A Gentleman for Christmas

by Prescott Lane

  The sun is starting to set. If she doesn’t come inside soon, I’ll go get her, but for now, I turn on the Christmas tree lights. They must call to her because within five minutes, she’s walking through the door with a surprised look on her face.

  I’m in the kitchen starting dinner. Not all bachelors are inept in the kitchen. My publishing house has asked me to do a gentleman’s cookbook, but I’m not ready for that. I’m not inept, but being able to make five dishes successfully doesn’t make me ready to pen a cookbook, either.

  Tonight’s dinner is a simple Alfredo pasta. I don’t have the stuff for a salad or garlic bread to go with it, but Skylar doesn’t seem to mind. I’m not sure which is thumping harder, my cock or my heart.

  “Smells good,” she says, directing her eyes to the pot and not to me.

  “I have your mom to thank for that,” I say. My mom was a waitress my whole life and couldn’t cook a damn thing. “If not for your mom, I might have starved.”

  “She misses cooking. It’s hard for her now,” Skylar says.

  “She looked really good last time I saw her,” I say.

  “Even so, they are only allowed refrigerators and microwaves in their rooms.”

  “She always made Christmas cookies and gingerbread houses with us this time of the year,” I say, plating the pasta.

  “My house never stood up,” she says, finally making eye contact with me. “But then somehow the next day, it would always magically be put together.”

  She’s on to me. Her mom snuck me back in for years to fix the disasters that were Skylar’s gingerbread houses. I’d build it, and her mom would make it beautiful.

  “Must’ve been Christmas magic,” I say, as she rolls her eyes at me and takes a bite.

  The Christmas season loses some of its magic as we get older. It tends to become busier, more about parties and gifts than the spirit of the season. I think it happens as soon as we discover that Santa Claus isn’t a bearded dude sneaking down our chimney. The shift is natural, but I feel the magic this year. It has everything to do with the woman sitting across from me. Hers is a Christmas spell, and I’m thoroughly under it.

  “I was thinking we should stay in tonight, maybe watch a movie,” I say.

  Let’s be honest. Watch a movie is code for let’s have sex. The only problem is, I’m not sure Skylar realizes that.

  I catch her mid-bite, and she smiles, trying to chew quickly. She covers her mouth. “The Polar Express.”

  “Isn’t that a cartoon?” I ask. She smiles, confirming my suspicion. That’s all it takes to win me over—her smile—that little dimple of hers. Flash me a smile, and I’ll do anything she wants. God, I’m easy.

  I make her promise that if I can’t find it, we’ll watch some action flick instead, so after dinner and cleaning up, I make a quick check of my smart TV. Of course, it’s right there ready to be streamed.

  We settle in for movie night. For Skylar that meant a change of wardrobe, now wearing a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt that looks ten sizes too big. She’s got funny looking socks on her feet, and all I want to do is pull her to me, to find out how it would feel to finally have her next to me, and not on accident. Instead, she’s a good foot away from me on the sofa.

  She watches the movie, and I watch her. She knows all the words to the songs and one song about hot chocolate makes her do a little dance. I really can’t tell you what the movie was about. I can tell you Skylar’s reactions to it, when she laughed, when she cried. How many times she nuzzled down deeper into the sofa cushions. I could watch her all night.

  “I love that part,” she says. “At the end, with the bell.”

  “I have a theory about all those elves,” I say. “I think Santa and Mrs. Claus have been busy.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “Think about it,” I say. “It’s cold up there in the North Pole. Nothing to do. You’ve got to do something to stay warm.”

  She throws me a look, trying not to laugh. “Only you could turn Santa and Mrs. Claus into nymphos.”

  “Why else do you think he’s so happy all the time?”

  She tosses a pillow at me. “And that rosy complexion!”

  I laugh. “Now you’re getting it.”

  She giggles. “Maybe that’s your next book. You can research how Mrs. Claus became Mrs. Claus. Where did they meet? Was their first kiss under mistletoe?”

