Hers for the Holidays

by Samantha Hunter

  “I have to get dressed and take care of this mess.”

  “You’re really not going to report the break-in?”

  She didn’t respond, walking out of the room, leaving Ely behind. Maybe he’d take the hint and leave.

  Probably not. She heard a cupboard open and close, and it sounded like he was starting to clean up.

  Great. The last thing she needed right now was Ely trying to be her white knight.

  She took a few minutes to get her bearings and to get some clothes on. She also had to process the fact that Ely Berringer was down in her kitchen, as real as the day was long, all sexy, muscle-bound, six-foot-something of him. The universe sure did enjoy toying with her.

  If she thought her life was complicated an hour ago, now that word had taken on an entirely new meaning.

  3

  ELY TOOK OFF HIS wet hoodie and boots, putting them out in the mudroom. He had picked up a good deal of the mess on the floor before wondering if Lydia was coming back. Maybe she fell back asleep. Did she hit her head when she’d fallen?

  Concerned, he put down the broom and walked out into the hall, admiring the solid beams along the ceiling and hardwood floors. The wood was worn and aged in that way that only made it more attractive, and the place had a homey feeling about it. New construction was never this solid anymore. He went upstairs and saw the light shining from under a closed door. Knocking softly, he asked, “Lydia, are you okay?”

  She mumbled something, but was definitely awake.

  “Do you need help? Should I come in?”

  “No,” she barked.

  Okay, he thought, retreating from the door. That was clear enough.

  Making his way back downstairs, he looked around, fully intending to go and check on her whether she liked it or not if she didn’t materialize in the next five minutes.

  As he waited, he took the place in. Family pictures crowded the walls, which were covered with a bold William Morris wallpaper. An interesting choice. He only knew about the style because his mother was wild for anything from the Arts and Crafts movement. Their father had sharpened their interests in technology and sports, but their mother had insisted that her boys have some sense of art in the world.

  She’d taken Ely and his brothers to museums and to every Arts and Crafts movement exhibit that came along. She’d even brought them on weekend trips to visit Falling Water, Oak Park and other Frank Lloyd Wright destinations.

  He had to admit, the four of them hadn’t always been enthusiastic participants, but she’d made it fun and the experience had stayed with him as he reached adulthood. When he’d gotten his own place after coming home from the Middle East, he’d sought out many of the natural designs his mother also preferred, finding them soothing to his battle-weary spirit.

  She would love this house, which had definite aspects of Prairie construction, though it was more of a mélange of different styles that all came together.

  The rooms were large, with low ceilings and warm colors. Large windows allowed for a lot of light, but were also a challenge to the heating bill, he imagined. If you stood too close to a window, you could feel the chill.

  The yellow kitchen was huge, more of a typical farmhouse style with a large, solid wood chopping block island near the sink, and a cool Formica table closer to the entry. The floor needed some work. Rather than wood, the floor in there was old linoleum, and as he walked through, he noticed some points where it was sinking. Probably needed supports in the basement.

  There could be some foundation problems, as well. The house was warm, but there was a draft, and he noted that someone had put plastic over the kitchen windows. It wasn’t doing much good.

  He busied himself by making mental notes of some less obvious wear-and-tear issues, things that would need to be repaired before Lydia could sell the place. He stopped as he encountered a wall in the dining room, one full of family pictures.

  Lydia as a baby, Lydia on a horse, smiling a girlie grin that was missing one tooth—she couldn’t be more than six. Ely found himself smiling at the picture of a slightly older Lydia with her parents by the Christmas tree, and another dressed as a cheerleader—a cheerleader? Ely’s mind boggled.

  She’d been cute—a smiling, happy young woman who showed hints of the sexy charm that would develop later. Her blue eyes were open and happy; unlike now, when she was often guarded and distant.

  One picture of her as a teen was with another girl her age, their arms thrown around each other, a birthday cake bright with candles in front of them as they both threw kisses to the camera.

