by Lori Wilde
“Not me.” She pointed upward. “The mistletoe.”
“We’re standing on the street in front of your house. Where you live with your parents and nephew. In public. Where anyone and everyone can see.”
“It’s out of my hands,” she said. “You have to kiss under the mistletoe at Christmas. It’s the rules, and you don’t break the rules.”
He could kiss her. Yes, he could. He could obey the rules. Follow protocol. Stick to tradition. Do the expected thing. It was, after all, what he did best.
What had he become? Someone who followed the rules at all costs? A man who couldn’t think for himself? In his desire not to end up like his parents, had he allowed fear to lead him into blind obedience? Had he surrendered his common sense in exchange for safety? Gone overboard in the opposite direction?
Yes, laws were there for a reason. He wasn’t arguing that. But ignoring his gut when his instincts were shouting at him to go left when all the rules said go right was treacherous.
If he’d dared to question his values last year, and gone with Clayton to the orphanage, he wouldn’t be here today. And Clayton would be alive to celebrate Christmas with his family.
A punch of sorrow over his failing slammed him squarely in the throat.
Yes, Shepherd wanted to kiss her more than anything in the world, but not here. Not like this. This particular rule was made for breaking.
Naomi closed her eyes, and puckered her lips into a smile.
“You might need mistletoe to justify wanting to kiss me,” Shepherd growled. “But I don’t.”
Her eyes flew open. “Huh?”
He dipped his head closer, lowered his voice. “When I kiss you, woman, it’s going to be because it’s the right time and the right place. Not because you’re standing under a clump of some parasitic plant. It’s going to be hot and it’s going to last a long time and your knees are going to buckle. No mistletoe required. Count on it.”
Body shaking from the control it took not to plunder her sweet pink lips, Shepherd turned and walked away.
When I kiss you, woman . . .
His words rang in her ears. A blip-pulse of wondrous anticipation jumped through her. Naomi shivered from the inside out.
The look in his eyes had issued a sacred promise. When.
Naomi licked her lips. She’d been playing with fire. She knew it when she’d stepped under the mistletoe. Driven by an uncharacteristic recklessness. More akin to Clayton’s personality than her own.
Why had she done it?
Yes, hearing that Mark had volunteered to whittle handmade toys for the toy drive, to play Santa to needy children, melted her heart. Yes, when she saw how Hunter came alive around him, her brain flooded with what-if fantasies. Yes, the fiery heat pushing through her body whenever she was near him had a whole lot to do with her urges. And yes, he was sexy as ten kinds of sin.
All valid excuses to kiss a man.
But in the long run, pursuing something with him couldn’t pay off. He was a temporary employee. He’d be moving on after the holidays. He was a former Marine who was still lugging around a lot of baggage. She was in the process of adopting her orphaned nephew. She was caught in an eleven-year, on-again, off-again relationship with her high school sweetheart.
So many reasons why she should stay in her lane and mind her own business.
For the rest of the week, her thoughts vacillated. She did her work, came home, cooked dinner. Sat across from Mark at the table. Made polite chitchat. Kept her desires on a chain. Watched him leave every night as he limped back to the church. Cutting a figure so lonely it yanked at every one of her heartstrings.
If a machine could graph her shifting thoughts about Shepherd, it would scribble wildly, with crazy high spikes and low valley dips. Up and down. A jagged, sawtooth rhythm.
She made sure to never be alone in the same room with him. In case she was tempted to do something wild and crazy again. She simply didn’t trust herself.
No matter how hard she tried, Naomi couldn’t stop yearning for him. Pining across the dinner table when their eyes met. And she was fed up with her lack of self-control.
She had plenty to keep her busy. Focused on her work and the upcoming First Love Cookie Club charity dance and taking care of Hunter. Each night, she climbed under the covers with him in his red racecar bed and read The Magic Christmas Cookie to him.
Afterward, she migrated to her own bed, where she had trouble falling asleep. Despite her efforts to the contrary, she kept thinking about Mark and his sad, unhappy childhood. No child should have to go through what he’d lived through. And some people just shouldn’t be parents.
