out loud. She had never once admitted to anyone that her mother had left her because she’d ruined Christmas—or that her father had never celebrated the holiday after that.
As far as Natalie knew, Julie Baker had never seen either her daughter or her husband again. Now that she was an adult, Natalie knew her father had been a major factor in Mom’s departure. The man was impossible to please and harder to live with.
But that realization had come later. Natalie had spent years with her mother’s parting words ringing in her ears.
She focused all of her energy on the bins of decorations. The next thing she pulled out was plastic mistletoe with a bell hanging out of the bottom. “Where should I hang—”
“Natalie.” CJ grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around.
“What?” She looked into his eyes—hazel, definitely hazel in this light—and realized there was nowhere to hide. He could see her.
It was terrifying.
“Your mother left you?”
Natalie hated that prickling at the corner of her eyes, so she ignored it. “It’s not a big deal.” Too late, she realized she had swallowed. Hell, if she were going to lie, she might as well go big. “It’s fine,” she assured him, forcing a big sunny smile to her face.
“And after she left, you didn’t celebrate Christmas?”
“Oh, sure we did. In...” She swallowed. “In our own way.”
His mouth twisted. “You’re not a very good liar, you know?”
His comment was so ridiculous she didn’t know what to do—except laugh. “Actually, I am,” she told him. “I can’t remember the last time I was this honest.” With someone else or with herself. That realization made her laugh even harder.
He did not laugh with her. “Is this a trick?” he asked, but his voice wasn’t angry. Neither were his eyes. He was staring at her with such intensity that it made her want to squirm. If anyone else had looked at her like he did, she would know that sooner rather than later, they would wind up back at her place, naked and panting.
But CJ Wesley wasn’t like anyone else.
“A trick?” It took a few moments for her to make sense of what he’d just said. Then it hit her.
He thought this entire thing—the damsel in distress, not having anyone to call for Christmas, even her hysteria—was an act.
Her giggles died in the back of her throat. Is that how he saw her?
She deserved that, she knew. If anyone else had accused her of playing mind games, she would’ve smiled softly and said something outrageous—something to prove them right while still maintaining what little dignity she had left. Dignity she didn’t have right now. For once, she wished that she’d kept her big mouth shut.
“It’s all right,” she said and was horrified to hear her voice crack. “I mean, come on—I’m nothing but a whiny, spoiled-rotten little brat, right?” The words spilled out of her before she could stop. “I ruin everything. I always have.”
She didn’t know what she expected him to do with this—because she was, in fact, ruining both his Christmas and his life—but suddenly, she was crushed against his chest. His arms enveloped her—he was so strong and sure of who he was and what he was doing.
She tried to hold back because she didn’t deserve this hug. His anger, his mockery, his criticism—yes. Not this tenderness.
But he didn’t let her go.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, low and close to her ear and damn it all, she sank into his warmth. He smelled of wood and smoke, of warmth and safety. She was safe in his arms and if she couldn’t blink fast enough to erase the prickling in her eyes, well, that was okay, too.
She shouldn’t want this—the way his arms felt around her waist, the way her face fit against the crook of his neck. She shouldn’t want the way his hands were rubbing up and down her back, relaxing her and pushing her closer to him—closer than she’d been last night. But he wasn’t taking anything. Instead, he was offering comfort—the comfort of his body, of him.
Comfort was perilously close to pity and she didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want him thinking she needed him at all. She was Natalie Baker and that meant something. She took care of herself. She had for years.
Still, it was several minutes before she could bring herself to push away from him. “Are you always this damn decent?” she asked, rubbing her cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve.
A long moment passed where he wasn’t touching her and he wasn’t talking. Finally, when she could barely take another second of it, he said, “Just doing what anyone would do for a friend.”
“That’s just it,” she snapped at him. She was angry now. In theory, she was supposed to be breaking down CJ Wesley—and the opposite was happening. She was starting to like him and if that happened, she might as well kiss her morning show goodbye. “No one is this good and decent and kind and nice, don’t you see that? No one is.” He made a motion toward her, but she backed away. Her legs touched the couch and she sat with an undignified thump. “You are not normal and we’re not friends.”
The words weren’t very insulting and they did exactly zero damage to him. “I don’t think you’re whiny and I’m not sure that you’re such a spoiled brat,” he said gently. She cringed to hear the words spoken aloud again. “I think you’re...”
“What?” she demanded. If she made him mad, he wouldn’t pity her. “Delusional? Scheming? Conniving—that’s a good one. One of my favorites.”
He shook his head. “I think you’re lonely.”
She had to laugh—had to. Becaus
e she could absolutely not sit here and cry. “Really, CJ—me?” She scoffed as best she could. “Please. Do you know what my market share is in morning television ratings?” As if that had anything to do with loneliness. “And what about you?” she quickly added because she didn’t want him to expound upon this flash of insight. “Why the hell aren’t you married? Because you should be. You are gorgeous and decent and well-off and you don’t play games. Why don’t you have a wife and kids? Or even a husband and some kids?”
Now it was his turn to blink at her. But he didn’t cuss her out or tell her to go to hell. “You know why.”
She did? Really, she didn’t know that much about him except...
Except she was sure that his father was Hardwick Beaumont.
“So?” she asked in confusion. “It’s not like you’ve got a third nipple or a vestigial tail—right?”
The corner of his mouth twitched—an almost smile. “You mean, something useless and left over from the past that has no impact on my life anymore, but that people still find fascinating?”
“That is the definition of vestigial.” It was such a relief to be off the topic of her that she kept going. This was as close as he’d come to admitting the truth about his birth father. But they weren’t actually discussing the Beaumonts. They were maintaining the aura of plausible deniability. Somehow that made it okay. She hoped, anyway. “But I don’t see why that would keep you from being with someone.”
He winced. “Let’s just say that having a vestigial organ—that’s important to some people. And you never know which people it’s going to be important to, so you don’t tell anyone about this organ.” Her gaze dipped down to a different organ, but before she could wonder about that, he turned to face the fire. “And then let’s say that you fall in love—or you think you do. And you’re convinced that this person you’ve fallen in love with doesn’t care about vestigial organs. You’re convinced that this person can see past that imperfection. So you tell them about it and it turns out it matters.” His voice dropped. “It matters a lot.”
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