Jingle Spells

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Possibly because, in an odd sort of way, she thought he got her.

  Singular, that. No one had ever gotten her, not even her parents. She’d been that child, the fragile one with the delusions of Santa Claus, with the hyper imagination that had animated ordinary Christmas decorations. Even now, almost twenty years later, a doctorate degree under her belt, she still fought the delusions.

  Hell, just that morning she’d caught a glimpse of a wink from a nutcracker in a store window.

  And then there was her snowman, Mr. Cool, who she’d snuck outside and rescued from the garbage bin all those years ago when her parents had purged all the ornaments and decorations from the house. For reasons that escaped her, she’d hung on to him, unable to let him go. A sentimental weakness, she supposed. She’d tried several times to toss him into the trash or put him in a donation box, but she could never make herself do it. He presently hung from an artificial ficus tree, a lone reminder of her past, both the good and the bad.

  “Lark?” Ethan persisted.

  She groaned and massaged the bridge of her nose.

  Her new friend finished applying a fresh coat of lipstick. “He’s persistent, isn’t he?”

  Yes, dammit. “Like a dog with a bone.”

  She shot her a knowing look. “Then clip a leash on him, honey, and bring him to heel.”

  Ha! As if. She’d have about as much luck clipping a leash onto Ethan Evergreen as she would onto a rabid wolverine. And that’s exactly what he would turn into if she landed that coveted slot on the Ophelia Winslow Show.

  He’d flip.

  Naturally, that thrilled her to her little toes. And sent the teensiest dart of panic into her chest. Ethan’s family, steeped in Christmas tradition, had founded Gingerbread, Colorado—“Where Christmas is always in season!”—more than two hundred years before. His entire family worked for Evergreen Industries, as did many of the residents of Gingerbread. It wasn’t merely a livelihood, it was a way of life. And she was threatening it.

  The success of the book had brought plenty of media opportunities, but nothing as grand or potentially far-reaching as the Ophelia Winslow Show. The ultimate feather in her cap, it would be a game-changer. It would give her the opportunity to share her message with millions of dedicated viewers who considered Ophelia to be a virtual oracle on all things, from the best pair of women’s pantyhose to the best facial cream on the market. Lark would learn this afternoon whether or not the show was a go and, with every second that ticked by, her anticipation and anxiety increased.

  She shot a helpless look at the door and imagined the man on the other side of it—tall and gorgeous, with those unusually bright green eyes—and a snake of heat coiled in her middle, making her nipples tighten behind her bra, her muscles melt with desire. She closed her eyes tightly and beat back the urge to howl in frustration.

  He was not helping matters.

  To hell with it, Lark thought. She needed a drink.

  She thanked her new friend for the advice, then squared her shoulders and exited the bathroom without sparing Ethan a single glance—the view from the corner of her eye was enough to make her pulse trip—and started down the hall.

  “It’s about time,” he said, naturally falling into step beside her. God, he smelled good. Lickable. “I was on the verge of sending in a search party.”

  “You could have left.”

  He chuckled. “And miss the pleasure of your company?” he drawled, the smart-ass. “Never.”

  “Just out of curiosity, how long do you plan on following me?”

  “Why?” he asked suspiciously, shooting her a sidelong glance. “Thinking of getting a restraining order?”

  Lark felt her lips twitch. “No, but a Taser might be an option.”

  He feigned a gasp and tsked under his breath. “Bodily injury? Really? You wound me.”

  A laugh tickled the back of her throat and she rolled her eyes. “Please,” she said. “Only if your Arrogance Shield has failed.”

  He pushed through the double doors, which led out into a small alley behind the studio. The smell of diesel fuel and garbage hung in the air—Eau de New York, she’d dubbed it, missing the scent of woodsmoke and cedar in her north Georgia home.

  “Arrogance Shield? You’ve given me a superpower? Like a superhero?” He looked positively delighted, damn him, with that endearingly boyish grin. A deep dimple emerged in his right cheek, one that only made an appearance when he smiled with his whole face.

  That dimple was downright dangerous, because it made her forget that he was the enemy, that she wasn’t supposed to like him, much less want to tie him to her bed with tinsel and eat him up like a Christmas cookie.

  “It was an insult,” she reminded him pointedly.

  His grin widened. “Only if I take offense. And I don’t. How about a drink, Chickadee? Got time for one more argument before you fly south?”

  Chickadee? That was a new one. He’d called her everything from Sparrow to Crow over the years, good-naturedly needling her because of her “bird” name. He wasn’t the only one—she’d been getting ribbed since grade school—so she was used to it.

  “Might as well,” she said with a sigh. “I need to make sure my Bullshit Detector is up and running. Keep talking, would you?” She smiled sweetly. “You’re my best diagnostic tool.”

  He gave her a small bow. “I am ever at your service.”

  Lark grinned up at him, charmed despite herself. “Yep. It’s definitely working.”

  She inwardly girded her loins, thinking only a magical chastity belt would provide the kind of superpower she’d need.

  Heaven help her...

