A Marine for Christmas

by Beth Andrews

  Getting unsteadily to her feet, she picked up the plastic container and glanced behind her. Brady was halfway up the stairs, his face in shadow. She limped inside and left the door open for him—Daisy wouldn’t go outside, not if it meant getting wet. As she went into the kitchen, she unzipped her soaking sweatshirt and peeled it off, letting it drop onto the floor. The T-shirt she wore underneath it was wet, as well, but she wanted to check her leg before she changed into dry clothes.

  After wiping her face on a hand towel, she sat at the table. “You okay in there?” she whispered, rubbing her stomach. She didn’t feel any different. Other than her leg, she had no pain. No cramping.

  She shuddered out a breath. Thank God.

  She gingerly pulled her pant leg up to her knee. A fist-size bruise was already forming. But there was no blood. Just some slight scraping of the skin.

  “You all right?”

  Brady stood in the doorway, his hair matted to his head. Water dripping off him, forming a small puddle at his feet.

  “Yeah. It’s not so bad,” she said, twisting so he could see her shin. “It hurts but I don’t think there’s any major damage.”

  “The baby?”

  “Fine. I didn’t hit my stomach.” She stood. “Before I make the coffee, I’ll get you a towel and then change.”

  But when she went to move past him, he didn’t budge. Lightning flashed, illuminating his harsh expression. He looked…dangerous. And pissed off.

  “Give me your shoes,” he ordered.

  She glanced down. She hadn’t even bothered to kick them off when she got inside. “What?”

  Another rumble of thunder. “You almost fell because you’re wearing those damn things. You could’ve broken your neck.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  He stepped toward her, his movements menacing, his expression hard. “The shoes.”

  “You… You’re nuts,” she said, edging away from him until her spine hit the edge of the counter. “Look. I’m cold. I’m wet. And I need to call the doctor to see what, if any, pain relievers I can safely take. So why don’t you—”

  “Hold on.”

  Hold on? To what…him? Not likely. Not when she just wanted him out of her way.

  Wrapping his fingers around her uninjured leg, below the knee, he lifted her foot off the ground.

  “Hey!” She clutched the counter for balance. “Watch it, grabby hands.”

  He plucked off her flip-flop and tucked it under his arm. He very carefully lifted her other leg and took off that shoe, as well. All she could do was stare as he searched through her kitchen drawers. When he finally found what he was looking for—a paring knife—she drew her shoulders back.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she breathed.

  He raised one eyebrow. Then he held up a flip-flop, tilted his head and…with his eyes locked on hers…sliced through the strap. Tossing the flip-flop over his shoulder, he repeated the process with the second one then laid the knife on the counter and gave her a look that told her he’d not only enjoyed destroying her shoes, but he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

  She shook her head. “There is something seriously wrong with you.”

  He closed the distance between them. Water dripped from his coat onto her bare feet. “You’re the one stupid enough to wear those shoes.”

  She pressed back against the counter again. “At least I don’t go around dismembering people’s shoes.”

  “Damn it, you could’ve been hurt,” he snapped, grasping her upper arms and lifting her on tiptoe.

  A lump formed in her throat. He’d been scared for her. How awful it must’ve been for him in that split second when it’d seemed as if she was going to fall backward. How helpless he must’ve felt. How angry because he couldn’t race up the stairs.

  Thunder shook the apartment.

  Brady shuddered, his fingers tightening on her arms. His breathing grew rapid.

  She remembered his violent reaction that morning she’d first told him about the baby. How he’d seemed to space out at the gift shop last week.

  All this time she’d thought the changes in him, his drinking, were because of Liz. Because he couldn’t let her go. And maybe that was part of it. But it wasn’t all of it.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” she soothed him. She laid her hands on his chest. Under the soggy, cold shirt, his muscles tensed. His heart raced. “It’s just a storm. Everything’s fine.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. He slid his hands up to her shoulders. Brushing his thumbs against the sides of her neck, he tipped her head back and met her eyes. She dug her nails into his skin. His narrowed gaze dropped to her mouth.

  And any hope she’d had about truly being over her feelings for this man died when he swore under his breath and then kissed her.

  HIS MOUTH AGAINST HERS, Brady swallowed J.C.’s gasp. He kept the kiss gentle. Almost…reverent. He was afraid if he pushed for too much, too fast, she’d pull away. Tell him to go.

  He couldn’t let that happen. Not when the panic was already receding. He was able to blot everything else out because she was in his arms. Kissing him back.

  He had no right to touch her, to discover that she tasted as sweet as he’d imagined. To sink into her kiss and forget how screwed up his life had become. But he couldn’t stop. He needed to surround himself with her warmth. It was the only way to get rid of the fear that gripped him every day.

  He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips and she pulled back slightly, but not far enough away to break contact. Forcing himself to slow down, he skimmed his lips across her jaw, over her chilled cheeks to her temple and down along her hairline.

  Her skin was cold, so he rubbed her arms. Pressed closer to her as his own body heated despite his wet clothes. He wanted to tear her hair band out. Watch her shake her head so the curls framed her face. But he didn’t have the patience for it.

