by Lisa Plumley
“You’re going to persuade me with sex?” That sounded good to him. But Casey didn’t want to let on how easily he might be gulled by such a tactic, even by her. Doing so went against everything he was an expert in. “That’s a devious plan.”
“Fine. I’m going to persuade you with love and kindness to do whatever I want. No matter how Christmassy it is.”
Love and kindness? Love? Did she mean that?
With his mind suddenly racing, Casey went motionless. He couldn’t remember having blurted out an I love you a while ago (which might have prompted Kristen’s casual mention of love now), but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. He had been feeling that weird, unstoppable romantic tenderness toward her . . .
Anything could have happened. No matter how crazy that would be. While overcome with his feelings for Kristen, Casey knew, he might have said anything.
That would be bad. So bad. Why couldn’t he just be happy with what he had for once? Why couldn’t he stop grabbing for more? By now, he knew better than to expect to get it.
Right then, Casey vowed not to say anything else that might get him in over his head with her. No matter what. It wouldn’t be fair to Kristen to let her believe he might be capable of more than he could give. Like forever. Or even next week.
He wasn’t good at commitment. He refused to let her believe he was. Hell, he didn’t even know what commitment looked like.
“Hey.” She nudged him. “Are you okay? Where’d you go?”
Casey blinked. Feeling his heart pounding, he looked at Kristen. Slowly, her concerned face came into focus.
Her expression reminded him that she was more than capable of being kind and loving without being head-over-heels crazy for someone. Especially him. What they had was casual, right? Her remark about love and kindness probably didn’t mean anything.
“I was only kidding,” she went on, inadvertently confirming as much. “If you don’t want to do that Christmassy stuff, we don’t have to. I mean, I have ways of making you want to”—here, Kristen broke off to deliver him a saucy look—“but I’m not in the business of forcing people to wassail.”
Casey was afraid to ask what that meant. “Sounds kinky.”
“I know, right?” Apparently satisfied, Kristen snuggled up to him again. “Don’t worry. If I do my job right, you’ll be dying to go wassailing in no time. Believe me, once you open yourself up to Christmas in Kismet, it definitely gets to you.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Hmm?”
“Nothing. Hey, how big is your shower?”
Instantly alert, Kristen eyed him. “It’s . . . shower sized.”
“Smartass.” But Casey couldn’t help loving that about her. Kristen’s sense of humor was one of the many things he liked about her. He also liked that she wasn’t afraid to give him a hard time—and that she didn’t buckle under his supposedly hypnotic troubleshooter routine. She was too smart to be easily led. She was also too straightforward to pretend otherwise. Casey appreciated that. “Is your shower big enough for two?”
“Hmm.” Kristen bit her lip. Then she threw back the covers and leaped from the bed. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Stark naked and magnificently vivacious, she jerked the covers off Casey, too. Then she gave a comical eyebrow waggle.
“Race you to the shower. Last one there buys breakfast!”
Kristen took off running, bare-assed, toward the unknown location of her bathroom, before Casey could even react to her challenge. “Hey! Does that mean I’m staying for breakfast?”
He really hoped (foolishly and helplessly) that he was staying for breakfast.
From down the hallway, Kristen popped back into the bedroom. Her breasts bobbed invitingly. Her waist nipped in alluringly. Her wild blond hair and unique cocky stance and bright-eyed, pink-cheeked face drew in Casey in ways he didn’t even want to contemplate. Kristen was . . . perfect. Perfect for him.
“You can stay all month, if you want. It’s up to you.” She lifted her shoulder in an elegant shrug. “My apartment can’t beat The Christmas House for ambiance, but it has its charms.”
“I’ll say,” Casey told her. “Because you come with it.”
“Aw.” Another flirty look. “That’s nice. But flattery won’t help you win the who-pays-for-breakfast shower race.”
Then Kristen took off again, leaving Casey behind to realize that, not only was he in imminent danger of losing his first-ever shower race . . . but he was also alarmingly disappointed to know that Kristen hadn’t been saying she loved him before.
