Stocking Stuffers: A Five Story Christmas Anthology

by E. J. Darling

  "The same reason you are."

  “You were dragged here by a friend?” She doubted very much he could have been persuaded, and a deeply masochistic part of her wanted him to admit he was there for her. Subconsciously, she reached up and rubbed her shoulder, the only bruise still there, the one he gave her their last night.

  “Gray and Hunter.” He inclined his head toward Michelle’s boss, Hunter, and their friend Gray. They were two of Jaime’s poker buddies, and the only men who seemed to have any real influence over him.

  "You said you weren't coming."

  "So did you." He reached out and pulled her hand from her neck. “Does it hurt?”

  “No.” Not the way he meant, not physically.

  The silence stretched out, and the air crackled like fire between them.

  "Would you like a drink?" He gestured toward the table, the question coming out in a rush. If she didn’t know him better she’d think he was nervous and unsure of himself.

  "No, thank you." The silence took up their conversation again, and it threatened to break her. “Why are you here, Jaime? Really?”

  "Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  She turned from him, wrapping her abdomen with her hands as she backed away from him. The moment handed her a perfect segway to admit she loved him, and all she wanted to do was run scared. She needed to get out of there, but it seemed he could read her because he reached out and took one of her hands in his once again, tugging it away from her middle. "What do you want from me?"

  A chorus of people counting down from sixty started around them.

  Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight.

  "An answer."

  She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it tight. "Not here, not now."

  "Yes here, and yes now. You asked for a week, and I gave you that."

  Forty-two, forty-one, forty.

  "I asked you to wait until after the holidays." The look in his eyes was unmistakable, he wanted her. “I’m in this so deep, Jaime. If I ever lose you I might never recover. Not without a hell of a lot of pain and suffering. So much more than Thanksgiving. Just being home without you has been hard. I’m terrified to leap into this. That’s why I asked for time, for a few more days.”

  It wasn’t a question of whether or not she loved him, it was a question of whether or not she could risk losing him.

  "No." The word sharp on his tongue. "I’ve been patient. I was patient in Aspen, I’ve been patient since we got home. I picked up and put that phone down a hundred times, wrote a thousand texts I never sent. Because you asked me not to. But now, I’m here and I’m not leaving again."

  Twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four.

  "I don't want you here." She brought her arms up, intending to push away from him, but surrendering to his embrace instead.

  "Liar."

  One day. She’d only wanted one more day.

  Nine, eight, seven.

  “What if you don’t love me?”

  “Val.” His mouth tilted up as he cradled her cheek. “I’ve loved you for years.”

  They stared in silence, her heart in her throat.

  Three, two, one.

  His mouth was on hers, his hand cupping the back of her head, the other lacing through her fingers as he pressed their palms together. There was no choice but to give in, helpless to fight him when he held her, kissed her. When he told her he loved her.

  When he kissed her at midnight on New Year’s.

  A chorus of cheers, and a drunken rendition of Auld Lang Syne surrounded them, but she was consumed with him, his scent, his touch, and the taste of him.

  Champagne and fruit.

  His grip on her like a vise, his kiss possessive and fierce, his teeth stealing her bottom lip and tugging gently before letting go. When he backed away, they were both breathing heavy, his hold on her hand tight, the other fisted in her hair. "Now you have to be mine."

  She laughed, and leaned her forehead against his chest. "You’re still my boss."

  "I could fire you."

  She looked up at him, pressing her body against his and resting her hand over his heart with a smirk. "Not if I quit."

  He encircled her and held her against him tightly as he laughed. "Idle threats both ways, you are not going anywhere."

  "If this goes bad, then what?”

  "It won’t. We just kissed at midnight. Isn’t that how you told me it worked?" One corner of his mouth ticked up and he brought her hand up to press his lips to the back of it. “Can I take you home, now? A full week without you naked beneath me is far too long.”

  She giggled and moved away to tug him toward the door. "Car sex?"

  He growled, the sound emanating from deep in his chest, and tugged her even faster.

  They were stopped when Michelle gripped her on the way by. "Where are you going?"

  Jaime pulled her close, wrapping his arm around her waist and tugging her tight to his body. "To my bed. If we make it that far." In the moment of stunned silence, he pulled her back toward the door. Once outside, he pinned her against the wall and kissed her gently. "I’m so in love with you, Valerie Porter.”

  Her heart swelled a hundred times at the words, she gave him a smile that stretched her cheeks. "I’m so in love with you, Jaime Donovan." She laughed at him and tugged him toward the car. "Hurry and get us home. I have a bruise on one shoulder, and the other is woefully unmarked."

  “Not for long.” He jerked her to his chest, holding her around the waist flush against him as he bent his head into her neck, placing nipping kisses along it toward the slope of her shoulder.

  The scent of him filled her senses, and she closed her eyes as he playfully bit her shoulder. Teasing, hinting at the marks he’d leave on her before morning.

  Shoulders.

  Breasts.

  Hips.

