Swept Away for Christmas

by M. J. Fredrick

  She was grateful they’d reached the bar. Suddenly, she could use a drink.

  Bruce held the door open for Miranda and Shelby. They walked inside a wood and metal building that opened onto a deck overlooking the beach. It was clear from the color scheme, some decorative elephants and other memorabilia that whoever owned this place was a Crimson Tide fan.

  “Don’t see Wyatt yet. Should we sit close to the bar?” Bruce asked, jerking his chin toward the covered area where flat-screen TVs were mounted. Bizarrely, it wasn’t an ESPN station that played overhead but some kind of singing competition show. A couple of patrons were singing along with one contestant. “Or outside? There are space heaters, if you ladies are cold.”

  “Cold!” Amy snorted. “Obviously, you’ve never been to Detroit in December. This weather is spectacular. I vote we sit under the stars.”

  For a weekday night in the offseason, there was a respectable sized crowd, but it wasn’t so busy that they couldn’t find a table. They had to grab a couple of extra chairs, though, to make sure there were seats for all of them and the expected Wyatt. Amy and Bruce sat on either side of Miranda, and Shelby sat next to Jake. There were two places left, and Finn took the one beside her, close enough that she could smell his soap and aftershave beneath the gulf breeze. Crap. Miranda glanced over, her brown eyes apologetic. But Shelby put on her game face. So Finn’s leg brushed hers beneath the table—that didn’t faze her a bit. Maybe once he’d lit up every erogenous zone on her body and made her giddy just by grinning at her, but they’d been different people then.

  She hardly knew Finn McBride the celebrated chef. Sure, she gleaned tidbits from Miranda every once in a while, and there’d been that time at the hair salon when she’d noticed his name as “A Newcomer to Watch” on the front of a food magazine—although she hadn’t stopped to actually read the article. But that was superficial information, about his career, not about Finn the person. Having accomplished his lifelong ambition of leaving Starfish Shores, was he happy? With all this talk about wedding plans, did he envision himself making the same commitment someday, or was a wife as big a burden as children? He’d made it bitterly clear that he was not a family man.

  A pretty brunette approached and introduced herself as Harley, their waitress for the evening. She mentioned a couple of football-themed specialty drinks, including the Fifteen-Yard Penalty, which made Jake guffaw. The guys decided to share a pitcher of beer, Miranda and Shelby selected a couple of white wines, and Amy asked the waitress about something called a Tequila Touchdown.

  “Is it any good?”

  “I haven’t tried it personally,” Harley answered, “but pretty much everything Liam makes is good.”

  Amy followed the waitress’s gaze to the hot guy behind the bar. “Damn,” she said under her breath. “When I graduate from college, I have got to move to Alabama.”

  Harley grinned. “I know, right?”

  “Well, I’m officially grossed out,” said a male voice. They all turned to see Wyatt, whose handsome face was contorted in a comical mask. “Someone please tell me that my baby cousin was not just lusting after the bartender.”

  Everyone said hello as Wyatt took the remaining seat and Amy mock-pouted that she was every bit as adult as the rest of them. Shelby had been Amy’s age when she dated Finn. She’d seen him around when she was in high school, but he’d already graduated. It wasn’t until three weeks before her twenty-first birthday that they went on their first date. Six and a half years, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

  “Hey.” Finn nudged her with his shoulder, causing her to jump. Unfortunately, that meant all eyes were on her when he asked, “You okay? You seem—”

  “Lost in thought.” She told the truth, at least part of it. “I was thinking about that awful beach house Miranda and I rented with Charli when we were all working together. I loved that place.” The ad had called it a “three bedroom,” but that was counting the fold-out sofa in the living room. And both the so-called bedrooms were smaller than the dorm rooms at college. But the three of them had had the best time there.

  Jake, who’d dated their other roommate, commented, “I can’t believe you guys actually got the deposit back. Between Charli burning incense and my sister in the kitchen, I thought for sure—”

  “Don’t make it sound like I’m a lousy cook in front of the guy who’s marrying me!” Miranda objected, smothering a laugh. “I may not be of the same caliber as Finn, but I can fix a meal.”