  As he reached up to get a closer look at one of the photos, a hard case fell from the table to the floor. He picked it up, his eyebrows rising at the name of the artist on the cover of the CD.

  Jack Johnson. He replaced it, noticing a few others, all soft rock, country or easy listening.

  A lot different than the hard metal music that Lydia tended to play in the shop; that stuff gave him a headache. On the inside of one case, someone had written:

  Our little secret. Happy Birthday, Tessa.

  Another one was a birthday gift.

  It all presented a confusing—but intriguing—image.

  Lydia, the woman who was covered in ink, piercings, who wore leather and listened to thrash metal and enjoyed one-nighters that included an array of kinky sex toys, was also a wholesome country girl who had grown up on a farm with horses, cows and who enjoyed easy-listening music and reading?

  “I see you’re making yourself at home,” she said from behind him.

  He turned to find her leaning against a doorjamb, fully dressed again. Black jeans, black T-shirt with some symbol painted on the front. She looked more like herself—the self that he was familiar with—though she still wore no makeup. He liked it better that way, actually. She seemed even sexier than he remembered, and what he remembered was plenty sexy.

  “I started cleaning up, but I was concerned when you didn’t come back down. Are you okay?”

  She shrugged. “Fine.”

  The mask was back in place. She still looked pale, tired. Wary. Pissed off.

  “It’s a beautiful old house,” he said, taking the room in again. “You grew up here.”

  It was a statement, not a question. She didn’t answer.

  “I was really sorry to find out about your mother, Lydia. Are you doing okay?”

  She shrugged again, unwilling to give, and he was unsure what he was supposed to do, so he turned back to the wall.

  “Who’s the other girl in this birthday photo?”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said sharply.

  There it was. Might as well get it over with now.

  “If it wasn’t me, it would have been Tessa. She was worried sick about you.”

  He saw the flash of guilt in her eyes, and she looked down at the floor as she responded. “I know. I meant to get in contact with her, but it’s been busy.”

  “Too busy to let her know you were okay? Where you were? Or too worried that she’d find out everything you told her about your life before Philly was a lie?”

  Straightening, Lydia took a step into the room. “I don’t need to explain any of this to you or to anyone, for that matter. You had no right to poke around in my life. My mother died. I’m here to settle everything, and that’s no one’s business but mine. Why would you care anyway? I thought you were off...somewhere.”

  Ely took a step closer, too, feeling the draw. He figured if he’d come this far, he might as well go the rest of the way. As he moved in, he picked up the clean scent of her soap and shampoo and his body hummed with recognition.

  “Why did you leave? You look happy, in these pictures. What happened?”

  “Nothing. I just needed to get out. What are you going to tell Tessa?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I need to let her know you’re okay, at least.”

  Lydia frowned.

  “Or you could do that yourself. I don’t need to tell her anything.”

&nb
sp; “I’d prefer if you didn’t. It’s not your place.”

  He nodded. She was right about that.

  “What did Kyle mean about someone causing you trouble?”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “Kyle has an active imagination.”

  “I don’t think so. What’s been going on?”

  “I’m serious. Don’t go playing bodyguard on me, Ely. Nothing is going on.”

  They stood, closer now, facing off, and Ely was getting tired of the verbal thrust and parry. He had to curl his fingers in to stop from touching her. Or shaking her. She was stubborn and seemed set against giving in. Or just intent to give him a hard time.

  It wasn’t enough to make him want to let her off the hook. If she was in trouble, he wanted to know.

  “I won’t leave until I know for sure, Lydia,” he said calmly and saw anger flicker in the depths of her eyes. It traveled down to her cheeks and blossomed there. When she licked her lips before speaking, his response was sharp and true, like a shot of adrenaline through his system.

  “Fine, whatever,” she said, throwing her hands up and walking into the kitchen. He took a deep breath and followed.