Because, perversely, he’d wanted her to. He’d wanted her to love him, and he’d wanted her to want him to stay with her, too. Noncasually. For a night or a week or a month or forever.
He was really in over his head with her.
So what, exactly, was he supposed to do now?
Chapter 19
Kismet, Michigan
Christmas Takeover: Day . . . oh, who cares?
Actually racing Casey to her shower was the second-dorkiest thing Kristen had done that night, she realized as she reached her bathroom. The first had been practically shouting from the rooftops that she was planning to love him. Love him!
As if someone like Casey was going to go for that.
He didn’t even want to be in Kismet! He had other options, other plans, other tropical getaways to escape to—probably with other nonsnowbound, bikini-wearing women to accompany him. Kristen knew that. She’d always known that. So why had she let a single night of astounding sex set her off-kilter so much?
Kristen didn’t know what was wrong with her. Wrenching on the shower taps didn’t enlighten her. Neither did watching the water cascade from her showerhead, predictably and ordinarily, just as though this night was like any other night.
Kristen knew differently. This was the night when she’d officially fallen in love with Casey, and that made it special forever. Even if he didn’t return her feelings. Even if he’d be returning home to Los Angeles in a matter of weeks. Even if . . .
Even if he’d only met her because he wanted to keep an eye on everyone connected with Heather and her holiday TV special.
Oh yeah. If meeting her dream man via her divalicious sister wasn’t the pinnacle of irony, Kristen didn’t know what was. Because Heather typically torpedoed Kristen’s chances at love, just by being herself. Kristen had lost count, over the years, of how many of her “boyfriends” had revealed that they’d secretly been seeing her as a means to get closer to Heather. That kind of amateur subterfuge wasn’t anything she needed to worry about with Casey, but he presented unique challenges all his own—challenges Kristen didn’t normally have to deal with.
Usually I’m really good at spur-of-the moment casual encounters, she’d told him. And with just as much certainty, Casey had set her straight. This isn’t a casual encounter.
And that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? Still. And maybe forever. Because until Kristen knew if she could trust Casey, she couldn’t give him anything more. At least not openly.
She had her heart to think about, after all. She liked it whole and unbroken, ready to give to someone who deserved it. She wanted that someone to be Casey. But until she knew more . . .
Well, until she knew more, Kristen reminded herself as she closed her eyes, leaned against the bathroom wall, and listened to the water cascading in the shower as it warmed up, she would just have to be careful. Or she would have to find a way to suss out Casey’s true intentions. Maybe, while showing him the Christmas adventure of a lifetime, she could do exactly that.
Or maybe she could just take a chance and give in. Because that’s what she really wanted to do. No matter how dumb it was.
“Hey,” came Casey’s deep, affectionate-sounding voice. “Here you are.”
As usual, his arrival made Kristen melt. She opened her eyes to see him lounging naked in her bathroom doorway with one shoulder against the jamb, tousle-haired and mouth-wateringl
y sexy, looking at her as though he knew everything she needed.
More than likely, he did. And he wanted to give it to her.
“Yeah,” she said, rousing herself. “I win!”
At her victorious, both-arms-up gesture, Casey smiled sexily. “Well, then,” he said. “Let me offer you your prize.”
Feeling herself go all loose-limbed and breathless, simply at his approach, Kristen knew that her supposed love-him, don’t-love-him quandary was really a nonstarter after all. She could no more stop herself loving Casey than she could make it be ninety degrees and sunny in Kismet on Christmas this year.
She smiled at him, then stepped naked into his arms. His eyes sparkled down at her, his strong body cradled her, and all she could think was that Casey was . . . perfect. Perfect for her.
“I begin to think you weren’t even trying to win the race,” Kristen accused in a lighthearted tone. “You slacker.”
“Guilty.” Not the least bit abashed to have come in second in their challenge, Casey kissed her. “I decided I’d enjoy congratulating you a lot more than I’d enjoy winning.”