  Chapter 3

  Looking more like he was leading her to the gallows than into a local pub, Ethan smothered a smile and held the door open for Lark, then waited for her to pass through before following her inside. He caught a whiff of something spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and vanilla, and felt his groin tighten. Honestly, only she could smell like a damned pastry and he’d find it a turn-on.

  She picked her way through the lunch crowd and found a spot at a bar in the back, then slid her lush rear end onto a stool. A bit of the tension eased out of her spine, but it still hovered around her shoulders like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

  He empathized.

  Odd that the source of his tension was the remedy, as well.

  Just being around her wound him up, but it offered a bizarre sort of release, like he could suddenly let go of breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  He settled onto the stool beside her and signaled for the bartender, then ordered a shot of Jameson.

  “Hitting the Irish this early?” she asked, a faint twinkle in her lovely blue eyes.

  He shrugged. “Your sincerely misguided book hit the New York Times best-sellers list,” he drawled. “We’re celebrating. What are you having?”

  She shot him a slightly exasperated look, one that somehow managed to be both sexy and endearing. “‘Sincerely misguided,’” she repeated. “So I’m wrong, but since I believe it, you’re willing to forgive me for my opinion?” She chuckled darkly and glanced at the bartender. “Give me a Jameson as well, but make it a double. I think I’m going to need it for this particular conversation,” she added, a grim undertone shading her voice.

  “Are you sure you want to do that? You know you can’t hold your liquor.”

  She lifted her adorable chin. “I can hold it just fine, thank you.”

  He winced significantly. “Sincerely misguided,” he repeated. “It’s a theme with you, isn’t it? Remember that I warned you when you start coming on to me.”

  She snorted. “Sure. Right.”

  “Last year, Minneapolis,” he reminded her, bringing the tumbler to his lips.

  She sucked in a small gasp and gla
red at him. “That was a combination of new medication and alcohol,” she hissed. “And I wasn’t coming on to you, dammit. I was a little unsteady on my feet.”

  “Yes, you were,” he remarked, his lips twitching. “You were all over me.” Her soft breast against his side, her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist as he’d helped her walk back from the hotel bar to her room.

  It had been an excruciating exercise in restraint, and they both knew he could have very easily taken advantage of her. He hadn’t, of course, because when the time finally came for him and Ms. Anti-Claus to share skin on a mattress, he wanted her to be fully aware of what they were doing. He wanted her to want him, to make the deliberate choice, not one compromised by a new migraine medication and tequila.

  She peered at him, squinting thoughtfully as though she were perplexed. “How do you do it?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Carry around that massive ego. It’s a miracle the weight of it doesn’t cripple you.”

  He smiled. “Lift with your knees,” he said, winking at her. “That’s the trick.”

  She chuckled softly and rolled her eyes, slid a slim finger down the side of her glass. “I knew there had to be one.”

  “So how have you been?” he asked. “I’m assuming writing and promoting the book has taken up a great deal of your time.”

  “It has,” she admitted. She took a sip of her whiskey and rolled it around on her tongue, savoring the flavor. “But in a good way, you know? I’ve logged less hours at the clinic this year, but I’m okay with that.”

  Because her message was more important. Because she believed what she said. It wasn’t merely a talking point for her. She was genuinely passionate about protecting children, about preventing the heartache and pain she’d hinted at in her book.

  Yes, he’d read it.

  Theoretically so that he’d be able to refute it. But it had actually been out of blatant curiosity and the desire to know more about her. He wondered if she knew the insights she’d provided, if she was even aware of how much of herself she’d inadvertently left on the page. Probably not.

  “What about you?” she wanted to know. “How’s your year been?”

  “Most recently, quite hellish,” he told her with a pointed smirk.

  “What?” she asked innocently. “But I thought all PR was good PR...”

  “Not when you’re the one handling it, I assure you.”

  “Come on,” she teased, pushing her hair away from her face in the process. “It would ruin your Christmas if you didn’t have me to argue with.”

  Yes, it would, damn her. “You mean fight with.”

  “That, too,” she conceded.

  “Ah, but the best part of fighting is making up, and we never seem to get to that point, do we, Chickadee?”

  He watched a pretty blush bloom beneath her creamy skin and her pupils dilate. She took a bigger pull from her drink. “I saw the new ornaments for this season,” she said, obviously deciding a subject change was in order. “They’re quite lovely.”

  “Thank you. I’ve been pleased with them.” That was an understatement. Other than his debut “Frosty” series, he’d been happier with this set than he had any other, and he’d been designing ornaments for the Evergreen Collection since he’d turned thirteen. Typically ornament design fell to the women in the family, but Ethan had inadvertently shown he’d had a knack for it when his little sister, Belle, had failed spectacularly at it. He’d come to her rescue and the rest, as they say, was history. He took a little needling from his brothers, of course—boys will be boys—but when his designs had started outselling all the others and had increased the company’s overall bottom line, the ribbing had stopped.

  Besides, it was his outlet. He could plead “artistic solitude,” go to his studio and lock himself away from the rest of the world for hours. Being the smiling, perpetually upbeat and happy face of the company wasn’t exactly an easy job, but it was expected and he was good at it. He didn’t complain because he was certain that each and every member of his family felt the same way about their own roles.

