Romancing the Holidays: Twelve Christmas Romances - Benefits Breast Cancer Research

by Crista McHugh

  She rewarded him with a genuine smile, which warmed his heart. And even though her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, he again thought about taking her to bed. Did it make him a bad person to have the hots for a woman grieving like she was? Maybe so. Maybe he really was a bad person, and bad things happened to bad people. But maybe he’d just enjoy the moment, because for once he had someone and something to focus on besides himself and his own problems.

  She scratched the kitten under the chin, and it started purring. Damn, if she scratched him under the chin, he’d purr like that, too. Then she looked up and caught him eyeing him like her dog would likely eye a slab of ham, and her face reddened slightly.

  “Did you eat?” he blurted.

  She started to shake her head then met his gaze. Damn, he loved those eyes. Brown didn’t describe them. He’d never been much of a romantic or a poet, but these were a rich brown color with a ring of gold. He got lost in them whenever he looked at her. For a weird moment, time seemed to stand still and the world was flipped on its head.

  Blake yanked his gaze away. “I was just about to make dinner,” he said. “Would you like to stay?” He sounded desperate, but he really didn’t want her to go. Even though he’d been prepared to spend Christmas Eve alone, just as he had for the last four years, he needed someone tonight. She needed him, too. Of that he was certain. They were two lost souls thrown together by an injured kitten.

  She hesitated. He feared she’d say no, so he rushed to convince her. “I make a really mean pasta fettuccini.”

  “I love fettuccini,” she admitted.

  “Me, too.” It was another thing they had in common, and the points were stacking up on the plus side. For the first time since he’d been cut from his team, things were starting to look up. “Homemade noodles. Everything from scratch.”

  “You cook?” she said. “Really?”

  He grinned, unable to hold back his pleasure at her look of awe. “My mom insisted all her kids learn to cook regardless of gender. She loved to cook, and she instilled that love in all of us. I also cooked a homemade rum cake.” He’d been cooking up a storm as soon as he’d stepped foot in the house early this morning. Something about being elbows deep in a batch of dough gave him comfort.

  “Rum cake?” She licked her lips, and he bit back a groan. “I’m a sucker for a man who can cook. I’ll stay.”

  “You won’t be sorry,” he promised.

  He motioned for her to follow him to the kitchen, and there he sat her at the counter with a fresh hot buttered rum and proceeded to finish his dinner preparations.

  “Could I help with something? Though, I warn you…I can boil water, but that’s about it.”

  Blake chuckled and shook his head. He didn’t need any help. Plus, he liked her where she was. He stole several looks at her as he made the sauce, prepared the salad, and cooked the noodles. He couldn’t recall ever being so instantly attracted to a woman on so many different levels. He loved talking to her, trying to figure out what made her tick, what went along with a mind smart enough to become a doctor. He’d already seen quite a bit. In fact, he knew more about her than his last four girlfriends—probably because talking had never entered into those relationships. Not serious talking. It had been all about getting horizontal. Not that he didn’t want to get horizontal with Sarah, because he did, but he also liked just being around her.

  His dick liked being around her, too. Sometime between her crying in his arms and her watching him prepare the meal, it had gone rock hard.

  Back off, buddy. No one’s promising you any action tonight.

  No, he didn’t want this to be a quick hookup. They’d been two strangers almost immediately comfortable as old friends, and he didn’t want to ruin something so special without taking the time for it to develop.

  God, though, he did want her. Painfully so. But he’d be a good boy. For the first time in ages he was truly enjoying himself, and that enjoyment had nothing to do with sex or hockey.

  * * * * *

  Sarah cleaned her plate and helped herself to seconds. “This is some of the best fettuccini I’ve ever tasted. You used real cream in the sauce!”

  “Thanks. And can’t you feel those arteries clogging?”

  “What a way to die.”

