The Sugar Cookie Sweetheart Swap

by Kauffman, Donna; Angell, Kate; Kincaid, Kimberly

  She could’ve kissed him, but she didn’t want to initiate what he had no desire to finish. She hadn’t a clue how he felt about her. There was nothing worse than a woman kissing a man who didn’t want her to kiss him.

  Caught between her lap and Lander’s hip, Tennyson chose that moment to let them both know he felt crowded. The cat gave a low growl that sounded old and rusty as he pressed his paw to Lander’s stomach and gave him a push. A big push for such an elderly cat. Tenn was protecting his territory. Abby belonged to him.

  Lander took the hint and eased back an inch. A slight tip to his lips, and he straightened his shoulders and stood. “Sorry, big guy,” he said to Tennyson as he scratched the calico’s ears. The cat purred. He again looked at Abby. “I’ll bring in the rest of the Christmas ornaments now.”

  She managed a nod, but it was difficult. A minute ago she was ready to fall into his arms and kiss him. Now she was in the throes of what she’d been avoiding for a week. Decorating the tree.

  She watched from the corner of her eye as he left the living room. He walked with purpose, and looked damn fine from the back. The man was solid and strong and she loved the square set of his shoulders. He had a tight butt and long legs. Very nice indeed.

  Her hand shook as she petted Tenn. That surprised her. Even though she considered herself grounded in the real world, Lander’s nearness had left her nervous. She wondered what she should do next. The daring side of her personality—the part that came up with her erotic cookies—couldn’t resist wanting to take the next step.

  He’d warned her against teasing him a second time. If she did, what would he do? Playfully chuck her under the chin? Gently shake her by the shoulders? Possibly even kiss her? The kiss appealed to her the most.

  She’d dated over the years, but had never gotten serious over any man. Her mood became thoughtful. She knew why. When osteoporosis bent her grandmother’s shoulders and arthritis buckled her knees, Abby had chosen to stick close to the cabin. To be there when Gram needed her. Whether it was helping her with her medication or arranging her favorite pillow to make her comfy, she wanted to be the caregiver for the woman who’d raised her.

  Now, her grandmother was no longer with her, except perhaps in spirit. Gram’s presence was strong inside Abby, but a different set of emotions made her tingle. It was Lander staying with her until the blizzard blew itself out. A subtle heat made her wiggle on the chair cushion as her nipples hardened. He was a man she wanted to know better. They weren’t going anywhere, anytime soon.

  “Here’s the next box of decorations,” he said, joining her once again. “Not quite so heavy, but I did hear bells.”

  Bending down, he set it by her chair. Abby breathed him in. Crisp air from the garage clung to him. Winter and man. A romantic combination.

  “Sleigh bells,” she told him, smiling. “Gram would take me into town for a winter sleigh ride when I was younger.” How could she ever forget her grandma helping her pull on her red mittens with the finely stitched snowmen on them? Or kissing her cold red nose?

  “When the owner of the sleigh and team closed down his business, she bought one of the leather reins as a decoration,” she continued. “We’d wrap it around the front door. The bells would announce visitors.”

  Lander rubbed his chin. “Does that include Santa?” he asked.

  She gave him a small smile. “And Rudolph,” she said, her voice soft.

  She ran her hand along the taped cardboard. Tears welled in her eyes but she willed them back. This wasn’t going to be easy. She wasn’t certain she was ready to recall her holiday memories. She drew a deep breath. Gram would want her to move forward. She would do her best. “I’ll unwrap the bells,” she managed.

  “I’ll grab the last box.” He took off again, leaving her alone.

  Abby couldn’t turn back now. She clutched Tennyson close as she scooted to the edge of her chair. The cat flicked his one ear, his full attention on her fingers as she slowly stripped the masking tape. He meowed, pawed at the tape, and it stuck to his pad. He was suddenly a kitten again, rolling around on her lap, trying to shake off the stickiness. His playfulness eased her pain.

  The calico had tired of the game by the time Lander returned. Abby gently removed the tape from Tennyson’s paw. The cat then hopped off her lap and took off to stalk the evergreen. He circled the tree with interest, sniffing, then used the trunk as a scratching post.

