by Anne Marsh
I shoved a candy cane in his hand. The man was lucky I didn’t pre-lick it and stick it to his butt, because I’d had it with him. “Merry Christmas. Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
JACKS
Since the tree and the wreaths had to go somewhere—and my ceilings were kinda low for an eight-foot tree—I took the lot over to the hangar Donovan Brothers owned. When they’d decided to permanently base their jumping operations out of Strong, California, they’d purchased the airstrip and its associated buildings, and the team had moved right in. Some of the guys had put down roots and bought places of their own in the surrounding area, while others still came for fire season and then moved on afterwards.
I wasn’t going anywhere. Not now. The one upside I could see to her apparently shit financial situation was that she wasn’t going anywhere either. Couldn’t. At least I didn’t have to worry about her getting away from me this time.
Joey Carter looked up when I carted the tree in but didn’t say anything. He had a stack of chutes lined up in front of him with military precision, and he was guiding a patch of ripped canvas through a battered sewing machine. We were no fucking Martha Stewarts, but only an idiot didn’t learn how to mend what he tore. Wasn’t the kind of job you wanted to outsource either, since it was your ass, your life, depending on the chute when you jumped.
When I came back with the six wreaths, however, a grin creased his face and he set the chute aside. “You channeling your inner decorator?”
I dropped the wreaths on a stack of chutes and flashed him the bird. Honest to God, I had no idea what I was doing. There had to be a spot somewhere in the hangar for all Holly’s Christmas shit. The far door was open, which gave us a grade-A view of the California mountains. Not like I could hang a wreath on the pinnacles there—although trying would be fun—so I scanned the hangar, looking for likely targets. We had shelves of chutes, gear bags, and other supplies. Shovels, Pulaskis, and other tools of the trade hung on the wall. We weren’t messy bastards, but we had more accessories than a Barbie doll, and there wasn’t as much empty space as I’d hoped.
Joey strolled over, shit-eating grin splitting his face. “You went all out.”
Zay popped out of the cache as I deposited wreath number one on the door knob. The last two years, we hadn’t opened the storage unit until early May, when we started cranking up for fire season. The weather had been shit though, and we’d had a fire first week of December. Too much sun, not enough rain, and the doomsayers claimed we had an apocalypse or Armageddon or some such shit bearing down on us, while the environmentalists went on about global warming and greenhouse effects. For all I knew, they were both right, but one thing was for certain. We had fires coming out of our ears and no sign of them stopping either. Smoke jumping was turning into a full-time, year-round kind of job.
Zay gave the tree an assessing look. “You buy a stand?”
The fact that trees required accessories was news to me. I was a Christmas tree virgin. Growing up, we’d had a three-foot-tall plastic pop-up model that went on the kitchen table. After I’d graduated from high school and enlisted, Christmas trees still hadn’t been part of my life, unless a special ops mission had us infiltrating a pine-tree covered mountain.
Zay punched me in the shoulder and detoured back into the cache. Couple of seconds later, he emerged with a bucket. “This’ll do.”
The guy had my back. I grunted a thank-you and shoved the tree and the bucket in the corner. It actually looked kind of festive. Weird too, having the green stuff inside. I was used to seeing it as I jumped, kind of rushing up to meet me or swinging back and forth in my peripheral vision. If I convinced Holly to stick with me, however, I was betting there was more of this stuff in my future. Lots of it. My girl really liked Christmas.
Zay snorted. “This the tree you got stuck in yesterday?”
Holly hadn’t needed to share her pictures. My boys had seen me hang up in the tree, and then it had taken me over an hour to make it to the extract site. I’d signaled them that I was fine, so they’d flown on because weather conditions had sucked, but the condition of my chute and my jumpsuit had said it all when I’d made it back to base. They’d had a real good time razzing me about it. I would have done the same if I’d been the one with his feet on the ground. Shouting suggestions at the guy who was hung up was way funnier than being the idiot skewered by a pine tree.
“My tree was huge,” I said, smacking him on the back. “Biggest one in the forest.”