  She couldn’t wait to feel all of it.

  About the Author

  Maira is an ER nurse at one of the busiest level 1 trauma centers in the US, which is a job that provides endless tears. Some of them happy, some sad, and many more from hysterical laughter. It’s a tough job, and someone’s gotta do it. Preferably someone with a dark and twisted sense of humor – and if you’re looking for that, she’s your girl.

  She’s also the mother to four amazing kids, who are extremely well equipped to drive her up the wall. They specialize in interrupting writing, and have advanced training in knowing exactly when the muses are singing so they can increase their efforts accordingly.

  Maira loves writing alpha men who stop at nothing to get what they want, and the women who drive them to drink. While she doesn’t think she’s all that funny, she does like to hear herself talk. Which is probably why she started writing in the first place. That and needing to release the voices in her head demanding to be heard.

  If you loved Jaime and Val, you can visit them again in the other books in the Love in Spades series.

  Also By Maira James

  Playing on Tilt

  Calling His Bluff (Coming Winter 2020)

  Upping the Ante (Coming Spring 2021)

  Mistletoe and Mischief

  Melissa Ivers

  Copyright © 2020 by Melissa Ivers

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: melissa.ivers.author@gmail.com

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Mistletoe and Mischief

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

&n
bsp; Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Julia

  Drunken frat boys dancing through the bar and singing their interpretation of Jingle Bell Rock does not get me into the Christmas spirit. It has the opposite effect.

  I sigh, tucking my legs under the lip of the bar, taking long relaxing sips from my Manhattan.

  Don’t get me wrong, Christmas is a great time of year. But the holiday season doesn’t hold the same joy for me as it does others. Not anymore. Christmas hasn’t been the same since my parents died five years ago. Instead of wasting my time decorating and crafting, I tend to keep myself busy, and lucky for me, Christmas is my busy season. I’ve been up to my asshole in cake and cookies for weeks. I’m not the only baker in Aspen, but my shop, Sweet Pies, is the best. And yes, that’s the general opinion, not just mine. The internet is never wrong.

  “Do you want another?”

  I look at Rebecca, the only bartender at Breck’s who knows how to make a decent Manhattan, and swirl the ice in my empty glass. That can’t be good. I didn’t even realize I’d drained it. Maybe I should pay better attention; I don’t need to end up hammered. There’s too much to do tomorrow, and trying to decorate cakes with a hangover is never a good idea. I’m still horrified by the look on Mrs. Castle’s face when she came to pick up an elephant cake for her son and couldn’t take it because it looked like a giant dick.

  “Sure. Just one more.” I’m not even feeling a buzz from the first one, so a second won’t hurt.

  “You got it.”

  I prop my elbow on the bar and rest my chin in my cupped palm, wishing I didn’t have to open the shop at the ass crack of dawn. Christmas is three days away, and I usually work until Christmas Eve. Tomorrow will likely be my busiest day this week with all the last minute shoppers rushing in to get their treats for the holidays. If last year is any indication, between the locals and the tourists, there’ll be a lot of people stopping by.

  “Here you go, Jules.”

  “Thanks.” I accept the new Manhattan and take a small sip, careful not to drink it too fast. “Rowdy crowd tonight. I don’t know how you do it.”

  Rebecca winks before flashing me a grin. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Just need to supply the tourists with a steady flow of craft beer and flirtatious smiles. Perky boobs don’t hurt either.”

  I laugh, putting my back to the bar, looking over the crowd. They’re out in droves. It’s not just a Friday night. It’s the last Friday night before Christmas, meaning the tourists are fucking loud and grating on my nerves, acting like their mothers raised them with no manners. The Christmas carols blaring over the jukebox only amplifies the obnoxiousness. It just allows the drunks to show off their musical talent with their own renditions of Winter Wonderland and Frosty the Snowman. As expected, the musical stylings of the college age man-boys aren’t even close to the originals. You can find all types of people and apparently, talent, at Breck’s.

  A group of college-aged guys, occupying a table by the bar, swivel their heads in my direction. All five sets of sleazy eyes settle on me. No, thank you. That’s my cue to turn around and mind my own damn business. I’m way too busy and have no desire to knock boots with some punk college kid skiing the slopes on Daddy’s dime. At twenty seven, I’m too old for the frat boy, drunken bullshit.

  A heavy hand lands on my shoulder and I tense.

  “What the—”

  “Hey, Jules.” My brother, Sebastian, pulls me against him for a tight hug. “I stopped by the house to drop off my suitcase and you weren’t there.”

  The insult loaded on my tongue dies as I bury my face in his shoulder to return his hug, squeezing him like I haven’t seen him in almost a year. Which I haven’t. We’ve been too busy to get together even though we live close. My brother, business lawyer extraordinaire, moved to Denver right out of law school to open his own practice. A practice that does quite well and if it weren’t for his partner, it’d be perfect.

  “What? No hug for me, sweets?”