  “It’s true,” Shelby said loyally. “She’s an excellent cook. The fact that she usually destroys the kitchen in the process isn’t really the point.”

  As Harley returned with a tray of drinks, Miranda began the story of the time she’d made home-cooked lasagna for a date. Her exaggerated retelling was practically a one-act play; she’d definitely found her niche with drama. The plot twist in the epic lasagna tale was that she hadn’t known the oven mitt had a hole in it, which had resulted in a burned thumb and a kitchen covered in tomato sauce, Italian sausage and ricotta cheese. She and her date had ended up ordering pizza.

  “Which, if you think about it, is basically the same thing,” she said, attempting stoic dignity. “Tomato sauce, cheese, meat.”

  Then there’d been the incident where she tried to make a cake for Shelby’s birthday and had stopped mixing the batter in order to double-check the recipe. Only, she’d forgotten to turn off the beaters before lifting the mixer, splattering chocolate across herself and the kitchen counter.

  “But I’ve learned from my mistakes,” Miranda assured Bruce. “It’ll never happen again.

  He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Too bad. You smeared with chocolate sounds pretty perfect to me.”

  Amid chuckles and Jake making gagging sounds, Amy asked, “What about you, Shelby? Any funny cooking disasters?”

  “I had my share of disasters, but not many were in the kitchen.”

  “No surprise there,” Wyatt interjected. “Why would you be fixing the meals when you were dating a chef? I’ll bet Finn cooked for you.”

  Everyone grew quiet, the abrupt stillness making Wyatt wince. “Was it wrong to bring that up? I wasn’t trying to make anyone feel awkward, we were just so busy strolling down memory lane…”

  “It’s not a problem,” Shelby said. She should make it her mantra for the weekend. “That’s all ancient history.”

  But the silence dragged on as they sipped their drinks and avoided meeting one another’s eyes.

  “I’ve been thinking that maybe I need a signature cocktail for my restaurant,” Finn said suddenly. “Maybe something eponymous.”

  “How can it be your ‘signature’ if it’s anonymous?” Jake asked.

  Miranda smacked her brother on the side of the head. “He means named after him.”

  “Right. The Finnegan McBride, perhaps with Irish whiskey. Has a ring to it, right?”

  Shelby upended her wineglass. Finnegan McBride didn’t sound like a drink, it sounded like what drove women to drink.

  “Another round?” Harley asked.

  “Lord, yes,” Shelby blurted. While she had no intention of getting blotto—they had an early morning tomorrow, with plans for a dolphin-watching cruise—she wouldn’t mind a little more wine to dull her senses. The sound of Finn’s deep chuckle, so confusingly familiar, had been twisting her insides throughout Miranda’s anecdotes. And the moments when he jostled in his chair, bringing some part of their bodies into contact?

  You don’t need booze, you need space. Preferably an entire continent’s worth, but for now she’d take whatever respite she could get. “I’m going to find a ladies’ room,” she announced. “Back in a sec.” She started to rise but realized that, with the addition of Wyatt, they were all wedged in pretty tightly.

  “Here.” Finn reached for her chair to help wiggle it free exactly as she turned to get her purse off the back of the seat. His fingers grazed her breast, and her heart stopped. Getting groped by Finn McBride under the stars—the more
things changed, the more they stayed the same.

  He jerked his hand back faster than Miranda had dropped that hot lasagna pan. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Giving a curt nod to show she’d heard him, Shelby scrambled out of her chair. It wasn’t the most graceful exit ever executed, but she didn’t care. She was in a blind rush to get away from Finn and the sense memories being with him evoked. She swore, even all these years later, that she could taste his kiss on her lips, that—

  “Watch it!” A blond bear of a man turned, scowling, and stared pointedly at the foamy rim of his beer mug. “You almost… Never mind, beautiful. You can crash into me whenever you like.” He’d reflexively reached out a hand to steady her—or protect his beer—and now it was resting on her shoulder.

  “Um, sorry.” She moved to the side. “I was in a hurry.”