  She paused at the entry, taking in the room. “Thanks for cleaning up—you didn’t need to do all that.” She sounded surprised.

  “I didn’t mind. It looked personal, if you want my opinion. Strangers might steal something, or look for valuables, but this was more like someone wants to scare you. Or send a message. So again, who would do this? Or at least, why?”

  “Maybe it was those guys from earlier who followed me back here,” she said as she grabbed a teakettle from the stove.

  Ely shook his head. “No one followed you back. I made sure.”

  “How could you? Where is your truck?” she said, yet again avoiding his question.

  “Down the road, in a ditch.”

  “I didn’t see you following me,” she said, frowning.

  “I’m really good at it.”

  She paused. “You won’t be able to get to it now. The snow’s coming down too hard. There are two extra rooms upstairs, or you can have the couch.”

  She came to the table with two glasses of hot, black tea, setting one down in front of him. Ely didn’t really care for tea, but he picked it up and took a sip anyway. Glancing down at the expanse of her ankle exposed when she crossed one leg over the other, he was distracted by both the fuzzy pink slippers that she wore and the tattooed vine that wound around her ankle and calf. He knew that it continued up the length of her smooth thigh, providing a path to the sweetest bit of sin he’d ever known.

  “It’s not as bad as I thought. Whoever it was didn’t break any of the important stuff,” she said.

  “Important stuff?”

  “Yeah, like those yellowware bowls on the counter—they are probably close to one hundred years old. Or the antique glass in that cupboard. Those were my mother’s favorites, all Depression-Era, some very valuable. They ripped some random stuff out of the cupboards, the dinner plates we always use, even the dirty ones in the sink. Nothing valuable. Strange, but lucky, I guess.”

  “They just wanted to make noise, shake you up.”

  “Well, they succeeded, at least for a minute or two,” she said, blowing out a breath. “But I think you and Kyle are wrong. It was probably just teens out looking for a rush.”

  “In this storm? In the middle of the week, way out here? The house has been empty for weeks, and just now they decide to come in and trash it?” Ely argued. “People know you are here—it’s a small town. I assume word spreads fast. So, what kind of trouble are you in?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

  Lydia leveled a cool stare back at him.

  “I don’t need to be rescued, Ely. Thanks, anyway.”

  Ely set his cup down. He could be stubborn, too.

  “Well, if someone is bothering you, this time they came inside your house, Lydia, while you were at home, sleeping. That’s not harmless teenage harassment, or some kind of coincidence. It means they’re willing to escalate the situation if you don’t do something to stop it.”

  “I am going to do something about it. I’m going to leave, as soon as I can,” she said calmly, shaking her head as she indirectly admitted to him that there had been a problem.

  Her hands betrayed her cool tone; they trembled slightly when she picked up her tea. She wasn’t as indifferent as she was pretending to be.

  “You might as well hit the sack so you can get up early and have Kyle pull your truck out, so you can leave.”

  Ely nearly smiled at her bluntness.

  “Not until I know you’re okay. Tessa would have my head. Maybe I should stay here until you go back to Philly. Keep an eye on things.”

  She stood, looking almost as panicked as she had earlier.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I’m technically still on vacation, and it’s a nice town. I’ve never been to Montana. Seems like as nice a place to spend Christmas as anywhere.”

  “Why are you doing this? Just leave me alone,” she said tightly. “I don’t know if you have some fantasy about saving me, or thinking we’re going to continue what we had that night, but we’re not. It was a one-night thing, Ely, that’s it.”

  Before she could turn away from him, pushing him away, he spun her around to face him. She was under a lot of stress at the moment, taking a lot of emotional hits at once. Ely knew that people reacted to grief differently, and Lydia apparently didn’t like accepting help from anyone under the best of circumstances, let alone in situations that made her especially vulnerable.

  “It’s not about that. I know exactly what that was, don’t worry. You need someone, whether you’re too pigheaded to know it or not.”

