A Marine for Christmas

by Beth Andrews

  “I told her we’d buy her chocolates. We can sell them in the gift store, offer them at the open houses.”

  “We? I hadn’t realized you were on the payroll.”

  Brady went back to the fridge to see what else he could take home to stock his own fridge. “I’m going to need you to draw up a contract—”

  “No way.”

  “What’s the problem? You wanted me to step up and do the right thing with J.C. and I am. Besides, you’ve been bugging me to get more involved in the Diamond Dust for months. So, I got involved.”

  “I wanted you to work for the company. Maybe pitch in with some paperwork. Handle some shipping issues we’ve been having. Not offer someone a deal behind my back.”

  “It wasn’t behind your back,” Brady muttered, irritated. “I just told you, didn’t I?”

  “You made a deal on behalf of the Diamond Dust without discussing it with me or Mom.”

  Brady grabbed a container of cheese spread, some lunch meat and a half-empty carton of eggs, shutting the door with enough force to shake the condiments. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all these years? You’ve never once asked for my opinion on anything you wanted to do with the Diamond Dust.”

  “I’m the president. Mom’s the owner. You don’t even work for the winery. The way I remember it, both you and Matt couldn’t wait to get away from Jewell and the Diamond Dust fast enough.”

  “Dad didn’t have a problem with my decision to join the Corps,” Brady said, carefully setting the egg carton on the counter instead of hurling it at his brother’s head like he wanted. “Just buy the candy from J.C. It’s good. Which means we’re sure to make a profit. It’s a win-win situation.”

  “Doesn’t matter how good it is. Our budget for holiday spending is already set. Tell her you can’t keep your end of the bargain.”

  “No.”

  Aidan shifted into what Brady recognized as his fighting stance—legs wide, hands loose at his sides, weight on the balls of his feet. “That wasn’t a request. That was me not giving you a choice.”

  Aidan picked up his soda dismissively. As if whatever he said was the last word on the subject. Brady wanted to go after his brother and knock his fat head in. Too bad that, with his bum knee, he didn’t have a chance of beating up his brother.

  Aidan did whatever it took to win. Even if it meant fighting dirty.

  Maybe Brady should consider going to his physical therapy sessions once in a while. The pain would be worth it if he could kick Aidan’s ass.

  “Just try one.” He shoved the box at Aidan.

  Even as Aidan chewed, his expression remained sour. Which was nuts considering how good those chocolates were. Then again, ever since their dad died and Aidan’s wife left him a month later, he always looked as if someone had switched his favorite Petit Verdot with grape-flavored children’s cough medicine.

  “Well?” Brady asked when he couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “You’re right. It’s good. But that doesn’t change anything.”

  “I already told J.C. we’d do this.”

  “And your word is your bond?” Aidan asked dryly.

  “When I say I’ll do something, I do it,” Brady managed through gritted teeth. He may not be living up to his family’s high ideals but he kept his word.

  He just didn’t give it very often.

  “Sorry,” Aidan said, not sounding sorry at all, damn him. “But it’s not going to happen. You’ll have to assuage your guilt some other way.”

  “DO YOU HAVE any chocolates?”

  J.C. blinked at Brady. Why was he at her apartment…carrying a large pizza box, no less? When she’d left his mother’s house earlier today, she’d figured, other than occasionally running into him while he was still in town, she’d never see him again.

  She nudged Daisy back into the apartment with her foot before the cat could slip out into the dark. “Halloween was last month. And you’re about twenty years past the normal trick-or-treating age.”

  “I’m not out begging for treats,” he said in his rough voice. “Aidan didn’t go for it.”

  So much for being able to pay her doctor bills with the money she’d get selling her chocolates. So much for trusting Brady Sheppard. “But you said…”

  Wait a minute. What exactly had he said? She’d asked if he worked for Aidan and he’d said… She searched her memory. Nothing. He’d said nothing.