  He pressed an openmouthed kiss behind her ear. Her head fell back on a soft moan that seemed to wash over his body, caress his skin.

  He kissed her mouth again. Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue touched his tentatively and about blew his mind.

  He yanked her against him. Speared one hand into the damp hair at the nape of her neck to hold her still for his kiss. His other hand slid under her shirt to her waist, the curve of her belly pressing against his palm.

  Deepening the kiss, he shifted his weight off his bad leg by slipping it between her thighs. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers combing through his wet hair. The movement brought their bodies center to center. He hissed out a breath. Her breasts rubbed against his chest, her beaded nipples burning through his shirt.

  He shifted to the side and broke the kiss long enough to wrench his coat off. Letting it fall on the floor, he raked his gaze over her and his body tightened. She was…stunning. Her lips were red and swollen, her breasts, the roundness of her belly pressing against her shirt. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark with desire.

  He took her mouth in another voracious kiss. Grabbing her ass, he pulled her even closer. She was all soft, lush curves. And the mewling sounds she made in the back of her throat were driving him crazy. Unable to resist, he rolled his hips and almost whimpered himself. He needed to be inside her. Right now. Or else he’d lose his mind for good.

  He would’ve dragged her down and made love to her there on her kitchen floor, was in the process of doing just that, when she stopped kissing him.

  He lifted his head. “What’s wrong?”

  “I…I don’t want this,” she said, holding herself as stiffly as possible in his arms.

  “Are you sure?” he murmured, unable to stop himself from trailing a finger down the smoothness of her cheek. “I want you.”

  She laughed harshly. “You don’t want me. You want a warm body.” When she pushed him, he dropped his arms and stepped back. “I’m convenient.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re looking for someone to help you
through the night.”

  No. Not anyone. Her. But she’d never believe it.

  “Is that so wrong?” he asked. “We’re both adults. Both unattached.”

  “It wouldn’t be wrong,” she said with a sigh, “except you’ll never be unattached. You’re always going to be in love with Liz.”

  He wanted to deny it. Wanted his denial to be the truth, but he wasn’t sure it would be. “She has nothing to do with this.”

  “How can she not have everything to do with this?” J.C. crossed her arms. “She’s my sister and the woman you’ve loved half your life. What happens between us affects her, too.”

  “So I’m supposed to…what? Let Liz vet all the women I might sleep with? Because she sure as hell didn’t ask my opinion when she decided to dump me for her husband.”

  “There’s too much between us. Call it history or family ties…or whatever. All I know is I’ve already let you use me once,” she said wearily as she straightened from the counter. “I’m not about to make that mistake again. Especially not for a man who only wants me so he can pretend he’s with my sister.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “YOU’RE EITHER the world’s most patient man,” J.C. said in exasperation, coming back to the kitchen when he’d refused to leave, “or the most stubborn.”

  “Both,” he admitted.

  She’d swept out of here twenty minutes ago, no doubt hoping that if she took long enough changing into dry clothes, he’d give up, maybe even get pissed and take off. But he wasn’t going anywhere. Not when she had such a messed-up view of what’d happened between them. Of why he’d kissed her.

  “Here,” she said, tossing him a dark blue towel and a gray sweatshirt.

  He caught one in each hand. “Thanks.”

  She shrugged and brushed past him, close enough he could smell a light vanilla scent as she went to a corner cupboard. She’d changed into a pair of striped pajama pants and an oversize, stained shirt with a scowling Garfield holding a coffee cup above the words I Don’t Do Mornings. She must’ve redone her hair because the sides were smoothed back, the ponytail higher on her head. Several curls, having escaped confinement, trailed along the back of her neck.

  The skin he now knew was soft and warm and sensitive to his touch.

  Squeezing the towel in his hands, he stepped back so he wouldn’t pull her against him.

  She turned—spray cleaner in one hand, a dry cloth in the other—and, without so much as a glance his way, went back to the table. Rain pelted the roof, its intensity waning as the storm moved past. But another one would follow. And if he was alone, he didn’t think he could make it through the night. At least not sober.

  By the time he’d peeled off his damp shirt, rubbed the towel over his chilled arms and chest, and dried his hair, she’d wheeled a small, three-tiered cart between the table and wall and taken a round, plastic container from the fridge.

  “Thank you,” she said, still not looking at him, “for cleaning up the floor.”

  “No problem.” Since she’d left him to stew, he’d had plenty of time.

  He tugged on the sweatshirt, shoving up the short sleeves. Sitting to her left, he clasped his hands between his knees. Inhaled deeply. “When I’m with you,” he said slowly, his gaze fixed on her profile, “I don’t pretend you’re Liz. And I sure as hell wasn’t thinking of her when I kissed you.”

  “You sure about that?” she asked, spraying cleaning solution over the table. The harsh, chemical scent stung his nose. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Whatever I did the night of Liz’s wedding, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “It wasn’t all your fault.” She wiped the table with brisk, rough strokes. “I convinced myself you wanted to be with me. And I kept on believing. Right until the end when…” Her voice broke, and she vigorously scrubbed the same spot. “When you called out Liz’s name.”