  Steel replaces the bone in my spinal column, my blood simmers, and my pulse hammers against my veins. That deep melodic voice belongs to Sebastian’s snarky law partner, best friend, and the man who’s like a brother to him—but the bane of my existence. Nashton Wyatt. Much to my chagrin, he’s an Aspen native with most of his family here. When my brother comes home for a visit, he has a tendency to follow, like a brainless lemming.

  Nashton is cocky, bossy, and arrogant. Qualities that I’m sure make him a lady killer. His light brown hair, styled short, is the perfect length for mussing fingers. Not mine, of course. He can muss his own damn hair. He’s good-looking for an asshole, with his obnoxious sky blue eyes and pretentious cheekbones. If you like that sort of thing. Which I certainly do not. I much prefer my men with a little bit of integrity and, at the very least, a soul.

  Sebastian whispers against my ear. “Be nice, Jules. You know I don’t like it when you guys fight.”

  I scoff. There’s no way I’m going to be nice. We’ve been fighting since the two of them became friends in middle school, when Nash saw fit to torture the helpless littler sister. My brother was no innocent bystander, and the two of them liked pranks. Nothing was ever safe. They rigged Mentos inside my pop bottles, changed out hand sanitizer for lube, and even gave me a caramel coated onion. I still have nightmares about that one. Let me tell you, once you bite into one of those, you’ll never eat a caramel apple ever again.

  “Tell that to him,” I mumble under my breath.

  “I heard that.” Nash sticks his hand in my hair and tousles it like I’m five years old. If he’s not careful, he’s gonna lose that hand. I’ll bite it off myself. “I’m always nice.”

  “Unless you’re beating the shit out of my boyfriends.”

  “You’re impossible.” Nash crosses his arms in a huff.

  He is impossible.

  “Fuck off.” I step out of my brother’s arms, give Nash a light shove, and let out a frustrated sigh because he doesn’t budge an inch. “Did you guys stop by to pick me up?”

  “Of course.” Sebastian grabs my glass and drains the remaining liquid in one long gulp. He better be paying for that. “We just got to town, thought we could hang out before turning in for the night. Are you still working tomorrow?”

  I nod. “Yeah, but I’m closed Christmas Eve through the twenty sixth.”

  Sebastian signals for Rebecca, and after paying my tab, leads the way out of the bar. Sebastian and Nash disappear out the front door and, with my short legs and the Manhattan catching up to me, I struggle to catch up. As I skirt around the frat boy table, I notice one of them gets up and heads my way. Keep walking junior. This won’t end well for you. Doesn’t matter if he has the dick and moves of a porn star, I’m not interested.

  “Hey, darlin’.” A meaty guy with a man bun and a Texas accent grabs onto my hand and pulls me into him, chest to chest. His arms snake around my waist and he holds me to him. “Where do you think you’re runnin’ off to? We haven’t had the chance to get acquainted.”

  I bring my hands up to his chest and push. Hard. He doesn’t even flinch. What is he, a fucking boulder? He tightens his grip, drawing me closer. I narrow my eyes and level him with the heated glare I usually reserve for Nash. “I don’t think what I do or where I go is any of your concern.”

  “Oh, I’m mighty concerned.”

  I shiver as his lecherous eyes fall to my cleavage before moving back up to meet my own. I guess this Texas asshole doesn’t understand what it means when a woman isn’t interested.

  “I can show you a better time than either of those guys you’re leaving with.”

  I struggle against him, failing to get out of his hold. �
�Let me go.”

  “I don’t think so.” He smiles wide, his hot breath hitting me in the face reeking of stale beer and cigarette smoke. If he’s looking to get his dick wet, he’d be better off finding a toothbrush first.

  “I suggest you let her go. Right. Fucking. Now.” Nash’s voice booms over my shoulder. It’s terse and full of authority. A voice that promises retribution if it’s crossed. It’s deep and gruff and...downright sexy?

  Wait, what?

  That can’t be right.

  Texas boy quirks his lips to a smile, peering over my head, a challenge in his eyes. “Is that so? And who the fuck are you?”

  Not someone you want to mess with, I can assure him of that. Back in the day, he and my brother had been known as Smash and Bash. Not only because kids loved clever nicknames, but because they had a penchant for fighting. They may have traded their theoretical boxing gloves for a lawyer suit, but that doesn’t mean Nash forgot how to fight. He’d been good. Damned good. I’d seen too many kids with busted faces courtesy of Smash and Bash to believe that just went away.

  “Her boyfriend.” Nash snakes his arms around my waist and tugs me away from Texas boy, my back right against his broad muscular chest. One hand grips my hip while his other splays across my stomach possessively. He nuzzles his chin against the side of my head before laying a light kiss on my temple. I lean my head to the side, playing along.

  Jeez, that Manhattan must be hitting me harder than I realized.

  What in the world is happening? Did the floor of the bar open up and drop me into The Twilight Zone? Yeah, Nash is a little bossy, but possessive? Over me? Where the fuck is Sebastian?