Children were a gift from God. More precious than gold. They should be treasured and protected and cherished.
To think he’d been so mistreated ate her up inside. She wished she had a time machine so she could go back to the past and rescue that little boy. But she couldn’t. She would do the only thing within her control.
Make a loving, happy home for Hunter.
Of course, she didn’t have to raise the boy alone. She had her parents and Samantha’s parents, neighbors and friends to help, but she was Hunter’s primary caretaker. And as such, she couldn’t willy-nilly pursue relationships with enigmatic men.
That meant putting her attraction to Mark Shepherd on ice. No sense starting something that was bound to end quickly. No matter how enticing. There were simply too many obstacles in their path.
Mark accepted her withdrawal. Actually seemed relieved. He would smile and nod when he came for dinner. Make small talk with her father and mother. Insist on doing the dishes while Naomi tucked Hunter in.
But he disappeared as soon as the dishes were washed.
This was good, she told herself. Things had moved too quickly. Yes. Yes. Keeping him at arm’s length was definitely the way to go.
Why, then, did it feel like she was losing something monumental?
Chapter 15
Shepherd avoided Naomi as assiduously as she avoided him. It seemed for the best. She was starting to like him too much. Hell, let’s be honest. He liked her too much. There wasn’t a future here. He knew it was better to keep his distance. It was for her own good.
For the rest of the week, he did all the chores Pastor Tom asked of him. During the days, he finished building the new wooden awning, put a fresh coat of paint on the church, caulked cracks, replaced lightbulbs, balanced the ceiling fans, and secured baseboards. And he took a long walk around the lake every morning. The cool air cleared his head. Plus, the neighbors were starting to learn his routine and they called out greetings as he passed by. It was nice. And he felt welcomed.
At night, still battling insomnia and his intense cravings for Naomi, he stayed up late carving toys in the barn behind the rectory, crafting a jewelry box with a pop-up ballerina, two nutcrackers, four toy cars, and a set of stackable blocks. He added to that a palm-sized rocking horse, and a dozen wooden puzzles. He was quick and proficient.
It got him out of his head. Therapeutic.
As the days ticked off, Shepherd kept waiting for the real handyman to show up and expose his lie. The worry sat like a lead weight in the bottom of his stomach. Always there. Heavy and hard. But no one ever showed, and he wondered what had happened to the real handyman. Why hadn’t he appeared?
More than once, he took out the Christmas key left to him by Clayton. Traced the cool metal with his fingers. Wondered what lock the key opened. Considered taking it straight to Naomi and telling her everything.
But he never did.
Because as soon as he told her who he was, his silly fantasies of an impossible future would be finished.
By the time Saturday rolled around, he had an entire box of handmade toys to take to a drop-off station. The event organizers had several donation spots set up around town, including one on the courthouse lawn to catch the tourist crowd coming in for the Dickens festival.
Pastor Tom had tried to make him take the entire weekend off, but
Shepherd argued that since he hadn’t done any handyman work on Tuesday when he’d driven Naomi around town that he hadn’t earned it. But Tom insisted.
He got the answer about the real handyman when he dropped off the toys on Saturday morning. Nate was manning the donation station, wearing a Stetson, boots, and a duster, and looking as badass as he had the night Shepherd first met him.
Nate examined the contents of the box and let out a whistle of appreciation. “You made all these?”
“You told me to.”
“Damn, son, you’re an artist.” Nate shook his head. “And fast too.”
“You were right,” Shepherd said. “When I’m working on the toys I’m not thinking about anything else. It’s play. Empties my mind.”
“Freedom.” Nate smiled cryptically.
“For a time.”
“What have you been doing for the PTSD?” Nate asked.
“Exercise,” Shepherd said. Along with the morning walks, he’d been keeping up the isometric exercises prescribed by his physical therapist. “And listening to iRest tapes. Journaling about my feelings.” He winced at that last part.