  He linked his hands at the back of his neck and leaned back. Blew out a heavy breath. “Shit.”

  His memories of that night were blurry. Disjointed. He’d known he’d used J.C. to help him through his pain and anger. But he hadn’t realized how low he’d sunk. Wincing, he shut his eyes. How low he was still sinking. Not thirty minutes ago he’d had her in his arms wanting only to shove aside his panic, to ignore the memories for a little while.

  She unfolded a plastic tablecloth. When she spread the material over the table, he sat up and snagged her hand. She froze, her fingers curling. He traced his fingertip over the delicate skin of her inner wrist. Back and forth. Back and forth. Finally, she raised her head.

  He wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Felt her pulse beat. “I’m sorry, Jane.”

  “Sometimes…” she said softly as she withdrew her hand. “Sometimes being sorry isn’t enough.”

  J.C. DIDN’T SO MUCH as glance Brady’s way as she set out what she needed—gloves, wax paper, tape, melon ball scoop, cookie sheets. After taping wax paper to the cookie sheets, she opened the container of ganache she’d made earlier. Wind rattled the windowpane.

  “Won’t be long before another storm comes,” she said casually. As if having him sit there wearing her University of Virginia sweatshirt, all big and male and brooding, didn’t bother her in the least. As if it hadn’t taken all of her willpower to push him away. “If you don’t want to get caught in another downpour, you’d better get going.”

  “Last time you wanted me out of your apartment, you told me outright.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, pulling on a pair of gloves. “I’d like you to leave.”

  Scooping up a small amount of the dark ganache, she rolled it lightly between her palms, then set it on the wax paper. Repeated the process.

  Brady stretched his leg out. Bent it again. Drummed his fingers on the table.

  She sighed. “Brady—”

  “I haven’t had a drink in four days.”

  Her fingers tightened on the scoop and she glanced at him. Four days… She caught her breath. Four days ago he’d accompanied her to her doctor’s appointment.

  “Are you bragging?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral. “Or complaining?”

  He slouched. “Just stating a fact.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s—”

  “I wanted to,” he muttered. “Every damn day I’ve wanted a drink worse than the day before.”

  Using the scoop, she scraped a tic-tac-toe pattern into the ganache. “Maybe…maybe you need to decide what you want more. To have a drink. Or to stop drinking.”

  He stood. Put his hands into his pockets. Took them out again. The next storm rumbled in the distance and he hunched his shoulders.

  “Don’t like thunder?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  “I’ve been jumpy since…” He shook his head.

  “You were hurt?”

  “Since I’ve been stateside.” His expression was hard. “Sometimes…loud noises cause me to…zone out.”

  She frowned. “You mean you have flashbacks?”

  He glared at her. “Sometimes I think about what happened back there.”

  There. Afghanistan. Where his friends had been wounded. Killed.

  And now a thunderstorm had the power to cause this strong man to tremble. Her heart broke for him.

  “Can I stay?” he asked, his tone belligerent. His feet wide, his arms loose at his sides as if ready for a fight.

  “What do you mean?” If he said stay as in stay the night in her bed, she’d kick his butt to the curb—she didn’t care how emotionally damaged he was.

  He kept opening and closing his fist, like a gunfighter getting ready to draw his weapon. “If I go home now,” he said, as if he were forcing the words out, “I’ll drink. And I don’t want to drink. Not tonight.”

  She squeezed the last of the ganache between her hands. He was using her. Again. She was his safety net. Except she couldn’t save him. And even if she could, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  “Should I be your crutch?” she asked, una
ble to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “How about if I throw myself on any alcoholic beverages that get within a few feet of you?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of you just…talking to me,” he said quietly. “Letting me keep you company while you work or do your laundry or…whatever you had planned.”

  She tore off her chocolate-coated gloves and dropped them into the empty bowl. She wanted to send him away. To protect herself from him. If she let him too close, he’d hurt her again. But then she met his eyes and, for the first time since he’d come home, glimpsed the man he used to be.

  She had to let him stay.

  “BRADY,” DIANE SAID TWO days later as she passed him the serving bowl of green beans, “there’s something important Aidan and I would like to discuss with you.”

  They were seated at the small table in the breakfast nook rather than in the ornate dining room—the spot for Sunday dinners when he’d been a kid. His mother sat with her back to the dark window, Brady to her left. Aidan, as always, was her right-hand man.

  Spooning beans onto his already full plate, Brady raised his eyebrows. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  Diane smiled at him. “How would you like to take on a bigger role at the winery?”

  His fingers tingled and he set the beans down. Every week since he’d been back in Jewell, his mother had invited him to Sunday dinner. And every week he’d declined. Until yesterday, when his mother had casually mentioned she was making all his favorites.

  Damn. Lured into a trap by the promise of fried chicken, homemade buttermilk biscuits and her double fudge brownies.

  He picked up his drumstick. “I wouldn’t.”

  “Told you,” Aidan murmured before sipping his chardonnay.

  “But why not?” she asked. “Now that you’re…getting better—”

  “She means now that you’re not stinking drunk or hungover all the time,” Aidan offered.