  But it was for the greater good of the Evergreen family, so...

  “The inspiration?”

  “The Night Before Christmas, the 1949 edition illustrated by Leonard Weisgard.” Ethan loved Weisgard’s work. He’d written and illustrated many books throughout his career that showed incredible technical expertise, but the sense of movement and the confident use of vivid colors were especially impressive. The style was less Victorian and more contemporary, particularly for the late 1940s.

  A small line appeared between her brows. “I can’t say that I recognize that edition, but if the colors are as bold as your ornaments, I’m sure I’d like it.”

  He was sure she would, as well. “I have an extra copy,” he said. “I’d be happy to mail it to you.”

  She looked intrigued for half a second, then practicality prevailed. “No, thanks.”

  Ethan smiled and leaned over, purposely crowding her personal space. Naturally, she didn’t budge. “It’s just a book, Lark,” he confided. “Not propaganda.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if it were,” she said, deliberately lifting her drink to her lips. “I’m not drinking your Christmas Kool-Aid.”

  “Me neither,” he said with a grimace. “Our wine is so much better.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You’re in the wine business now, too? Seriously?”

  Ethan chuckled at her slack-jawed expression and shook his head. “No, but that’s a thought. I’d never considered marketing it before. My father makes it just for the family.”

  An odd expression suddenly crossed her face. Seemingly embarrassed, she looked away.

  “What?” Ethan asked, intrigued.

  “What, what?” She adjusted the salt and pepper shakers so they were perfectly aligned. She liked order, he’d noticed. And right angles.

  “That look.”

  She blinked innocently. “What look?”

  “Cut it out, Lark,” he said, smiling. “You know exactly what I mean. What was that look for?”

  A slow grin teased her lips, consenting defeat. She let go of a small sigh. “Oh, all right. Since you refuse to drop it... It was the comment about your father.”

  He frowned. “My father? What about him?”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “I’d, uh, never thought about you having one before.”

  Ethan blinked and a bark of startled laughter broke from his throat. “Never thought about me having one before?” he repeated incredulously. “A father? Really?” he teased. “Did you think I’d sprung fully grown from Santa’s bag of presents?”

  “Or the loins of Satan,” she quipped, chuckling softly, her eyes twinkling.

  “Satan?” He shook his head, chewed the inside of his cheek. “Wow.”

  “I’m only teasing,” she said, still laughing.

  “It might surprise you to know I have a mother, too,” he said. “And a couple of brothers, and a sister and grandparents and great-grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. A whole family tree that is quite large, multi-forked and healthy.”

  She was wheezing because she was chuckling so hard now. Her eyes had watered and, most significantly, the tension he’d noticed in her shoulders had melted away. She looked happy and relaxed and...gorgeous.

  Her brow briefly folded in confusion. “Multi-forked?”

  Ethan tossed back the rest of his whiskey and signaled for another. “Well, you know what they say about family trees that don’t fork...”

  Understanding lit her gaze and she inclined her head. “Ah, right. Well, I never said I thought your parents were closely related,” she pointed out.

  “No, only that you thought I didn’t have any, and that, if I had a father at all, it was the Prince of Da
rkness.”

  She grinned at him, not the least bit repentant. “He’s royalty, isn’t he? Glass half-full, remember?”

  The bartender slid him a new drink and he lifted it up to send a toast in her direction. “I prefer my glass completely full.”

  Her cell suddenly vibrated against the tabletop, drawing her attention. An instant smile bloomed over her lips and her eyes lit with excitement. “If this call means what I think it means, you’re going to need a lot more full glasses.”

  Oh, hell. That didn’t sound good. Inexplicable dread suddenly swelled in his gut.

  “Well?” she asked by way of greeting. “Please tell me you’ve got good news.”

  Lark gasped delightedly and, impossibly, her smile widened. When she aimed it at him, it had a distinctly cat-in-the-cream-pot element that he found more than a little disturbing.

  “This Friday? Wow. That was quicker than I’d imagined, but you know I’m ready.”

  He’d just bet she was. And whatever it was she was ready for was undoubtedly going to make his life hell and put him in full-blown defense mode.

  Like there wasn’t enough going on as it was.

  He’d gotten a text message from his brother that featured a new picture of Santa and had the caption “WTE?” (What the Elf?) In addition to the twenty pounds he’d lost recently, he’d dyed his hair shoe-polish black and shaved his beard. Evidently trying to look more like Guido, the thirty-something ski instructor Mrs. Claus had recently started taking lessons from. Lord... Merry was on Cougar Patrol and Kris, the very epitome of Christmas, was rocking the “old Elvis” look.

  Not good. So not good.

  “Yes, yes, I know. I’m actually looking forward to seeing his face as well. As it happens, I’ll get to do that in just a second.” She was staring at him, the she-devil, looking absolutely triumphant.

  The dread intensified.

  “Oh, yes. We’re having a drink. Yes, right here with me. Oh, yeah. I’m going to get to gloat in person.”

  Ethan feigned dispassion and tried to appear indulgent rather than curious, though admittedly she’d set the hook and was simply toying with him until she could scoop him into the net.