  “Sounds like a bestseller.”

  “The importance of the first kiss,” she says. “I’d say there’s a rule or two about that.”

  “You might be on to something.”

  “I should’ve known Luke and I weren’t meant to be based on our first kiss alone,” she says, shaking her head.

  Must not have been great, but she’s not going to tell me. That’s fine. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to think about her lips on another man’s, much less a friend of mine.

  “The first kiss is important. The most important. It sets the stage for everything else. You can tell a lot about a guy by how he kisses,” she says.

  I should be taking notes. She’s right. This is good stuff for the next book. “Really?” I ask, my eyes on her mouth.

  Slowly, her tongue glides across her full, pink lips. “Is he slow and deliberate? Like he has the whole thing planned out? Or does he just grab you, wild and free?”

  It works both ways. You can tell from the first swipe of a woman’s tongue if she’s going to be good in bed or not. My eyes on hers, I say, “The same is true for women.”

  She leans in closer and asks softly, “What would my kiss tell you?”

  My lips hovering over hers, I whisper, “It would tell me you want this, no matter the consequences.” She comes even closer, her breath mingling with mine. “That you’ve thought about being with me as much as I’ve thought about being with you.”

  She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, whispering, “Just one kiss.”

  I’ve wanted to know how she tastes since I was sixteen years old, but if she thinks I’m going to settle for just one, she’s got another thing coming. I don’t mind playing dirty if I have to. She never specified where that one kiss had to be. Her mouth, her tits, that beautiful ass of hers—the possibilities are endless. Christ, I’d like to pull down those sweatpants and run my tongue along her pussy.

  Instead, I look to her eyes then to her mouth, her lips slightly parted. Her eyes close. Fuck, the things I want to do to her. I could yank her on top of me, let her feel my hard cock between her thighs. I could slide my finger under the waistband of her sweatpants and feel how much she wants me, all the while not kissing her, not giving her the one thing she asked for, making her want me more. I could play like that with her.

  I could kiss her on the forehead, get to my feet, and leave her wanting more. If she were any other woman, I might, but I want her too much to play games.

  Gentleman’s Rule—Boys play games. Men get down to business.

  Pushing her hair off her shoulder, I lean in, the sweet smell of her skin calling to me. There’s a spot on her neck that I used to stare at while we “studied” back in high school, and I always wondered what it would be like to kiss her there, if it would make her toes curl.

  As soon as my warm breath touches the delicate skin of her neck, she trembles. “Jax,” she breathes out.

  I cup her cheek in my hand, and her eyes open. “I can’t just kiss you once,” I say, my voice giving away my emotions. “It won’t be enough.”

  Her breath hitches, then before I know it, her lips are on mine. This is a first. I’ve never had a woman kiss me first, at least not like this. I know she needed this to be her decision. Quickly, I take control, pulling her into a straddle on my lap. My tongue meets hers, and her body melts into me. Winding my hand in her hair, I urge her closer, deepening our kiss. A sweet moan falls from her lips. Her hands grip my shirt, pulling me tighter. We seem unable to get close enough. It’s the perfect mix of slow yet hard.

  This isn’t the kiss o
f friends. This isn’t the kiss of lovers. This is the kiss you have when you are both, when you mean everything to each other.

  Her hands slide to my face as we slow. She plants a couple sweet kisses on my lips, leaning her forehead against mine. I’ve made a career of knowing women—what they want, what they need, what they think. But I’m a fraud, because I’ve got no idea what Skylar’s thinking right now.

  I lean back, and her eyes open. She’s in my lap, framed by the white lights of the Christmas tree, making her look like an angel. Moving a stand of hair from her cheek, I ask, “What did that tell you?”

  A little smile forms on her red lips, and she says, “Everything I need to know.” Grinning, I pull her to me again, giving her a soft kiss. Her fingers roam my face. “I don’t want to think about what this means,” she whispers, her eyes closing. “I just want to feel good.”