“But you’re supercompetitive! Just look at you and Shane—”
“I’d rather look at you.” Giving her a dazzling grin, Casey kissed her again. He cradled her jaw in his hand, let his gaze roam over her face, then nodded. “Yep. You’re worth losing for.”
“Wow,” Kristen cracked, unable to resist a joke. Because Casey was too close to making her believe him, and she didn’t want that. “That’s what every woman dreams of hearing.”
“You’re worth fighting for and dying for,” Casey amended seriously, locking his gaze on hers. “You’re worth everything.”
At that, Kristen couldn’t hold out any longer. She could resist Casey’s sexiness (up to a point). She could withstand his flirtatiousness (sometimes). She could even hold the line against his charm (occasionally). But his sincerity?
His sincerity left her disarmed.
Giving in completely at last, Kristen kissed him back.
“I’m really going to love that free breakfast tomorrow morning.” With a wink, she pulled away. She drew aside the plastic curtain, then nodded toward her steamy shower. “This looks big enough for both of us to me. What do you say?”
“I say,” Casey informed her as he took her hand, “that you’re going to have a hard time getting me out of here.”
They both stepped into the spray. Laughing as its warmth hit her, Kristen turned. Casey raised his big, soapy, extra-talented hands, then approached her with a purposeful look.
“Hey, don’t look so wary,” he teased, flexing his lathered-up fingers. “I only have the best intentions at heart.”
Offered another chance to trust him, even in a tiny way, Kristen nodded. She opened her wet arms to the sides, baring herself entirely to Casey. “Go ahead,” she said. “I dare you.”
Because the only way to get anything in life, she remembered in the few fleeting seconds before Casey’s soapy hands caressed her and made her quit thinking altogether, was to be completely open to it—to just let go and let it all in.
Here I am, Kristen thought. Yours, for now or forever.
But since she was still her—and she couldn’t possibly be passive about something as important as this and still respect herself in the morning—she just had to raise the stakes.
“Because I think I love you, Casey,” Kristen said bravely, touching his face as the shower rained down on them. She blinked as the warm water struck her face. “I really, really do.”
Looking down at her, Casey blinked, too. He grinned. “Hmm?”
He hadn’t heard her. Oh. Well, maybe that was a sign. Maybe in situations like this, being bold and assertive was overrated.
Maybe declaring her feelings for him didn’t have to happen yet.
“Hand over the soap,” Kristen said loudly instead, gesturing toward it. “I want a turn at soaping you, too.”
Casey angled his head, looking at her more closely, and for a second Kristen had the impression he had heard her the first time.
Then he shook his head. He gave her another rascally grin. He lowered both wet hands to her breasts. “Not this time,” Casey vowed hoarsely. “This time, I’m having things my way first.”
Kristen meant to disagree. Honestly, she did. But there was something intrinsically magical about the way Casey touched her . . . and as he went on stroking her, adroitly and sensuously and with a clear sense of manly enjoyment, she found she simply didn’t have the will to resist him. It turned out, she realized, that when it came to her and Casey together. . . he won every time.
“Heather? Hi!” Speaking via cell phone to her sister’s voice mail account, Kristen paced across her bedroom wearing a short robe. The thin light of another wintery December morning penetrated her curtains, then fell on the discarded clothes she and Casey had left on the bureau and chair and floor the night before. Even after an entire long weekend spent together—beginning on the evening of Christmas Disco Night and continuing during the past two days—they still hadn’t bothered dealing with the hilarious amounts of cast-off clothing they generated by getting dressed and undressed. “I just wanted to find out how you’re doing,” Kristen said into her phone to Heather. “I was wondering how your doctor’s visit went the other day, and, um . . .”
Breaking off, Kristen scooped up Casey’s shirt. Feeling sentimental, she inhaled the distinctly masculine scent that clung to its starched folds. She hugged it to her chest. Just holding it reminded her of everything she and Casey had shared.