  Lander lowered the box next to the one Abby had begun to open. He looked concerned. “Will Tenn climb the tree?” he asked her, watching as the cat now batted a bottom branch.

  “Tennyson is more a looker than a climber,” she said. “He’s knocked decorations off the lower limbs, so Gram and I would only hang the smaller wooden ornaments within his reach. That way nothing got broken.”

  Lander looked around. “What’s next, Abs?” he asked.

  Abs. The shortening of her name slowed her heart, and her breath stilled. Her grandmother had affectionately called her Abs, but no one else ever had.

  She clasped her hands in her lap and awaited her grief. Surprisingly, she didn’t flinch, didn’t feel overly sad, and didn’t request he call her Abby. She had survived the moment. She breathed again.

  “Are you feeling all right?” He bent slightly, tipped her chin up with his finger. He ran his thumb over her lower lip, and then traced the curve of her upper. “You look pale.”

  From pale to pink, her cheeks heated. Her mouth was sensitive to his touch. Pleasure warmed her. Her eyelids felt heavy. The edges of the room blurred around her.

  Tennyson’s hiss brought her back to reality. The branch he batted had swung back and smacked him on the nose. He was ticked. His ear flattened and he crouched near the Christmas tree base. He appeared ready to leap and take down the evergreen.

  Lander stepped back as Abby clapped her hands and called to her cat. “Tenn, come here.” The calico didn’t pay her one bit of attention. Why should he? Her voice wasn’t her own; she sounded breathy and aroused.

  She cleared her throat, patted her thigh, and tried again. “Tennyson, lap?” she coaxed, hoping he’d return to her and she wouldn’t have to get up and go after him. Her toe still hurt; she’d wanted to stay off her foot today as much as was possible.

  The calico looked from the tree to her, and eventually found her lap more inviting. A final slap at the branch and he came to her. His first attempt at jumping onto her lap fell short, so she bent and scooped him into her arms. There wasn’t much room between her left leg and the side of the chair, but that’s where he chose to settle in. He stretched out his skinny body and rested his head on her knee. He then nipped her hand, wanting to be petted.

  Abby could multitask. She stroked Tennyson’s shoulders with one hand, and opened the boxes of Christmas decorations with the other. She found herself humming as she unrolled the long, leather strip of bells. They jingled all the way.

  “I’ll hang these if you like,” Lander said from beside her.

  She passed him the rein, appreciating his enthusiasm and assistance. Had he not been here, the tree would never have left the garage and the decorations would’ve remained packed. He gave her the courage to look back, to remember, so she could move forward. However slowly.

  “There are curl hooks around the door frame,” she told him. “Gram tacked them to the wood and never removed them. They were reusable year after year.”

  Lander walked to the door, located the hooks, and hung the bells. Any slip of a breeze sneaking inside would have them ringing. Abby loved the holiday sound.

  Pulling the cardboard box closer to her, she slowly and carefully began to unwrap the ornaments protected in bubble wrap. Each one had a childhood story behind it. She opened her heart to their memories. Each decoration reminded her of happier times. She spotted the Mrs. Claus doll that she’d loved and remembered countless tea parties shared with Gram, sipping hot chocolate from tiny cups, and the first time she’d made sprinkle cookies when she was ten.

&nbs
p; She drew out her memories and embraced her feelings.

  “How do the bells look?” Lander asked, returning to her chair.

  “Perfect,” she said. The long leather rein curved over the entire wooden rim. “You can help unpack ornaments, if you like.”

  He smiled. “I like.”

  He lowered himself onto the ottoman, sharing space with her elevated foot. He glanced at her toe, then asked, “How’s it feel?”

  She made a face. “I know it’s there.”

  He ran his hand down his side. “My ribs are sore, too,” he admitted. “No sudden moves and I should be fine.”

  Abby couldn’t take her eyes off Lander as he dug into the box closest to him. She admired the slight roll of his shoulders and the easy flex of his biceps as he collected the next ornament.

  “Spiky,” he said as he peeled off the wrap. He studied the sphere in his hand. “Handmade?” he guessed, grinning at her.