  “Well, I don’t need you,” she said, pushing away from him.

  Her words hit him hard. “Really?”

  The next thing he knew, he was kissing her.

  She tasted so good, he lost himself almost immediately. At first she didn’t kiss him back, her hands planted against his chest. If she had resisted for one more second, he would have stopped.

  But she didn’t. In the next minute her arms slid upward and she wound herself around him like the tattooed vine that wrapped itself around her exquisite body. She opened to him, letting him in.

  Letting him close in this way, if not any other.

  He’d take it. Her arms were tight around his neck as he plunged deeper, tasted more.

  Lydia dug her nails into his shoulders, moaning against him, and Ely didn’t know anything else, only that it felt damned good.

  * * *

  APPARENTLY, ELY didn’t care for her brush-off. When he’d crowded her up against the counter, Lydia tried to push him back, but the minute her hands landed on his chest, her traitorous fingers had curled into the material of his damp shirt. He’d looked at her so strangely before he’d kissed her, his expression a mix of emotions she couldn’t identify as she wrestled with her own. He hadn’t liked her saying that she didn’t need him. Frustration, certainly. Stubbornness, and maybe even a slight hint of hurt.

  He parted her lips wide with his own, giving her little choice in the matter as his tongue sliding over hers, tempting—no, daring—her to come out and play. Lydia reacted from sheer need and adrenaline, all of the desperate wanting she’d ignored for two months surging into the kiss as she dug her fingers into his hair, giving as good as she got. She might not need him, but she needed this—this blinding passion, the heat that erased everything but the kiss. Mouths mating violently, the intensity burned a clean path through her heart, leaving only Ely and her desire for him in its wake.

  Desire, she could deal with. Desire was easy and uncomplicated.

  He pulled back, only to bury his face at her throat, proceeding to drive her crazy with his tongue and teeth on her skin, his hands traveling under her shirt, closing over her breasts with a moan. She pressed into his touch, urging him on.

  His arms slid to her back, banding around her as she tugg
ed on his hair to bring his mouth back to her lips. They didn’t need air for quite some time as the kiss went on and on. This made more sense than any of their words did.

  Hard against her hip, he ground into the soft, hot apex of her thighs, pushing her close to the edge. He was close, too. When she reached down, closing her hand over the steely ridge at the front of his jeans, he shuddered from head to toe.

  She could take him upstairs. Sate herself and forget everything that was complicating her life for another night. It sounded like the best idea she’d had in days.

  “Too many clothes,” she whispered, her voice shaking with need. He had her so close to coming, all it would take was a sweet bit of pressure in just the right spot and it would be all over.

  Taking in his darkened eyes and ragged breathing, she knew that he was in the same shape. But Lydia had too much experience to mistake lust for anything more.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to do that,” he said, walking away from her to the other side of the kitchen, pushing his hands through his hair. He turned to meet her gaze with his own, still smoldering with banked desire.

  Lydia blew out a breath, wondering what she had been thinking. Well, she hadn’t been. That had been a close call. Ely wasn’t the kind of guy who got involved casually, and that was all Lydia did. This would have been another mistake.

  “You’re right. No apology needed.”

  She had a feeling that he never meant for her to find out he was here. He’d been watching her and reporting back. The fact that they were here in her kitchen together was an accident that was never supposed to happen. She couldn’t let herself be fooled. No doubt he wanted to help; helping was his job.

  And she had made a fool out of herself, almost taking him to bed, again.

  He backed away as sanity returned in small bits to both of them. The distance was both a relief and...not.

  “I don’t know what got into me, but you just...” He shook his head, and she wondered what he was about to say.

  “I know. Me, too. It’s just been a crazy night, that’s all. Listen, why don’t we get some sleep, and then I can make you breakfast and the guys can help you get the truck out so you can be on your way. I’m okay here on my own, Ely. Seriously.”