  He chortled, blocking her path through the crowd. “The Pit’s no place for hurrying, darlin’. This is where you hang and let it all melt away. You got the beer and the beach and, when the Tide’s playing, great football. What more could you need for a fantastic time? Or, as fantastic a time as one can have in public,” he qualified with a leer.

  She tried to keep her tone polite. “For starters, I’m in need of a ladies’ room.”

  That seemed to do the trick. He stepped out of her way, but added, “Find me later, darlin’. I insist on buying you a drink.”

  “Thanks, but…” Inspiration struck. There was an immediate and surefire way to curtail further interest. “I’m actually here with someone.” She turned, planning to gesture vaguely toward her table where four strapping men sat. Even with Miranda practically perched in Bruce’s lap, there were three other possible candidates who could be Shelby’s pretend date.

  But she never got the chance to wave misleadingly at them, because as she spun around, she discovered Finn right at her side. He dropped his arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

  No! Unhand me. He hadn’t called her sweetheart even when they were dating—he was overselling this. Still, the stony set of his jaw and his glacial expression as he glared at the blond giant certainly lent credence to the jealous boyfriend act.

  “No problem.” She bared her teeth in what might pass for a smile. In very dim lighting. “Except, I still need to find the restroom. So if you gentlemen will excuse me…”

  Finn dropped his arm. “Don’t be too long.” His voice softened and beneath the charade was a whisper of something terrible and true. “My world’s not the same with you gone.”

  Chapter Five

  “Okay, I’ve been waiting to ask this for the last hour and a half, so what the hell?”

  Shelby pulled the cell phone away from her ear, wobbling as she stood on one foot and tried to remove the boot she’d just unzipped. “Jeez, Miranda, wake everyone in the hotel, why don’t you?” It was almost eleven—some people might find that a normal time to sleep. Shelby was, by nature, a night owl; when school was out for the summer, her friends teased her about keeping “vampire hours.” “If you’re gonna be that loud, you didn’t have to call. You could’ve just yelled down from your room.”

  Not only was Miranda loud, she was apparently eager. She and Bruce couldn’t have been back in their room for more than two minutes before she’d called. “Stop lecturing me and answer the question!”

  “I’m not even sure what the question is.”

  “Fibbing fibber who fibs.”

  With a sigh, Shelby sat in the loveseat and tugged off the boots. While her hotel room wasn’t nearly as big as Miranda and Bruce’s suite, it still featured a small sitting area and a tiny kitchenette with microwave, refrigerator and sink. “You’re calling about Finn?”

  “We were taken aback to see him put his arm around you. And kiss you!”

  “On the head,” Shelby pointed out. “It was…brotherly. He was helping me run off an inebriated and potentially stubborn suitor.”

  “Okay. But the tension shimmering between the two of you for the rest of the night? That was palpable. The rest of us didn’t know whether to be uncomfortable or horny.”

  “Miranda!”

  “I spend my days surrounded by teenagers,” she said unapologetically. “Is there some kind of rekindling I should know about? I’m your best friend. You’re required by law to tell me.”

  “No rekindling. Frankly, you’re given to dramatic tendencies. Don’t get me wrong, I love that about you, but I’m sure your imagination magnified whatever you think you saw. But if you legitimately noticed something,” Shelby added over her friend’s protests, “it was the sentimental byproduct of all those memories. We were talking about that summer when most of us met, that crazy little firetrap house we lived in—it’s natural that Finn and I would get caught up in some nostalgia. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

  It’s what she’d told herself while staring into the mirror in the ladies’ room, her body covered in goosebumps, her palms clammy. There had been something so piercing in Finn’s gaze when she walked away from him. My world’s not the same with you gone. Had there been a part of him that meant it? Had it been, in some obscure way, an apology for what happened between them?

  “You are alone in a great hotel suite with a man who adores you yet you’re phoning to ask about my love life?” Shelby scolded. “Lame. Go focus on your own romance.”

  Miranda turned away from the phone, repeating Shelby’s words to Bruce. He laughed in the background, then murmured something Shelby couldn’t hear. “You win,” Miranda said. “For now.”