“No shit.” Zay grinned. “I got a big tree too.”
We traded insults back and forth for a moment while Joey emptied a water bottle or three into the bucket. Probably should have thought that one through a little more, but it was done. Someone would just have to remember to top off the water because we’d never live down accidentally setting our own place on fire thanks to a dried-out tree.
When the bucket was full, Joey rocked back on his heels and looked up at me. “So why the tree?”
I shrugged. “Helping a friend out.”
“Uh-huh.” Joey looked at Zay. Zay waggled his brows. Fuck. Smoke jumpers gossiped worse than a bunch of girls. Someone must have spotted Holly and me hanging out together, and that someone had then spread the news. I made a mental note to check the team’s Facebook page for photographic evidence.
“Not the world’s cheapest dating strategy,” Zay said.
Joey looked at Zay like he was a pig. “You put a price tag on your dates? Good thing you don’t speak for all of us.”
Zay muttered something, but Joey cut him off. “And that’s why he hasn’t dated in months.”
“Years,” I added, getting into the spirit of things.
Zay flipped us both off. “I can date if I want to.”
“You seeing Holly?” Joey asked.
Guess it depended on your definition of seeing. I’d bet I had one or two of Merriam-Webster’s entries covered, but not the important one. Not yet. She hadn’t agreed to date me, sleep with me, or keep me around, and I kinda wanted all three.
“He wants to,” Joey drawled. “Are you serious about her?”
Zay snorted again. “Our boy here doesn’t do repeats. He’s in and out.”
I punched Zay harder than was strictly necessary. Not like what the man was saying wasn’t true, but I didn’t like hearing it. I could change. If I wanted to.
“It’s not like that. She’s just—” Fuck if I knew what Holly was. Funny came to mind. Along with really fucking pretty, special, and not mine. Followed by the word yet. So yeah, I wanted to be more than friends with her, and I definitely didn’t want just a one-night hookup with her, although I wouldn’t mind starting there either.
I popped the other wreaths onto the first conveniently pointy parts I found in the hangar while I thought about that, letting the guys’ bullshit flow over me. By wreath four, I realized I had another problem. Holly’s creations were sparkly as shit—and they shed worse than a dog in summer.
I had glitter on my hands, my legs, and probably in my damned boxers. Since it wasn’t the lickable kind—and even then, I preferred to be doing the licking—I had a problem. Because I actually didn’t mind. I looked at all the sparkly stuff, I thought about Holly, and I smiled like a sap. Somehow she’d housebroken me in less than forty-eight hours.
“You buy out the store?” Zay asked, poking a wreath. A small cloud of glitter exploded outward, decorating his shirt. Who knew one wreath could hold so much crap?
“She works on commission,” I told him. That was a nice, safe answer, and it wasn’t untrue either. Bonus points for me.
Zay eyed the wreath nearest him. The pink bow was lopsided, and beads of glue were visible on the greenery. “Your girl needs to go back to kindergarten. Or start with a glue stick.”
Joey grinned. “He’s not dating her for her arts and crafts skills, dipshit.”
Actually, I wasn’t dating her at all, and that was something I needed to fix. Because I wanted to. The sense
of rightness that filled me was kind of unusual, but the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was. Holly’s breaking up with Mr. Dick was a good thing because it meant I could have a shot. I just had to show her that I was the right kind of guy for her. I could start by fixing her cash-flow issues. If she needed to sell trees or wreaths or Christmas shit, my boys would buy.
“You all need to go shopping,” I announced. “Go down to Lucky Paws Christmas Tree Farm tomorrow and ask for Holly. Buy a coupla trees and any other wreaths she’s made. I’ll give you the cash.”
I was good for it. I’d happily spend the enlistment bonuses I’d squirreled away if it helped Holly out. And I had a feeling that she’d take the help more easily if it came from the entire smoke jumping team and not just me. I rubbed her the wrong way—which was just proof I needed to practice rubbing her every chance I got. I’d get it right eventually, and then she’d be happy.