  “Save room for the rum cake.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she admitted. A few more of his drinks topped off with the aforementioned rum cake and she’d be passed out before Santa even managed to slide down the chimney. Oh, Lord, her mind conjured up a different image of a naughtier Santa sliding down her chimney, with a very special gift just for her. A very naked, very buff Santa wearing nothing but his Santa hat and looking quite a bit like Blake. It had to be the rum making her mind a little woozy. Or horny. Or both.

  She’d just cried her eyes out in this man’s arms, now she wanted to screw his brains out? Such thoughts weren’t like her. Not at all. She’d done just fine for years without a man in her life. Vet school and the practice took up all her time. Sure, she’d dated casually, but every decent man on this island got snapped up before she even managed time for a date. Most men hadn’t cared to wait around for a break in the schedule. Besides, Sarah hadn’t had the energy to put into a relationship. Not lately.

  Yet, here she was lusting after a soul more damaged than her own. A man she believed had more baggage than she had animal hair on her couch.

  Blake placed a plate of cake in front of her. After one bite she knew she’d died and gone to that place all bad girls without willpower went. She gobbled down the entire thing, despite how full she was.

  “Oh my God, this is pure sin.” Okay, the sexy man relaxing across the table from her was truly pure sin, but the cake scored a close second.

  Blake leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Honey, that’s not sin….” His eyes darkened like the clouds on a stormy beach, and her body was all in. Only her head maintained a smidgen of restraint. But then Blake frowned, as if realizing he’d overstepped his boundaries. He stood and pulled out her chair for her, and together they walked to the two-story wall of windows and gazed outside. Neither said a word.

  The snowfall had slowed. The neighbors’ Christmas lights lit the white-covered trees and reflected off the water in the channel like hundreds of gems glittering along the shoreline.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Sarah said. Then, eased by alcohol, she asked the question sitting on the tip of her tongue all night. “So, what brings you to the San Juans for Christmas all by yourself?”

  That sexy mouth tightened once more into its thin, grim line. Blake ground his teeth, heaved a deep breath. At last, an answer tumbled out like puppies escaping a dog crate: “Tradition. My family has been coming to the San Juans for Christmas every year since I was born.”

  His stormy eyes were cooler when he glanced at her. Despite that warning, Sarah pushed on. She had to know. “Where’s your family now?”

  He stared out the window, looking as if she’d cut an artery and all the blood was flowing out of him. “Gone.”

  “Gone? As in gone gone? Like gone to Heaven?”

  He nodded, not meeting her eyes.

  “I don’t understand.” The rum was muddling her mind and she couldn’t staunch the flow of questions. Most important was that she knew he needed to tell someone, to tell her. He needed to talk about it.

  “I’m all that’s left,” he said.

  “All that’s left?” His entire family couldn’t possibly be gone. All those people in those pictures? All of them?

  “Yeah.” His words were strangled, like he struggled to hold back but his emotions were winning.

  “What happened?”

  At first she didn’t think he’d answer. He stared out the window into the night, a profound sadness lining his face. Then he heaved a huge sigh and started talking. “Christmas Eve four years ago. My game went into overtime, and I missed the floatplane my family chartered from Lake Union.” He paused, swallowed, and scrubbed his h
ands over his face. Turning his head, he let his hands fall limply to his sides and met her gaze. Those stormy gray eyes drowned in unspeakable sorrow. “The plane went down in the Straits in the storm. My entire family was on it. My sister-in-law was pregnant with my parents’ first grandchild. I was looking forward to being an uncle. No one survived.”

  “Oh my God.” Sarah’s hands flew to her mouth. She remembered the incident. News like that traveled all over the island at warp speed. At the time, she’d felt sorry for the lone survivor and even said a prayer for him—an unusual thing for her to do.

  Their eyes stayed locked. Blake didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. His face was mask, but he didn’t fool her. He was on the edge of a breakdown.

  “Blake, I’m so sorry.” She didn’t know how to comfort him, how to tell him it was okay to show his grief, so she put her hand on his shoulder. That was all, and it seemed as if it were enough. His iron will melted away. Tears filled his eyes.