  Abby blushed. “A fourth grade art project. I made it for my grandmother.”

  “Very creative,” he said, holding the ornament by its string. “You have hidden talents.”

  Hidden and erotic, she thought wryly, recalling that her naughty gingerbread men were the cause of his accident and the reason for his being here in the first place.

  But that wasn’t what tugged at her heart. Her grandmother had thought her creative, too. Ada had praised her arts and crafts; especially the Styrofoam ball covered in paste and rolled in red glitter. Red-and-white straws had been cut at different lengths and inserted around the ball. The decoration had hung on the tree for eighteen years. Only a smudge of glitter had worn off. And two of the straws were slightly bent now.

  Lander pushed to his feet and asked, “Where do you want the ornament hung on the tree?”

  “Upper half works best,” she suggested, “just in case Tennyson gets curious.”

  Lander placed the Styrofoam ball on the tree, taking care to make sure the ornament was secure and placed at the right angle. He then stood back and looked at her. “I have decorating skills,” he said, tongue in cheek.

  “You could get a job as a window decorator at a fancy retail store,” Abby agreed.

  “Job options are good.” He grinned.

  She wondered what he did for a living. Asking him, however, would only put her in a position of telling him what she did. She wasn’t a doctor or a lawyer. She was an erotic-gingerbread maker. She’d keep her secret a while longer.

  “Can you string lights?” she asked him next.

  He crossed back to her. “With the best of them.”

  She passed him the neatly rolled strands. Their fingers brushed, and the warmth of his hand lingered with intimacy and expectation. She felt his light touch spread over her entire body. Her cotton panties felt too tight.

  Her lips parted in surprise.

  His smile tipped knowingly before he checked out the lights. “No tangles,” he said, sounding relieved.

  She rolled her hips, shifted her bottom on the overstuffed chair. Tennyson adjusted his position beside her, too. “Gram was a stickler when it came to taking the lights off the tree,” she told him. “She liked everything neat and organized.”

  “I agree with Ada,” he said. “You’re looking at a guy who learned that the hard way.”

  She raised one brow. “How so?”

  “My family was taking down the tree when I was nine, and I didn’t want any part of it. My father insisted I participate. I broke several ornaments in my hurry to get back to my computer games. My mother quickly directed me to take off the lights. I unwound the strands, balled them up, and tossed them in a box. My father let me get away with it.”

  He paused, rubbed the back of his neck, remembering. “The next year my dad gave me the job of stringing the lights. You can guess what happened. Needless to say, they were one tangled mess, which was my fault,” he said ruefully. “It took me hours to straighten them. Lesson learned.”

  “I would’ve liked your father,” she said, meaning it.

  Lander looked at her then, a deep, searching, considering look, which touched her. “He would’ve liked you, too, Abby,” he said sincerely.

  His words meant a lot to her. Family was so very important. Even when loved ones were gone, they left their imprint everywhere. Even if you couldn’t see it, you felt it. More so this time of year, Abby thought, suddenly getting all sentimental. “Thank you,” she said around the lump in her throat.

  Lander was a considerate man. Glancing away, he gave her time to collect herself. Shortly thereafter, he held up the candle-shaped decorative lights and said, “Antique bubble lights. I haven’t seen these for years.”

  “They were Gram’s favorite,” she said. “As a kid, I would plug them in, then stand before the tree and stare at the candles, waiting for them to warm up and bubble. One strand is clear liquid and the other glitter-filled.”

  Lander moved to the tree and secured the lights over the branches. “Wish we had electricity,” he said as he stretched toward the upper limbs. “Guess the bubbling will have to wait.”

  “You’ll see them bubble,” Abby assured him.

  He bent, plugged in the strand, and then stepped back. “We’ll know the electricity is back on when the tree lights up.”

  He would depart when the candles came on.

  The thought made her stomach hurt. She wasn’t ready for him to leave.

  But the weather was turning in his favor, she noted. She pointed toward the window. “The storm’s letting up. The wind remains strong, but the snowfall has lessened.”