  “Goodnight, you pain in the ass. If you call me back, I’m not answering.”

  “You have to,” Miranda said smugly. “I’m the bride, you’re the maid of honor. What if there’s an emergency? From now until the wedding, you’re at my beck and call. It’s a law.”

  “What the hell legal code are you using?”

  “Hey, this is Alabama. We have a law prohibiting ice cream cones in pockets. Anything’s possible.”

  Shelby had heard of the mythical ice cream cone law but suspected it was local legend. “See you in the morning, bridezilla. I’m hanging up now.”

  She stripped out of the dress and gravity-defying bra, bemused by the opposing emotions swirling through her. She felt like a lava lamp, two distinctly different colors bubbling up as she alternately grinned over Miranda’s silliness, excited to be among longtime friends, and… It was tough to define what she felt when she thought of Finn.

  Restless, she pulled on a sweatshirt with her school’s mascot on it and a pair of pajama pants, then opened the balcony door, hoping the sound of the surf would help her relax. The wind tugged at her ponytail, and she huddled into the fleecy warmth of the sweatshirt, wrapping her arms around herself. She hadn’t been uncomfortably cold on the hike back from the bar, but it was a lot breezier up here.

  She went to the railing, taking in the lonely beauty of the dark beach. During the summer, it wasn’t uncommon to see flashlights bouncing along the shoreline late at night, as tourists looked for ghost crabs in the sand when the waves receded. Most souvenir shops sold little buckets and nets so kids could catch and release the crabs, but usually there was more shrieking and giggling if one was spotted—or scuttled over someone’s foot—than actual catching. Shelby had never been any good at spotting the small crabs, but the last time she’d gone was with Finn. She’d been distracted by far more mesmerizing sights than crustaceans in the sand, like the line of his jaw in the moonlight, the shoulders toned by tossing heavy equipment into boats and crates of foodstuffs through the resort kitchen.

  For a second, the memory was so clear she could almost hear his voice. Low and tempting as he tried to convince her to skinny-dip with him some time. “Not at the beach, of course. A private pool. I have access to—”

  Wait, that wasn’t what the voice was saying at all. The familiar male voice was talking about…scallops? Belatedly realizing she was hearing Finn’s voice in reality, not in h
er recollections, she whipped around as if she might suddenly find him standing behind her. Both balconies on either side of hers were dark, but his words floated up to her between gusts of wind.

  “…right call. I would have done…”

  Finn was on the balcony below her?

  “You have got to be kidding me!” She hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, or with such indignation. She sure as hell hadn’t meant for them to be overheard.

  “Shelby?”

  A litany of four-letter words ran through her mind, jumbled together in one big uber-profanity. What now? Ignoring him seemed childish.

  She took a deep breath and leaned over the railing. Yep, there he was, standing in a pool of muted light, craning his head to look up at her.

  “Howdy neighbor,” she said drily. “What are the odds?”

  “Just a sec, Gordon,” he said into the phone. Then he smiled at Shelby, a flash of white in the shadows. “If you want someone to calculate the actual odds, call Bruce. But with as few units as there are in this hotel, it’s not exactly mind-boggling that our rooms are close to each other.”

  True. He easily could have been next door to her. Yikes. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she called down. “I’ll—”

  “Join me for a walk? No, not you, Gordon. Tell you what, I’ll call you tomorrow.” After disconnecting, Finn leaned so far back against his railing that Shelby experienced a moment of worry. How strong was this metal? “I’m not ready to turn in, and I know you’ve always been a night person. A walk on the beach might do us some good.”

  He was right. But where was it written they had to take their walks together?

  “I was hoping to talk to you,” he added. “Without all the others around. Please, Seashell?”

  Her breath slammed painfully against her lungs. It was a stupid nickname. It always had been. Finn was the only one who could make it sound like something special.

  There were a hundred reasons to tell him no, but she couldn’t help recalling the summer her dad had taught her to jump off the high dive. “Only way to get over your fears is to face them,” he’d said. “Just take the plunge and put them behind you.”