  He blinked furiously, so Sarah moved to him, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and showing him it would be okay. She wasn’t a small person, but hugging him was like hugging the trunk of a large cedar tree. For a second he stiffened; then he wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her hair, and fell apart.

  His body shook with silent sobs. She ran her hands up his back, guessing he rarely broke down. She could even believe this was the first time in four years. It’d be bad enough for a macho guy like him to cry, let alone cry out loud like an emotional female. His tears didn’t matter to her, though, didn’t make him any less of a man. He’d given her peace and strength earlier; now she gladly returned the favor. She even felt humbled that he trusted her enough to do this.

  He held her tightly, almost painfully, but she didn’t mind. Eventually, the spasms wracking his body slowed. Her hair, wet from his tears, stuck to her head where his face pressed against hers. He sniffled several times, and finally, with an embarrassed groan, he lifted his head and met her gaze. “I’ve never done that before in front of anyone.”

  “It was time.” She stared up and him and dabbed his eyes. “I’m just glad you trusted me enough to let go. It feels better, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Surprisingly, it does.” He almost smiled.

  She glanced around his beautifully decorated home. “You said your family did all this?”

  “Yeah, my mom and dad came up here the week before Christmas four years ago and decorated. I haven’t had the heart to take any of it down.”

  He’d left the house like this for four years? Just like she’d left her father’s office untouched at the vet clinic. “Good thing it’s an artificial tree.”

  “Sure is.” He almost smiled. “My mom hated the thought of cutting a new one down every year.” His voice cracked slightly.

  “We’re a sad pair, aren’t we?” she whispered.

  His voice was stronger. “I don’t think we’re so sad. We found each other.”

  They were a pair. Their mutual pain had forged an unusual bond, melding them together in an impossibly short period of time. She couldn’t believe they’d only met a few hours ago. Hadn’t she known him forever? He filled all the empty places in her heart.

  Was this how love at first sight felt? She’d always been too practical to believe in such. But now?

  She traced a finger along his strong jaw to the cleft in his square chin. He could’ve easily modeled hunting clothes or anything equally manly, but he was also down to earth. And he cooked and loved animals.

  His steel-blue eyes radiated hunger as she touched his lips with her index finger. Hands on his shoulders, she stood on tiptoe. Then, driven by hot buttered rums, mutual confessions, and their closeness, both physical and emotional, she touched her lips to his.

  She expected his mouth to be hard and demanding, but his lips were soft and pliant. He tasted of salt and rum. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered against them.

  “Merry Christmas to you.”

  The song playing on the stereo system was one of her favorites. “White Christmas.” Blake started moving in time to it.

  “I love this song,” she admitted.

  “So do I. Dance with me.”

  “I haven’t danced in years.”

  “Then you’re long overdue.”

  He led her slowly to an open expanse of hardwood floor near the entryway. Holding her close, he smiled down at her. The smile reached his eyes and made him seem younger, much younger, and she glimpsed the fun-loving man he used to be. She suddenly wanted to be the woman who restored more than a glimpse.

  He lowered his head. This time he kissed her, gentle and easy, yet the kiss was full of so much promise. It was a sweet kiss, lips only, but the most powerful she’d ever experienced. It radiated reined-in passion.

  He lifted his head just a fraction. “You taste good.”

  “So do you.”

  Their eyes met and held as they swayed to the classical Christmas music playing on the stereo. Behind Blake the lights on the tree blinked happily, and she saw that outside the snow had started to fall again. Inside the house, a warmth embraced Sarah and she felt as if, for the first time in two years, she’d finally come home for Christmas.

  Chapter 5—Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

  The meowing of the kitten penetrated Blake’s haze.

  Sarah stiffened in his arms and pushed against his chest, and he released her with great reluctance. She gazed up at him, her face flushed and her eyes shining. “I’d better check on the little guy.”