  He jammed his hands into his pants pockets as he contemplated the drifting snowflakes. She wished she could read his mind. He appeared conflicted. His brow creased. His eyes narrowed. His jaw worked. A release of his breath and his expression relaxed.

  Having grown tired of sitting, Abby rolled her shoulders, stretched out her arms, then quickly returned to the cardboard box. Not wanting him to catch her watching him.

  “Stiff shoulders?” he asked her on his return.

  Apparently he’d seen her shifting on her chair. Perhaps had even felt her stare. There was nothing she could do about it now. She drew a steadying breath.

  The scent of evergreen surrounded Lander. Several pine needles stuck to the cuff of his shirt. Casually, as if they were a couple and he’d touched her for years, he curved his hand over her shoulder, then brushed his thumb across the back of her neck beneath her hair. He drew slow circles just above the collar of her shirt. Changing gradually from friendly to intimate, the pressure moved beyond a massage. His touch was warm, stroking and caressing. Gratifying her senses.

  The man had great hands. His kneading fingers felt so good that she closed her eyes, only to blink them open when he slid his hand from her shoulder to her spine. Her heat index spiked. He rubbed her back thoroughly, as if he were her lover and touched her often.

  His massage stirred every nerve and sensitive point throughout her body. Her mouth was suddenly dry. Her nipples peaked. Her pulse quickened. Her panties dampened. Her toes curled inside her wool socks. Her big toe stopped hurting for several seconds.

  She was so into his massage, all thought fled. She needed to say something, anything, while she could still move her lips. He’d asked for an additional ornament for the tree moments ago. She had one unwrapped and ready for him. Her hand shook as she held up a colorfully hand-painted, blown-glass Santa by its metal hook.

  “Inherited from my great-great-grandmother,” she said, sounding short of breath. “It was made in Germany.”

  He gave her shoulder a final squeeze before he took the small Santa from her. “You have an incredible collection of vintage ornaments,” he complimented, taking a corner of his shirttail and wiping off a bit of dust from Saint Nick’s beard.

  “Not too old-fashioned?” she hesitantly asked. Did she mean the ornaments or her?

  He shook his head. “I find them unique and charming, especially those ornaments made by a sweet fourth grader.�
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  His answer warmed her from the inside out. “There are a few more by me at the bottom of the box,” she said, hunting through the bubble wrap and newspaper. Anything to take her mind off him touching her.

  She became very quiet, intent on her quest. From snowmen and pinecones to children on a toboggan and a horse-drawn sleigh, she uncovered a dozen more blown-glass designs. The Dresden Christmas ornaments came next.

  Lander held up a very thin embossed cardboard cardinal. “It looks like celluloid,” he said, amazed by his find. “So detailed, you can actually see the feathers.”

  The man knew his ornaments, Abby thought. Present-day ornaments were shiny, glossy, and mass produced. She’d never known anyone outside her grandmother who could identify and appreciate the aged patina of celluloid. She was impressed.

  “What do you think, Abs?” Lander sought her approval as he placed each ornament on the tree.

  “The tree is coming to life,” she said.

  A wooden nutcracker came next. He placed it low on the tree. Her grandfather had whittled a train and a drum. The two rounded out the bottom branches.

  A crystal star followed. She noted he winced when stretching toward the higher branches. The top foot of the tree remained bare of any decoration. His ribs apparently still hurt.

  “Care to take a break and ice your side?” she asked him.

  He looked at her over his shoulder. “Hasn’t the ice in the freezer compartment melted by now?”

  “We’re on a mountain in the winter,” she reminded him, pushing off her chair. She picked up the ice bag from the coffee table. “I can crack open the front door and scoop snow off the porch.” She grabbed her mittens off the coat rack, slipped them on.

  “What about putting on your jacket?” he asked, coming toward her.

  “I’ll make it fast.”

  She cracked the door and tried to be quick, only to have a gust of wind blow snow in her face. The icy flakes stung her cheeks. The force shoved her back a step. The door nearly slammed on her bum toe.

  Son of a snowman. The cold air sliced bone deep. She shivered. Being the gentleman that he was, Lander retrieved her hooded down jacket and joined her at the door. “The storm’s getting the better of you,” he said, looking worried.