  “I can do that,” I say, smirking at her.

  She laughs, and I pull us down on the sofa together so her head is resting on my chest. Gently, I play with her hair. I already know what this means. At least for me, this means everything.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SKYLAR

  My body shivers, and I pull at the blanket, realizing I’m not in bed. Opening my eyes, I’m alone on the sofa, a blanket draped over me. Jax must’ve done that. For the second night in a row, we slept next to each other. I hope he doesn’t make a big deal of what happened. I’ve had enough big deals the last few weeks.

  That kiss is at the top of that list.

  I’ve never been kissed like that. Never.

  Touching my lips, I close my eyes, remembering how soft his lips were, how his chest felt under my hands, the way my body coiled around his on the sofa. Suddenly, I’m not cold anymore.

  “Morning,” Jax says, bending down and kissing me on the forehead.

  We’re doing forehead kisses now? That’s very couple-like of him.

  “Glad you’re up,” he says. “We need to get going.”

  “Going where?”

  He flashes me that smile. The one he gets when he’s up to something, which seems like every day. “It’s just a few days before Christmas,” he says. “We’ve got things to do.”

  “Like?”

  Suddenly, he pulls me into his arms, giving my booty a healthy squeeze. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Jax, I think we . . .”

  He holds his finger up to my lips. “We’re not thinking, remember? We’re just making you feel good.”

  *

  Jax smirks at me from the driver’s seat. He won’t tell me where we’re going. He won’t tell me what we’re doing. He even tried to get me to put a blindfold on, but that wasn’t happening. Waterscape isn’t that big, so he can’t keep the secret for long. As soon as we take the turn toward the assisted living center, I know.

  “You’re taking me to see Mom,” I say. “I was planning on seeing her today.”

  “Not exactly,” he says, pulling into a parking space.

  “What do you mean, not exactly?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer, instead opening my car door. I head toward the front entrance, but he places his hand at the small of my back, directing me to another door.

  “All visitors have to sign in,” I say, motioning to the front entrance.

  “They know we’re coming,” he says.

  “You’re being very cryptic,” I say, giving him a smile.

  He stops outside a door, leans over, and softly kisses my lips. “Don’t cry, okay?”

  “Why would I . . .”

  He opens the door, leading into the massive kitchen. My mom’s sitting in her wheelchair. She must be having a bad day. When she’s feeling really good, she can sometimes go without her chair. My mom is beautiful. I guess all daughters think that about their mothers. She’s got natural blonde hair that curves just right at the ends and her skin always looks sun-kissed. She looks like the California beach girls you used to see in old movies. Even at her age, she could give those young girls a run for their money.

  She’s sitting in front of a steel countertop and spread in front of her are cuttings boards, cookie cutters, and every kind of Christmas sprinkle imaginable.

  Jax leans over and whispers in my ear, “I just thought we should return the favor for all the years she baked with us.”

  Tears streaming down my face, I wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him tighter than I’ve ever hugged another human being before.

  “Do I get one of those?” my mom asks, holding her arms up. I start to head her way, and she teases. “I saw you the other day. I was talking about Jax.”

  We both give her huge hugs, and I get my first good look at everything on the table. The cutting boards have suction cups, the utensils all have non-slip handles. Even the cookie cutters have extra wide handles. Everything looks like it was especially designed for my mom.

  “You did all this?” I ask Jax.

  He just shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I just made a call to the director to ask. I wanted you two to have a nice day together.”

  “You’re not staying?”

  Giving me a wink, he says, “I need to do a little last-minute shopping.”

  Not for me, I hope. I don’t need anything else. He’s given me the most wonderful gift today. “Stay,” I say, reaching for his hand.

  “You must,” my mom says. “Who’s going to fix Skylar’s gingerbread house if you leave?”

  “I knew it was you!” I cry out, poking his hard abs.

  He rolls up the sleeves on his shirt. “Okay, I’m in.”