“Journaling is a tough one.” Nate grunted.
“Tell me about it.”
“But it helps.”
Shepherd nodded. “Yeah, it does.” But lately, the topic of his journal entries had all revolved around one thing.
Naomi.
. . . and his growing feelings for her. He wrote about the chestnut color of her hair, the way she smelled like peppermint and happiness, the curve of her shapely calves, and the sway of her curvy hips.
“Nightmares?” Nate asked.
“No.”
“Hey, that’s good news.” Nate chucked him on the shoulder. “Are you sleeping?”
“Not as well as I could . . .” But that had as much to do with his yearning for Naomi as the PTSD. More even. Every time he lay down to sleep, her beautiful face popped into his head and fantasies took off in sexy directions.
Gideon wandered up. Greeted Shepherd with a shoulder clasp. “Good to see you, Gunny.”
“You too.”
“Your shift is over, Nate,” Gideon said. “I’m here now.”
“Thanks.” Nate lowered the brim of his Stetson. “I’ll take what we’ve collected so far over to the fire station.”
“Fire station?” Shepherd asked.
“That’s where we’re storing the donations until Christmas Eve,” Gideon explained.
A woman came up with a box of toys and Gideon turned to help her.
Nate drew Shepherd aside, leaned in, and lowered his voice. “Just to let you know. I did a little digging and discovered what happened to the handyman Pastor Tom thought he was hiring when he gave you the job.”
A chill chased up Shepherd’s back. “Yeah?”
“The man got arrested in Sulphur Springs for assault and battery. He’s cooling his heels in the Hopkins County jail. Can’t afford to post bail. He won’t be arraigned until January.”
“How do you know this?”
“Sheriff Hondo Crouch is a good friend of mine.” Nate chucked Shepherd on the upper arm. “You’re in the clear.”
Shepherd exhaled but he didn’t feel relieved. Instead, fresh guilt flooded him. Stirring everything up again.
Nate must have read something on his face, because he said, “Look at it this way, things are working out in your favor for a reason. You’re supposed to be here.”
Shepherd wanted to believe that, but it was too woo-woo for him.
“Let go of the resistance,” Nate said. “Suspend your disbelief. There’s magic afoot in Twilight.”
Canting his head, Shepherd angled the other vet a look. “Are you saying you believe in magic?”
Nate picked up one of the toy cars that Shepherd had carved. “You don’t think this is magical?”
“How can it be magic? I made it with my own hands.”
Nate tipped his hat back on his head, grinned slyly. “Exactly.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Trust,” Nate said, gathering up the big sack of toys and throwing it over his shoulder. “All you have to do is trust.”
“In what?” Shepherd asked, frowning.
Nate opened the door to a big SUV, got inside. He closed the door and rolled down the window. Before he drove away, he called out, “The magic of Christmas.”
In one hand, Hunter grasped an oversized cookie. In the other, he carried a copy of The Polar Express they’d just bought at Ye Olde Book Nook. His eyes were round as walnuts as he whipped his head from sight to sight, giddy and greedy with the holiday season.
Naomi directed Hunter through the crowd with a hand on the top of his head. Enchanted by his delight.
The sky was brilliant blue, buffeted with fluffy white clouds. The air was balmy. A lovely sixty-two degrees. Sunny, and though breezy enough for a jacket, there was no need to bundle up. Just off the square, Naomi could see the lake sparkling in the sun like polished silver.
It was the perfect morning for a festival.
People dressed in Victorian period costumes flooded the streets. Beefeaters and London bobbies. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Dickens characters were everywhere. They spied two Marleys, three Scrooges, and four Tiny Tims. There was Miss Havisham with her one shoe. Oliver Twist and David Copperfield. Parents pushed strollers. Grandparents walked arm in arm. Teenagers texted. Entire families wore matching, intentionally ugly holiday sweaters.
Wreaths hung from lampposts. Christmas music played from outdoor speakers. Delicious scents hung in the air. Peppermint. Candied pecans. Cinnamon. Vendors sold spiced apple cider, hot chocolate, eggnog, and mulled wine.
