“You’re in charge of cold toast,” Macy told Deacon. It was fun to order him around. “In case the colonel asks for some. You can make it beforehand and stick it in the fridge.”
“I’m on it.” Deacon stuck up a thumb.
It occurred to Macy that she’d love to lean over and put that thumb in her mouth. But he was wrong for her, and that would be trashy. She was horrified, in a thrilled-horrified way, at the wayward turn her thoughts were taking. “We’ll learn so much about how they feel about each other by the way they act tomorrow morning,” she said. “And the best part is, they will too.”
“So you’re saying all this silly unpleasantness, experienced together, will bond them.” Deacon’s thumb was now back to its rightful place, sadly—alongside his fingers and hanging harmlessly at his side.
“Yes.” Macy felt a little wistful at the lost fantasy.
“It’ll be like a smack upside the head,” added George.
“Exactly.” Her mind was spinning with too many sexy thoughts to really know what George had said, so she added, “They’re in a rut, all right,” because it was true.
They were back home, thank God. She needed to get back to her room and calm down.
“Why don’t you just come over for breakfast too?” Deacon was nonchalant. “You got us into this, after all.”
“Thank you. I’d love to. Although the truth is, I’d already planned to crash the party.”
George stuck up his hand, and the three of them high-fived.
“Envision success, gentlemen,” Macy said, wishing she’d only high-fived George.
George kissed her on the cheek. “See you tomorrow.”
“Bright and early.” She grinned as he bounded up the stairs of their house, his cape reminding her now of a superhero’s.
“I’ll walk you to your house.” Deacon’s expression was kind. Calm. Maybe a bit reflective.
She felt the opposite: flustered, bold, and sort of bouncy.
“No, thank you,” she said firmly. “My doorstep is only a hundred feet from yours.”
“I just want to make sure. I’ll be good. Honestly.”
She sighed. “All right.”
They walked those hundred feet so slowly, it was ridiculous. She had no idea what their dragging feet meant.
“Okay then,” she said as they walked. “See you in the morning.”
“That’s right.” He was so hot, it killed her.
“Let me know if you need me to do anything else to help.”
“I can’t think what,” he said.
Macy thought of her bed upstairs. Imagined him in it. For the millionth time.
“So.” He put his hand on the side of her fake front door.
And he came closer.
No.
No, no, no.
Her mouth was only a few inches from his. “Don’t do it,” she whispered although everything in her wanted him to kiss her so badly. “Because if you do, we won’t stop. And both of us deserve better than a cheap one-night stand.”
He froze. Made a sudden motion with his free hand. Caught something in the air and closed his fist. Then he backed down the steps, stood on the sidewalk, opened his fist, and blew on his empty palm.
She refused to blink. “What was that?”
He smiled a wicked, devastating smile. “A little Christmas spirit, is all. I hear there’s plenty more where that came from.”
“For goodness’ sake.”
“What?”
“You know what,” she said.
“I do?”
“Yes, you do. I’m not stupid. You were about to kiss me. And you need to know you’re playing with fire.”
“I like fire,” he said.
“Not my kind. It’ll burn you.”
He laughed. “I like when you get sexually frustrated, Frost. Your dime-store villain act is cute.”
“I hate cute. And people who think I’m cute can go jump in a lake. I’m so much better than that.”
“I know you are. You’re amazing.”
She wasn’t prepared for that. She wasn’t prepared for that look on his face either. He wanted something from her, that was clear. Sex. All she had to do was crook a finger, and he’d be in her bed. But she saw something more. He wanted to know what she wanted too, and she could tell he craved giving it to her … whatever it was. She saw uncertainty and hope and confidence that he could make her happy—if she’d let him.
For some reason, that look of his made her feel like a princess. Everything in her shimmered and shone and stood at attention.
But she was unable to speak.
She wasn’t sure what she wanted. She was scared. He was asking too much, without even saying a word. So she retreated to what she could handle, which was a brush-off. “Good night,” she told him.
A flash of disappointment crossed his face. “Sleep well,” he replied softly, then put his hands in his front pockets, thumbs out, and sauntered down the street toward Fran’s house.
“I hope you get coal in your stocking,” she called after him quietly, her inner villain turning soft.
He turned back and laughed. “Where’d you get that fruitcake? I’ve never met anyone who actually eats it.”
“I made it.” She couldn’t help feeling proud. “My dad likes it. It’s actually pretty good if you soak it in enough rum.”
He shot her a skeptical look. “Are you sure your family’s from planet Earth?”
She laughed. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Oh yes I do,” he said, his voice getting very sexy. “I know very much what I’m missing. And I hate that I am.”
Her entire body tingled with entirely inappropriate sensations. “You need to stop talking.” She yanked open her door. “See you tomorrow morning.” She paused on her steps, waiting for a reply. Like a fool.
“I can’t wait,” he said.
Something invisible and dangerous shimmered between them, which she needed to ignore, and the only way to do that was to cross her threshold and push the piazza door shut behind her.
So she did.
Maybe that would keep it out, whatever the danger was. She leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and pretended that she was safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Yes!