  Together they walked to the kitten. Blake watched as Sarah gently checked the little cat’s vitals, gave it food and water, and tucked it back in its bed. Purring up a storm and with a full belly, the kitten closed its eyes and fell back asleep.

  “I’d better be going.” Sarah took a few steps back, as if trying to put some separation and sanity between them. But Blake didn’t want sanity. He wanted to go back to the place they’d visited a few minutes ago, a place without gut-wrenching grief, a place he felt at home.

  “It’s almost a whiteout.”

  “I know. That’s why I need to leave before it gets worse.” She walked across the room to grab her coat. It was slung over a chair. Cyrus sat up and watched them from his spot in front of the fireplace.

  Blake dogged Sarah’s heels, feeling like a lonely puppy himself. “I don’t think it can get much worse. How far do you have to go?”

  “The opposite end of the island.”

  “You can’t drive. With all this snow, it’s too dangerous, and you’ve been drinking.”

  Her coat clutched in her hand, she seemed to consider. “I don’t know. I—”

  “You told me you don’t have anywhere you need to be tonight. How about a rum cake encore?” He was begging, but he didn’t give a shit. He’d never begged a woman to stay before, but he was begging her. Hell, any second he’d drop to his knees. He was so pathetic. “Look, your dog doesn’t even want you to go.” He pointed to Cyrus, who’d laid back down in front of the fire.

  Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. If she stayed, they’d end up in bed. He knew that. So did she. There was nothing he wanted more than to cuddle up under a pile of blankets and the down comforter in the big bed in the master bedroom with her next to him, though, watching the snow fall outside and listening to the fire crackle inside.

  He grabbed her hand, held it tightly. “Stay with me tonight.”

  She chewed on her lower lip, glanced out the window then back at him, clearly waffling between staying and leaving. Shameless man that he was, he cranked up the pressure.

  “Please. It’s Christmas Eve. Not the night to be alone.”

  “We’re strangers,” she said.

  That argument didn’t carry any weight with him, no more than he suspected it did with her. “Do you really feel that way? I don’t. It’s as if I’ve always known you, Sarah Whitney.”

  She smiled and rolled her eyes, squeezing his arm. “If that’s the line you use on all the girls,
you’d better get a new writer.”

  “It’s not a pickup line. You know that.” And so did he. He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms—where she belonged, and not just for tonight.

  She didn’t resist. In fact, her deep sigh revealed the contrary. She wanted this as much as he did. He slanted his mouth down on hers. The gentle, persuasive kiss ignited like a puddle of gasoline and a spark, and soon Sarah’s mouth opened to his demands and he lost himself in the taste and feel of her. His world spun around him as he molded her body to his, and the heady sensation of hope filled him for the first time in four years.

  She clung to him, giving back as good as he gave, her mouth as desperate as his. Her fingers dug into the back of his head, pressing him closer. He backed her against the kitchen counter and slipped his hands under her shirt. She made no move to stop him. A throaty moan was encouragement.

  Blake closed his eyes and savored the feel of her silky skin. He ran the rough pads of his calloused fingers up her rib cage and slid them over the rounded mounds of her breasts, and her nipples hardened under her bra as he stroked them. She shuddered with pleasure. He groaned, totally adrift in the scent and feel of her, a strange combination of cinnamon and antiseptic, so uniquely this woman that he’d never look at a can of first-aid spray the same way. Who’d have thought antiseptic could be a turn-on?

  Lifting her, he carried her upstairs to the loft bedroom with its huge four-poster bed and rock fireplace opposite the wall of windows. He didn’t bother with a light, but the Christmas lights from the living room below twinkled merrily across the room while the holiday music floated up as well.

  For a moment after he set her down, he stared at her with sensations so strong that their intensity almost brought him to his knees. She lay on his bed, staring up at him. Her face was flushed with the heat of passion, her lips swollen from his rough kisses. A small smile crossed those lips.