Joey didn’t say no, but he wasn’t done with me yet either. “You want us to pass her a note? Ask her out for you?”
“I got this,” I said, borrowing Holly’s favorite phrase.
Holly being Holly, she’d make dating her an uphill battle. Her stubborn face flashed through my head, most of my memories involving her showing me to the door.
Except for our kiss. That had been spectacular, and I sure hadn’t heard her saying no or get the hell out. Nope. She’d hung on tight, not an inch of space between us, and that was perfect right there. Worse came to worst, I’d just have to kiss her.
Constantly.
I was such a giver.
3
HOLLY
By the time I made it back to my cabin, I was exhausted. I’d led four different families into the woods to pick out the perfect-for-them tree, and my arms ached. It also seemed like half the smoke jumping team had swung by, needing trees and wreaths for an entire army of elderly grandmothers, aunts, and cousins. The money was good, and I’d entirely sold out of the extra wreaths I’d stayed up most of the night to make. Jacks hadn’t been by to bug me either in the last two days, so things were definitely looking up. Maybe he’d figured out our kiss was a mistake. Or maybe he’d moved on to someone easier and kissier. Which wasn’t a word, but I kind of liked it.
Santa had demanded I put in overtime when one of the other elves hadn’t showed, it had rained instead of snowed, and then I’d barely made it down the mountain and to the grocery store on what was left of my last tank of gas. But there was still something magical in the air, that kind of getting-cold-might-snow bite to the air, and I’d passed more than one set of Christmas lights. I was singing along to the Christmas station when I pulled up in front of my studio cabin.
It was the end of the day, my Pak-n-Save orgy had been fueled by Jacks’s excessive interest in my wreaths, and my bed was calling my name. I unlocked the door—a gal couldn’t be too careful even in a mountain town—and hauled in the bags. The place was small enough to take in at a glance—my sofa bed, an armchair, and a kitchen/bar with appliances that wouldn’t have been outsized in a dollhouse. The only source of working heat was the space heater I’d brought with me, and the hot water was finicky. The bathroom was so small that I could sit on the toilet and stick my feet in the shower. But it was one hundred percent mine, and that meant everything. After the divorce, there hadn’t been much to split fifty-fifty, and I’d refused to ask my ex for palimony.
It was funny how things worked out. I’d go back to college, Mark had promised. After his career was launched, I’d have a chance to finish my art history degree, open my art gallery, and do all the individual things I’d dreamed about before we’d married.
Except it hadn’t worked out that way.
I’d caught Mark cheating. And when he hadn’t cared, I’d walked away and filed for divorce. I’d gotten half of our three-digit checking account and our rundown car. While Mark had taken his four hundred dollars and moved in with his new honey, I’d gotten into my car and just driven. The car had broken down in Strong, forcing me to stick around because no one here stocked the necessary parts, and then I’d fallen in love.
Or temporary lust.
With a place. Strong was the cutest little mountain town I’d ever seen. Its one art gallery wasn’t hiring—so Fate clearly still wasn’t interested in my requests—but I’d lucked into the job at the Christmas tree farm, and I’d spent the last six weeks being… happy. Since my job included free rent, I could sock away a little money, and I’d bookmarked the online application for CSU Sacramento. I couldn’t officially apply until next November, but darn it, I’d be ready. My art gallery might not happen today, but I’d earn my degree and the grand opening would happen on one of my tomorrows. The soonest tomorrow I could manage, in fact.
My rescue cat bumped against my ankles. Frances was a big tabby cat with a kinked-up tail. When I ran my fingers up the scruffy length, the bones formed a vee I could feel and that waved in the air like a permanent question mark wherever she went.
Probably too much inbreeding, but she was all mine. Or I was hers. She’d claimed my cabin before I had and had graciously agreed to allow me squatter’s rights as long as I kept her in Fancy Feast and kitty chow. The way her sides bulged, it would be raining kittens soon. I tossed my purse on the bed and got down to the business of feeding her.
“No babies yet?” I bent down to pet her. She meeped back and then continued to keep up her end of the conversation while I got out the cat food.