  “You have no authority to decide anything about the winery, do you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Guess she should’ve asked him that question earlier. “Then why did you act as if you did? Why did you say it was a deal?”

  He glared, as if he had a right to stand on her doorstep all big and imposing and fierce. “Do you have any chocolates made or not?”

  The strap of her tank top slid down her arm and she pulled it back up. “A few, but—”

  “If you still want to sell your chocolates at the Diamond Dust, we need to do a pairing.”

  “I thought Aidan wasn’t—”

  “We’re going to change his mind.”

  She crossed her arms. As if she’d accept his help after he lied to her about the deal in the first place. “How?”

  “I thought we could discuss the particulars over dinner.” He held up the pizza box, his expression unreadable. “What do you say? Can I come in, Jane Cleo?”

  She felt warm, tingly. She’d never heard her name sound so…so sexy…before. Was that how Liz felt when he said her name, too?

  How would Liz react if she knew Brady had come to J.C.’s apartment on a Friday night, even for reasons that were decidedly nonpersonal? Then again, Liz didn’t have to find out. Not if J.C. didn’t tell her. She stood on her tiptoes and peered at her grandma’s house. Except for the porch light, it was dark. Grandma Rose must still be at dinner. And J.C. really had pinned her hopes on selling her chocolates.

  She stepped aside.

  “Bring them up,” Brady called down the stairs.

  Peeking around the corner, she saw a kid taking the steps two at a time, a large wooden crate in his skinny arms, a dark blue ball cap on his head.

  “Where do you want it?” he asked Brady when he reached them.

  Brady gestured with his chin. “On the table is fine.”

  The kid glanced up at J.C., then did a double take. “Hey,” he squeaked, blushing. He cleared his throat. “How’s it going?”

  She smiled at him and his eyes seemed to cloud over. “Uh…I’m fine. Thanks.” Had his voice gotten deeper from when he’d spoken to Brady?

  “Eyes straight ahead,” Brady said, then nudged the kid’s shoulder.

  As Brady and the boy walked over to the table, J.C. bent and scooped Daisy into her arms. The sound of someone choking made her spin around and she saw the boy staring at her, his mouth hanging open.

  She took a hesitant step toward him. “Are you all right?”

  “Don’t make eye contact. He’ll see it as encouragement,” Brady said under his breath as he took a hold of the kid’s arm and steered him past her. At the door, he shoved some money at the boy and practically pushed him outside. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Now standing at the top of the stairs, the teen tore his eyes away from J.C. long enough to check out the amount of cash in his hands. “Hey. Thanks a lot. If you need anything else, call me.” Then he grinned sweetly at J.C. “Or I could hang around. In case you—”

  Brady shut the door in his face.

  “Well, that was rude.” J.C. stroked Daisy’s soft fur. “What was that all about anyway?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  Brady set his hands on his hips, his jaw tight. “You made his night. And gave him enough material to stoke his sexual fantasies for the next year or so.”

  She almost dropped her cat. She set Daisy down on all fours but the feline didn’t take well to nearly landing on her head. Sticking her chin in the air, she meowed and then took off
like a shot.

  “First of all,” J.C. said, her nose wrinkling, “ewww. Second of all, I’m at least ten years older than he is. Why on earth would he…” She gestured vaguely with her hands. “About me?”

  Brady’s mouth quirked. So glad to see her confusion amused him. “Maybe he’d want to…” He repeated her hand gesture. “Because you smiled at him. Or maybe it’s because when you bent over in those shorts you’re barely wearing, that kid thought he’d just seen heaven.”

  Her face flamed. “They’re pajamas,” she said in a strangled voice, tugging on the hem of her purple cotton shorts.

  And she had on the loose—albeit tiny—shorts and matching tank top with eyelet trim because it felt as if her internal body temperature had gone up twenty degrees since she got pregnant.

  Brady shrugged, his intense gaze never veering from her face. “Doesn’t matter what you call them. They don’t leave much to the imagination. And believe me, teenage boys have vivid imaginations, especially when it comes to barely dressed women.”