  *

  Two hours, three batches of cookies, and one gingerbread house later, I’d expect my mom to be wiped out and hurting, but instead she’s out of her chair, plating cookies to pass them out. “Mom, take it easy,” I say. “I don’t want to wear you out.”

  She simply waves her hand at me. I look at Jax, who’s shoving a cookie in his mouth. He’s eaten more than he’s made. Some things never change. “Why don’t I clean up, and you can take your mom to pass them out?”

  I push the wheelchair toward my mom, and she takes a seat, holding the cookies in her lap. “You two should take the gingerbread house home to enjoy,” Mom says then points to the counter. “Skylar, baby, could you get those cookies over there?”

  I go to grab them, but Jax beats me to it. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “It was fun,” he says.

  Leaning in closer, I lower my voice even more. “Are you doing all this to get in my panties?”

  Grinning, he says, “No, but that could be a nice bonus.”

  I lift my eyebrows to say “maybe so” then push my mom outside. It’s slightly chilly today, but she doesn’t seem to notice, and Jax has me so hot and bothered that the cool air feels good to me. Mom introduces me to one of the staff members, handing her a cookie, then we continue down the path.

  The center really does resemble a country club. Everything is clean and crisp, freshly painted. The rooms look like little cabanas all nestled together. The facilities are first-class with exercise equipment, pools, and even classes throughout the day to help foster a sense of community. My mom loves it here, which eases my guilt a little about living so far away and being unable to take care of her myself. She insists that on her bad days she wouldn’t want me to have to help her shower or get dressed, but I’d still like to do more with her than just help front the cost of this place. We talk almost daily when I’m in Chicago, but I miss her.

  “Jax invited me to stay at his house Christmas Eve night,” Mom says. “Said he’d hire a nurse if I needed one.”

  I stop pushing her. He doesn’t even have an extra bed? I wonder what possessed him to ask, although knowing him, he’d go buy one. That might have been the shopping he wanted to do today. Still, it’s incredibly thoughtful that he’d include my mom. He’s a good guy. Cocky and arrogant, but still a good guy. “He didn’t mention it to me.”

  “It was sweet he offered,” she says. “But they have a church servic
e here in the morning and a huge breakfast. I don’t want to miss that.”

  “How about we pick you up on Christmas Day?” I ask. “And you can come over. Maci, Malcolm, and the kids are supposed to come by later that night. Their parents, too. Then we can bring you back here.”

  “Jax suggested the same thing after I turned down his invitation to stay at his house,” she says, giving me a look, like she’s seeing right through me.

  We pass a group of people, and Mom passes out more cookies. “How about Luke? He coming in for Christmas?”

  As far as my mom knows, my surprise trip was just that. A surprise trip home, not a mad dash away from Luke. I push her over by a bench and take a seat.

  Luke? I haven’t thought about him all day. I certainly wasn’t thinking about him last night on the sofa with Jax. It’s strange for him not to be occupying space in my mind, or in my heart, for that matter.

  “Mom, I . . .”

  “Broke up with Luke,” she says, finishing my sentence. “I know.” My jaw drops. How did she know? Did someone tell her? “On your birthday,” she says. “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me.”

  My head hangs, embarrassed about how everything went down, and ashamed that I haven’t shared this with her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t want you to worry about me.”

  “I knew,” she says. “The morning after your birthday when we talked. I could hear it in your voice. You were trying to be so brave, so strong.”

  “It was rough for a few days, but I’m really okay.”

  “Know that, too,” she says. “Jax?”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say.

  “That’s good,” she says.

  “No, Mom. No, it’s not,” I say, getting to my feet and starting to pace. “Luke and I are through. I know that, but Luke and Jax aren’t through. I don’t want to come between them. Then there’s Jax. He lives here, and I don’t. I’ve been thinking about moving back, but who knows? And I don’t know what he wants or expects from me. I thought I was ready to get married and have kids, and now I’m single, and have to start over with someone else.”