Kristen never wanted to forget it. She doubted she ever would. No matter what happened between them next, now that their romantic, sex-filled, amazing lost weekend was coming to an end.
“. . . wondering whether you’re out of quarantine yet,” Kristen went on to her sister, “and I wanted to let you know that I have been receiving all your texts with your food-in-a-jar ideas.”
There had been, literally, at least a dozen texts from Heather over the past several days—so many that Casey had taken to teasing Kristen about her “consultant” sister and their budding “partnership” involving the Galaxy Diner and its food.
“And thank you for thinking of me,” Kristen added, “but that’s probably all the new-item ideas I need for right now . . .”
Or for forever, her more prideful side suggested, unwilling to admit that Heather—as a pop star and not a baker-turned-diner owner—had actually proposed a few useful suggestions, scattered among the obviously hallucinatory food-in-a-jar concepts.
“. . . and um, well, usually you answer your phone,” Kristen told Heather, still hugging Casey’s shirt, “so I’m sorry I missed you, but I guess maybe the doctor is there with you or something. I’ll try again later, okay? I hope you’re feeling better.”
With a shake of her head for her typically flaky sister, Kristen disconnected the call. She might not have reached Heather, but at least she hadn’t been shunted automatically to a member of Heather’s entourage via the “personal number” (actually an assistant’s phone) that her sister usually gave out.
Kristen was one of the chosen few who had Heather’s real phone number. Heather had ordered her to guard it with her life—even though, as far as Kristen knew, her sister still wasn’t feeling well and would hardly be expecting a gazillion calls.
It was possible that Heather was being extracautious now though because, deprived of oddball sightings of their favorite pop-star diva during her chicken-pox quarantine, the press had gotten more desperate than ever to get the scoop on her.
In Heather’s absence, they’d started speculating that her quarantine was only a publicity stunt. They’d begun hanging around her holiday TV-special set with new fervor, printing rumors, and pressing “close friends” of Heather’s to confide in them about what Heather was “really” up to in her “hideaway” at Lagniappe at the Lakeshore. Gareth had been approached for gossip; so had a couple of Kristen’s regulars at the diner.
Kris
ten hadn’t been approached. Not yet. But until Heather emerged from quarantine and (A) proved she had not been hiding in a “love nest,” (B) was not pregnant, and (C) was not dating a “bohemian boy toy,” those shenanigans would probably continue. Because evidently, where the paparazzi were concerned, “friends” were merely “unnamed sources” and “quarantine” had to be code for “astonishing secret that should be published immediately!”
Not for the first time, Kristen felt glad not to have her sister’s “charmed life” for her own. Because despite her occasional protests, Heather (mostly) lived for the attention. Everyone knew Heather loved getting special treatment. It was like oxygen to her. She wanted it, demanded it, and got it.
Whereas Kristen got . . . well, she got a variety of sore muscles in unusual places after a long weekend spent doing some very imaginative things with Casey, she remembered with a private grin. That man was definitely creative. He had stamina to spare, too. Kristen had the pleasantly achy inner thighs, twinge-y shoulder muscles, and (possible) minor neck strain to prove it.
She really ought to try to behave with a little less abandon sometimes, Kristen told herself as she headed for the other room. But when it came to Casey, control was very hard to find.
So was perspective, Kristen learned as she entered her kitchen and found Casey sitting at her built-in peninsula, chowing through a mini mason jar full of chocolate-cherry Black Forest pie with mocha whipped cream and bittersweet chocolate shavings and almond brittle. Because the downright blissful look on Casey’s face left Kristen with no perspective at all.
He was fantastic. And sweet. The end.
He was also, Kristen observed, making roughly the same kinds of pleasure-filled sounds he’d made last night while making love to her. With each new forkful, Casey’s ecstatic expression grew. His eyes fell closed. Another moan burst from him. He even gave a burly shoulder shimmy. Evidently, despite his frequent and enduring protestations to the contrary, Casey did not “hate” her pie, after all.