  Great.

  She hoped the kid wasn’t scarred for life.

  J.C. crossed her arms and frowned at Brady’s back as he went into the kitchen. She wasn’t going to apologize for putting on her pajamas after she’d taken an early shower. She was in her own apartment, after all. And she’d seen no reason not to answer the door when she was just as covered as she’d be if she had on any other pair of shorts and tank top.

  She went in after him. “What are you doing?”

  He opened the top cupboard to the right of her stove and took down two of her mismatched plates. Held them up to her. “Plates.” Taking the roll of paper towels off the counter, he brushed past her, his movements slow, his limp slight but still noticeable. He set the items on the table, came back into the kitchen and took milk out of the fridge.

  “I never said I’d eat with you,” J.C. pointed out.

  In the act of pouring milk into a tall glass, he glanced at her. “Not hungry?”

  Hungry? She shouldn’t be. She’d had dinner a few hours ago. But the rich scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese made her mouth water. “I don’t want to have dinner with you, that’s all.”

  “You’re willing to lose out on a chance to make that deal with the Diamond Dust?”

  Possibly. Because at the moment, it felt as if she had to decide between making the deal that would enable her to prove to her family she could take care of herself, and loyalty to her sister.

  “Will any of this even make a difference?” she asked. “And can I trust what you say?”

  He flinched. Well, well. What a shock. Maybe he wasn’t completely dead inside after all.

  “I messed up,” he said, putting the milk back in the fridge. “I never should’ve let you believe I had the authority to make a deal on behalf of the winery.”

  “Why did you?”

  He tugged on his ear. “I wanted to help you.”

  He seemed sincere. As sincere as a hard-eyed, hard-drinking man could get.

  “Fine. You can tell me about this idea you have while we eat. But,” she stressed, “then you have to go.”

  Before Grandma Rose came home. If she found out he was here, it was sure to get back to Liz.

  He didn’t look relieved or particularly happy about her acquiescence. “I appreciate you hearing me out.” Then his hooded gaze raked over her, from the tips of her brightly polished toes to the top of her still-damp hair. “Before we eat,” he said gruffly, “could you put something…else…on?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BRADY WATCHED J.C. walk away, his gaze locked on the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass in those damn shorts.

  Pregnant women weren’t supposed to be so…sexy…were they? He even found the slight roundness of her belly alluring.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. Alluring. J.C. Montgomery. Sweet God, but he needed a drink.

  He set the milk on the table when she came back out. She’d put her damp, curly hair up into a knot on top of her head but a few spirals had already come loose. She wore a boxy sweatshirt and loose black sweatpants.

  Too bad he was still imagining her in those pajamas.

  He cleared his throat and handed her the glass of milk. “Here.”

  She looked at it suspiciously. “What’s this for?”

  “I thought maybe you’d want some.” He felt like an idiot. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to drink a lot of milk?

  “Oh. Sure. Thanks.”

  His neck warm with embarrassment, he put a slice of cheese pizza onto a plate before handing it to her. “I got half plain cheese in case you were still doing the vegetarian thing.”

  “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

  He sat and helped himself to two pepperoni slices. “Hard to forget you with that duct tape over your mouth at Easter dinner.”

  “I’d forgotten about that. As a protest against my mom’s baked ham.” She tore off a piece of crust. “It took two weeks for the skin around my lips to grow back.”

  He and Liz had been seniors that year, J.C. a freshman. “Liz did your makeup every morning so no one could tell what happened.”

  “Right.” J.C. tossed the crust back onto her plate then brushed her hands off. “Look, you don’t have to worry about getting Aidan to change his mind. It’s not like I’ve always dreamed of being a candy maker. It was a spur-of-the-moment idea. Believe me, another one will come along. They always do.”

  He scowled at his half-eaten slice of pizza. She’d always been that way. Brimming with plans, abandoning one grandiose scheme for the next.