When Deacon woke up at 6:15 the next morning, it was dark and cold, and he remembered that Hell awaited. So why had he thought Yes? Maybe because it smelled like Christmas with the pungent evergreen in the living room and the leftover scent of the special holiday bayberry tapers Fran lit every night at dinner. He rolled out of bed with more energy than usual—like a Boy Scout, with a need to help, to be a part of things.
He felt young and hopeful.
It was weird.
He shivered as he pulled on his jeans and donned a T-shirt and sweater, all while half-asleep, that is until George showed up at his bedroom door with a steaming hot cup of coffee.
“I hate to say it because your head’s big already, but you rock,” Deacon told him.
“I know.” George’s face looked freshly scrubbed. He already wore cologne—subtly, thank God—and a green silk tunic and black skinny jeans.
They grinned at each other, but the attempts came out more as grimaces.
“I’m obviously ready,” George said. “Are you?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Deacon replied. “Hey. What do you want for Christmas?”
“True love,” George said, “and maybe a red Camaro. But I wouldn’t know where to keep it in the city.”
“Are you always this difficult?”
“You mean splendid?” George huffed. “Yes.”
The doorbell rang. The colonel was five minutes early. Figured.
Operation Boot Camp was underway.
Aunt Fran was discombobulated when Deacon knocked on her bedroom door. Rightly so. It was 6:25, and she never got up that early.
“Aunt Fran!” he called to her. There was something scary about waking up other people. You never kn
ew what you’d get.
“Wha—?”
“It sucks to wake you. Sorry. But Colonel Block is here for breakfast.” He wished Macy was there, but she hadn’t made an appearance yet.
His aunt’s head popped up from the pillow. “Is this a joke?”
“No. He just rang the doorbell. You didn’t hear it?”
“Of course not, kid!” That was what she used to call him. Still did, sometimes, when she was extra loosey-goosey. She let her head drop back to the pillow. “If this is some kind of joke, tell George it’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke. We just let the colonel in the front door. He says you invited him, and he wants to thank you for something, I think.”
“Hell’s bells,” she said in a croaky morning voice. “What’s he going to thank me for?” She threw her blankets off. A good sign, Deacon thought. “I’m going to kill him,” she muttered.
Maybe not such a good sign, after all.
“Should I send him home?” First test.
She paused. “No.” Her voice was quivery with self-pity.
Deacon pitied her too. It was wrong to wake a diva from her sleep. But she hadn’t asked him to send the colonel home.
Macy would be thrilled to hear that.
“I can’t believe he would do this.” Aunt Fran stood and moved like a robot with dying batteries toward her walnut wardrobe. “It makes no sense.”
“It is pretty early.”
She flung the wardrobe door open and shook her head at her robe, hanging on a hook. He’d never seen her second-guess its frayed hem. “This thing is my favorite. But it’s looking pretty crappy.”
“Lived in.” Deacon helped her put her arms through the armholes, turned her around, and tied the sash for her.
“You weren’t awake either, I presume.”
“No,” he said. “But who’s going to stay in bed when the colonel comes over? He might have ‘Reveille’ on his iPhone. I can just see him delighting in blasting it by my ear.”
“He doesn’t scare me.”
It was a not-so-veiled insult directed at Deacon, not the colonel. But he let her get away with it because her morning was about to go downhill even further.
His was too, if Macy didn’t get there soon. Where was she? He imagined her walking right past George, Aunt Fran, and the colonel to his bedroom. He’d follow, and they’d fall into bed together. It was a useless daydream. But it passed the yawning seconds between now and the next time he’d see her.
Aunt Fran stalked past him. She’d gathered steam.
Deacon was hopeful. Worried, but hopeful. He followed her into the living room, where the tree lights were already lit.
“Colonel Block,” she said in plain, bold terms, as if she were a general on the warfront about to meet with another commander.
“Good morning.” Her visitor sounded more good-humored than usual. He still scowled, but there was a certain softness about him Deacon had never seen before.
“I’m not a morning person, Colonel,” Fran said. “But you look and sound awfully chipper. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m here for breakfast,” he said, “and to have a powwow.”
He indicated the resplendent table in the drawing room, set with sparkling china and demure silver place settings. It was separated from the living room by a wide arch decorated with Christmas greenery. It looked like something from a glossy magazine, except for the Corgis sniffing each other’s rears by the chair legs.
Fran looked at George. Said nothing.
He waved his hand dismissively. “I went overboard, but the colonel’s a special guest. Enjoy.”
When George strode to the kitchen, he left Aunt Fran no choice but to stare at her nephew instead. Deacon graced her with his most enigmatic smile, designed to dissuade questions and disarm the recipient.
“You’re looking lovely this morning, Fran,” said the colonel.
“Am I?” she said languidly.
Deacon loved her 1940s movie star class. And sass. She was going to take this situation and run with it.
Good for her!
“I like a woman who knows herself so well.” The colonel headed to the table. “You don’t need folderols.”
Folderols! Deacon was amused.
The colonel held out a chair. “Take a seat, madam.”
Aunt Fran put her nose in the air but complied.
The doorbell rang again.