And everywhere they went, there were cookies. Gingersnaps and ladyfingers. Lorna Doones and thumbprint cookies. Animal crackers and wedding cookies. And always, the ubiquitous kismet cookies. Sold in every store and kiosk. Wrapped in festive blue foil, with a white ribbon. The kismet cookie legend was written up on the back of the packaging.
This was Christmas in Twilight as Naomi remembered. Filled with fun and joy.
But haunted by the ghost of last Christmas.
Every place she looked, she saw her brother. Climbing on the lamppost on the corner of Ruby Street and Bowie when he was ten and she was supposed to be watching him. But she’d been caught up in flirting with Robert and hadn’t paid attention. Clayton got stuck on the lamppost because he was too scared to climb down again. Sheriff Hondo, who’d been a paramedic back then, had come to the rescue.
She saw Clayton on the steps of the Twilight Playhouse where Mom had taken them to see Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer when she was twelve and Clayton eight. He was there in the window at Pasta Pappa’s where the family had celebrated his sixteenth birthday.
At each and every place on the town square his memory lingered.
Down Bowie Street was the funeral home where they’d had Clayton’s service. She could see the limousine parked on the side street. Maybe it was even the same limousine she and her family had ridden in from the funeral home to the church graveyard.
A wave of grief so hard and hot she could taste it rolled over Naomi. It tasted like soured towels and headcheese.
She gagged. Stopped. Pressed a hand to her mouth. Oh Lord, please keep me from throwing up.
“N’omi?”
The sound of her nephew’s sweet, innocent voice yanked her back from that dark place. But her knees were shaky and she felt as if she might faint. She shouldn’t have eaten that cookie on an empty stomach. Or drunk so much coffee.
Hunter shifted his cookie into the same hand as his book. Reached out to pat her arm. “You O. K.?”
“I think . . . I need to sit . . .” Her head swam and her vision blurred. She saw the sidewalk rising up to greet her.
But she never hit the ground.
Instead, a strong arm caught her. A masculine arm. Mark Shepherd’s arm. Bracing the back of her spine. Her head cupped in his palm.
Feeling feeble and ash
amed, she lifted her head. Their eyes met.
The air left her body as surely as if her lungs were trampolines and the Flying Wallendas had just catapulted off them. Yearning fisted her soul, strict and punishing. Stabbing her deep. She touched the tip of her tongue to the back of her teeth. Her gaze fixed on his angular mouth.
“I’ve got you.” He’d come out of nowhere like a superhero. Reaching her when she needed him most.
She stared into that face, felt both salvaged and savaged. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and so thick it made her think of a magnificent forest, lush and vibrant.
“What happened?”
She wasn’t about to tell him that she’d been overcome by grief. Didn’t want to admit it even to herself. “Too much sugar, caffeine, and excitement.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine now. Thank you.”
He righted her.
“Hunter,” she said, her first clear thought going to the boy.
“Right here,” Mark said, putting a hand to the boy’s back and pushing him forward to her.
“N’omi?” Hunter looked worried. He tucked the book under his arm. Gnawed his cookie.
“I’m fine, sweetheart.” She took a deep breath. Sent a grateful glance Mark’s way. “Thank you.”
“Do you need me to get you anything?” he asked. “Water? Something more substantial to eat?”
“No, no. I’m fine. Honestly.” She put on her brightest, can-do smile. Smoothed down her hair.
“Can we still see Santa?” Hunter asked.
“Why yes!” she said, sounding like a gleeful Disney princess on steroids. Anything to get her joy back. “Of course!”
“Yay.”
Mark’s eyes met hers. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Never better. Thanks again for your help,” she chirped, ignoring the vacuum sucking a hole in her heart. Why had memories of Clayton fallen on her all of a sudden? It was unsettling and scary. “Let’s go see Santa.”
Hunter gave Naomi his book and cookie to hold. Reached out and took Mark’s hand. “Come.”