While the cat ate and my Lean Cuisine heated up in the microwave, I flicked through the mail. I’d merited a Victoria’s Secret catalog full of stuff I couldn’t afford, a reminder from my dentist that I had a date with her in another month, and yet another postcard from my ex. For some reason, the man believed we should stay in touch. I don’t know if he genuinely missed me, if he’d read somewhere that he should be friendly, or if he was just as oblivious post divorce as he had been midmarriage, but he really should consider moving to outer Mongolia, and I was downright shocked his new honey hadn’t cut off his post office privileges. The postcard he’d sent featured two Santa-hat-wearing pink pigs kissing beneath a measly sprig of mistletoe. The photo either contained a coded message in Guy, or it was the first card he’d grabbed. Both possibilities were equally likely. Thinking of you he’d scrawled on the back.
I shook my head, flipping the card back over. Being the first thing that came to mind when he saw fat pigs kissing wasn’t precisely flattering.
“You think we should give him another chance?” I asked Frances.
The cat looked up, gave me the Cat Look, and then turned her attention back to her dinner. She was eating for two—or six—after all. Her opinion about my ex was also perfectly clear—and dead-on accurate.
“You’re right. We’ve definitely moved on.”
And possibly upgraded. I thumbed the photo app open on my phone. I wasn’t much of a photographer, but my picture of Jacks was definitely a keeper. The man hung there in the pine tree like some kind of Chippendales Christmas ornament. The expression on his face was part mischief, part frustration, and I’d regretted returning his knife ever since. If he’d stripped down, my photos—and my memories—would have been even better. Kind of like supersizing at the fast-food drive—those were calories I didn’t need, but oh the instant gratification…
“Remind me again that I’m done with men,” I told the cat.
Frances looked at me and waddled toward her box. At the vet’s suggestion, I’d fixed a box for her to nest in, lined with some of my old T-shirts. Frances should be able to handle the birth on her own, the vet had assured me, but she’d be happier doing it somewhere cozy and protected.
I was feeling pretty cozy myself by the time I dropped onto the bed and got comfortable. Except for the Christmas tree lights on the tabletop tree, my place was dark, but the tree lights cycled through red, green and blue with manic cheerfulness, and even played optional Christmas carols. I was a lucky girl.
Jacks had put his number in my phone.
Shoot.
No more men didn’t mean no more orgasms. We both knew that. Honestly, the orgasms were better when I was in charge of them anyhow. Things had gotten way too rote with my ex even before I’d learned about the cheating and his divided attention. I took care of me now, and that was so much better.
I leaned back against the pillows, dragging a throw blanket over my legs. It was dark and I was alone, so it wasn’t as if anyone could see, but… yeah. I ran my hand down my belly, sliding my fingers beneath the waistband of my pajama pants. My fingers were smooth, not rough, but I’d make do. I didn’t need Jacks and his Magic Penis to enjoy myself.
I was too lazy to get up and grab one of my favorite paperbacks, so I flipped through my mental fantasy Rolodex and then decided to go with the real-life model. Jacks never needed to know I’d rubbed one out thinking about him, so no harm, no foul. Hell, I even had a picture. Two quick swipes later and his face grinned at me from my cell phone screen. God, he was such trouble.
I could call him. He’d probably come over too. He’d give me the real thing. He’d get in my bed with me, and he’d be amazing. Some guys were all talk, but I knew instinctively that Jacks was the real deal. He’d put me first, make me come, and then he’d ruin me for normal guys. Shouldn’t happen, but it would. I’d wondered about him in high school, sure, but then I’d met Mark and Mark had been The One. Being older, wiser, and way more broke and alone now, I knew better.
I’d been Mark’s The One for a month, possibly a year. I’d given myself to him entirely, planning our future and living for him. With him. While he’d been busy running around my back and screwing other women. I hadn’t even questioned his “work” absences because I’d trusted him. Being alone so many nights of the week had sucked, but I’d appreciated his desire to earn a paycheck and a home.