“Who is it this time?” the queen of the condo asked sharply.
“Macy,” Deacon said. “I can tell by the way she rings the bell. A long press before the release, as if she doesn’t trust the mechanism to work properly.”
Aunt Fran tsked. “She’s a control freak, that girl. I suppose you invited her to breakfast, the same way I invited the colonel?” Her tone was dry.
“You got it.” Deacon winked and left to get his quarry.
“How’s it going?” Macy said inside their little lobby area. She was wearing a Chicago Bears knit cap, a Detroit Red Wings jersey, jeans, and Eskimo boots. In her hands, she held a basket of beautifully decorated sweet rolls that smelled like heaven.
“Are you a Christmas elf?” Deacon inhaled the delicious fragrance of freshly baked rolls mingled with her light flower scent. “Or maybe Mrs. Claus’s cousin?”
“Neither.” She smirked. “I’m a woman alone who likes to bake.”
“And drive people crazy. In more ways than one.”
“No more sex talk.” She sounded like a schoolteacher but she smiled, so she must not hate him too much. “It’s Christmas.”
“Christmas is a great time for sex talk.” Upsetting schoolteachers was his specialty too. “At least I think so. There are sleigh blankets to cuddle under. Warm fires. Everyone has red cheeks and stays a little tipsy ’til New Year’s Day.”
“How’s your aunt this morning?” She was adept at simply ignoring his stupid banter when she felt like it, which made him feel special, like a real friend—or one of her genuine annoyances in life.
At least she wasn’t actively hating on him.
“So far she hasn’t thrown the colonel out or cursed at George and me. I can tell she’s aggravated. But she’s also intrigued. She loves to be droll. And obstreperous. Especially with people who don’t put up with her.”
“Perfect.” Macy clomped up the stairs next to him.
“I didn’t know you were such a sports fan.” Such a sexy, adorable sports fan, he really wanted to say, but he knew she’d slap him down.
“I told you how much I like the College of Charleston men’s basketball team. The Cougars. This hat and jersey belong to my dad. I’m slummin’ it today.” She sent him a “But what can ya do?” kind of look.
“I think you look fantastic,” he said.
“In an alternative universe, maybe,” she said with a little snort.
They were at the door. He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You made rolls with green icing wreaths on top. And some of them have Christmas trees. With sprinkles.”
“I sure did.” She seemed peppier then. “So what about the colonel and your aunt? Do we hope this works out between them?”
Deacon thought about it for a second. “I don’t think that matters as much as just giving them the opportunity to figure it out together. She’s barely gotten to live here, and she already loves this condo. If she paired up with the colonel, she’d become part of old Charleston, but she’d probably move to his house, and, honestly? I think she’d rather be unencumbered—at least for a while.”
“I can see that.”
“Are you a morning person?” He smiled.
“Nope. And you are, obviously.”
“Only around Christmastime. But don’t tell anyone else.” He held the door open for her.
In the dining room, the colonel and Aunt Fran sat across from each other. Corgis lounged at their feet until they saw Macy and rushed at her.
“Come in, come in.” Aunt Fran sat up taller w
hen she saw Macy.
Deacon loved that his aunt looked forward to Macy’s neighborly visits.
“Over here, guys.” Deacon tried to divert the Corgis by sitting on his haunches near the Christmas tree. They loved when he scratched their ears and pushed them onto their bellies.
But they liked Macy’s rolls better. With them sniffing her feet and legs, she slowly navigated her way across the living room to the dining room. Deacon knew better than to relieve her of those sweet confections, so he put Dean Martin on the sound system. It took her at least a quarter of the way through “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” before she could get to Fran.
“Join us, hon,” Deacon’s aunt said mildly, “but don’t ask for coffee. It’s cold. And now George says the machine’s broken and he left his French press carafe in New York.”
“What a shame.” Macy bent to hug Aunt Fran’s neck while Deacon took a seat next to the colonel.
“Mmm,” said Aunt Fran. “Look at those rolls! Pure decadence!”
“They smell real good,” affirmed the colonel.
Macy’s face brightened. “You like them? I made them for the Marines.”
“Oh.” Aunt Fran wilted just a little.
“They’re coming over today to help us set up the Toys for Tots party.” Macy made brief eye contact with the colonel. “I’ll go put these in the kitchen and join y’all in a minute. Thanks for the invite.”
There was a lull at the table when she disappeared.
Deacon knew he could fill it, but he refused.
Aunt Fran glanced at the colonel. He cleared his throat.
“So,” she said.
“The fruitcake—” the colonel said at the same time.
She let out a short laugh. “You go.”
“Thank you for it,” Colonel Block said abruptly.
Aunt Fran’s smile faded. “For the … fruitcake?”
George burst forth from the kitchen, humming along with Dean Martin, Macy trailing behind him.
“Who or what else do you have for me?” Aunt Fran narrowed her eyes at her personal chef.
“This.” George put down a bowl of cream of wheat in front of her and another in front of the colonel.
“I’ll skip it,” said Deacon.
“Me too.” Macy was now seated.
“As you wish.” George smiled smugly around the table.
Christmas at Two Love Lane Page 23