  Perfect. He had an out. She didn’t want his help. Now maybe his guilt over making her a promise he couldn’t keep would ease. Maybe now he could go back to not giving a damn about anything or anyone. It sure made it easier to get through the day.

  “Do you always roll over when you don’t automatically get what you want?” he asked more harshly than he’d intended.

  Her nostrils flared and two spots of color stained her cheeks. “No. But that doesn’t mean I go around knocking my head against walls, either.”

  “When those other stores turned you down, did you even try to convince them to change their mind?”

  J.C. shifted her chair to the side, and the cat leaped onto her lap. “What’s the point? They already said they weren’t interested.”

  “The point is to stop taking the easy way out and fight for what you want.”

  “Wow,” she said through tight lips. “That’s great advice coming from the man who either ignores his problems or drowns them.”

  Other than his fingers flexing on his thigh, he showed no sign she’d just made a direct hit. “When I want something badly enough, nothing stops me from getting it.”

  He just no longer let himself want.

  She licked her lips nervously. “Aidan’s already made up his mind—”

  “So we get him to change it.”

  “How?”

  “By proving your chocolates will sell.”

  The cat nosed J.C.’s plate, and J.C. moved her barely touched pizza out of reach. “Except I can’t give him a guarantee people will buy them.”

  He finished off his first slice and dug into his second. “But we can market them so they tie in with the wines. Aidan will see an opportunity to increase sales. And believe me, nothing makes him happier than increased sales.”

  “But I thought wine went with real food. Not candy.”

  “It can go with sweet or savory. We figure out which of the Diamond Dust’s wines go best with each flavor.” He nodded toward the crate. “I brought the wine so we can do pairings.”

  “We?” she asked as if he’d suggested they take jobs as targets at the rifle range. “As in, you and me, we?”

  He scratched his cheek. “I was thinking me and the cat. But you’ll do in a pinch.”

  Her lips twitched. “You might be better off with Daisy, seeing as how I don’t know anything about pairing wine with…well…anything. B
esides, last I heard, pregnancy and alcohol don’t mix.”

  “You’re not going to drink. You tell me about the chocolates, what’s in them and we’ll go from there.”

  “But…are you sure you can do this? I mean…you don’t work at the winery…”

  “I grew up working there. Dad taught us every aspect of running the business.”

  “Right. Of course, but it’s…you’ve been away from it—”

  “It’s not brain surgery, Jane,” he said, keeping his frustration out of his voice. “What’s the problem?”

  She methodically stroked the cat’s back, one hand over the other. “I don’t want to be part of anything that encourages you to drink.” She cleared her throat. “No offense.”

  He leaned back, stretching his leg out. “I won’t get drunk.”

  As if he had such little control he’d get wasted sipping what would probably amount to a couple glasses of wine. When he wanted to get drunk, he went straight for whiskey.

  Like the bottle he’d picked up at the liquor store earlier today.

  “If it’ll make you feel better,” he said, “I’ll use a spit bucket.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “You don’t taste with your stomach,” he pointed out. “So there’s no reason to swallow.”

  “I guess not,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “But there’s no way I’m dumping spit.”

  He closed the pizza box lid and set his empty plate on top of it. “When Dad held private tastings, that was our job, mine and Matt’s.”

  And as usual, no matter what the job, Matt had complained the entire time.

  “I haven’t seen Matt in years,” J.C. said, her elbow on the table, her chin resting on her hand. “How is he?”

  He ducked his head so she wouldn’t see his frown. He hadn’t realized she had any interest in his long-haired, love-’em-and-leave-’em, too-pretty-for-his-or-anyone-else’s-good brother. The brother who thought J.C. had a sexy mouth.

  “He’s fine,” Brady said. “He was home Thanksgiving.”

  And gone the next day. Matt came back to Jewell for the holidays and their mother’s birthday, but he never stayed more than a few days.