Merry Christmas, Baby

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Ah. Of course. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut as more color burst upon her cheeks. “Five work for you?”

  “I’m available all day,” he said, shooting a forlorn look across the street to the empty house.

  A blatant ploy. “I’m sure you’ll find something to do,” she drawled.

  From the look on his face, he thought he already had—her.

  And the kicker? He was right.

  In that instant she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that at some point before he left for Iraq again they were going to fall into bed together.

  She wanted. She ached. She yearned.

  And for reasons which escaped her, she felt bizarrely secure with him, for lack of a better description. It was as though a part of her that was always wound tight and on guard could relax with him, simply let go, and that feeling was so inexplicably wonderful she didn’t know what to make of it.

  Furthermore, the way her libido was humming, they’d be damned lucky if they made it to a bed. In fact, if this had been their third date—her usual absolute minimum before intimacy—he more than likely could have taken her right here on her front porch.

  The thought was as disconcerting as it was thrilling, and should have set off an alarm strong enough to wake the dead.

  Delphie merely smiled.

  She was too excited to be spooked and too turned on to be cautious. Sometimes the best plan was no plan at all.

  4

  AT FIVE O’CLOCK ON THE dot, Silas rang Delphie’s door bell. He’d been bored out of his skull all day. He’d taken care of some things around the house for his parents—a lightbulb had blown out in the carport and he’d fixed a loose step on the back porch—and had made a trip to the grocery store. He still needed to pick up a few Christmas presents for his parents and his sister, but had decided to pace himself, lest he run out of anything to do and embarrass himself by trying to hang out with Delphie all day.

  Though he wouldn’t have ever considered himself the sentimental Christmas type, Silas had discovered that he was missing more about the holiday than just his parents. He’d broodingly considered the absence of the Christmas tree and decorations and, after a few minutes of debate where he questioned his sanity, he dragged the decorations out of the attic and started putting them around the house.

  The tree, the Nativity, the candle-holding Mrs. Claus who played “Jingle Bells,” the battered wreath for the front door. He’d found the Christmas CDs and had plugged them into the DVD player and, in absence of the knowledge of how to make mulled cider, had lit a cinnamon candle he’d found in the kitchen. Once finished, he’d proudly inspected his handiwork and most definitely felt more of the holiday spirit taking hold.

  Because he’d seen another person walking their cat on a leash down the beach, he’d picked one up and given it a try with Cletus.

  To his delight, it had worked.

  Initially the cat had looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, but after a few false starts Cletus had decided that he enjoyed being outside, even if he was tethered to a pesky human. Whether Silas’s parents would thank him for this remained to be seen.

  Delphie opened the door and smiled at him, making the breath seize up in his lungs and a strange ringing commence in his ears. “Hi,” she said, a shy note to her voice that he found curiously endearing. The scent of fried chicken drifted to him and he inhaled deeply, dragging a little bit of her scent in with it as well. Vanilla and lemons, an intriguing combination.

  “That smells delicious,” he said, referring to her more than the meal.

  “Come on in,” she told him, widening the door to allow him entrance.

  He held out a bottle of wine he’d picked up earlier when he’d been out. “For you,” he said. She’d left her bottle on the back porch last night, so rather than risking a bad choice he’d simply bought the same thing.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, blushing slightly once more. She started toward the kitchen. “Have you had a good day?”

  He trailed along behind her, enjoying the swing of her hips. She wore a pair of black pants, a light blue sweater and a chunky necklace that drew the eye to her breasts. Oh, hell. Who was he kidding? She could be wearing a garbage bag and his eyes would be drawn to her breasts.

  Because they were magnificent.

  “I have,” he confirmed. “I went to the grocery store for a few essentials—”

  “Like beer,” she interjected.

  “Like beer,” he confirmed. She uncorked the wine, poured him a glass, then handed it to him. “And I put up the Christmas tree and a few decorations. I taught the cat a new trick. Exciting stuff,” he told her. “What about you?”

  “I, too, had to make a run to the grocery store,” she said, shooting him a smile. She started transferring dishes to the dining room table, her movements smooth and seemingly effortless. “And I worked a bit, of course.”

  “From home?”

  She nodded. “Yep, which suits me just fine. After my first assessment, I can do a lot from right here.”

  And right here was lovely, he had to admit. Though there was plenty of color in her house, the furniture was mostly white. White boards covered the walls and ceilings, contrasting nicely with dark wide-plank pine floors. A couple of old porch posts were stationed on either side of the dining room, separating it from the living room, and she’d opted for open kitchen cabinets which were filled with lots of old dishes. Rather than a lot of pretty houses that were simply decorated for display, hers was livable and functional, accented with repurposed materials and reclaimed woodwork. After a moment, he said as much.

  “This is really nice. Did you do some of it yourself?”

  She gestured for him to sit and heap his plate, then chuckled once. “I did it all myself, thank you very much.”

  He felt his eyes widen. “All?”

  “My dad was a carpenter,” she explained, ladling gravy over her mashed potatoes. “Retired now, of course, but I spent a lot of time with him when I was younger.”

  Unbelievably impressed, he set his fork aside and stared at her. “Are you telling me that you know how to use power tools?”

  She grinned and lifted a brow. “Do you want to see my nail gun?”

  He shook his head and tore off another bite of chicken. “Forget the dairy cow, too,” he said in wonder. “You are a gem among women. And you’re a helluva cook,” he added thickly around a mouthful of chicken. “This is amazing.”

  “Thank you,” she told him, looking pleased. “So what about you? Had you always planned on joining the military?”

  Silas laughed. “You’re telling me you don’t know the answer to that question? My mother hasn’t given you everything but my pant size already?”

  Her blue eyes twinkled. “Thirty, thirty-six.”

  He choked on a bite of mashed potatoes. “You’re freaking kidding me,” he said, stunned. “Tell me you guessed.”

  “She only mentioned it because you’re such a hard fit,” she told him.

  Silas looked heavenward. Good Lord, what else had his mother told her? How he used to think that the bank tellers in drive-thru windows lived in those little boxes? How he’d once wanted a mustache like his father so much that he’d drawn it on with a Sharpie? How he’d been so nervous before his first day of school he’d puked all over his teacher’s shoes?

  His gaze slid to her once more and a bark of dry laughter rumbled up his throat. He had a terrible feeling he should have been paying better attention to what his mother had been saying about him to Delphie, because he was pretty damned certain she’d been listening when the Master Manipulator—better known as Helen Davenport—had been talking about him.

  DELPHIE LAUGHED AT HIS suddenly wary expression. “You don’t have to look so worried,” she said. “Your mother only ever had wonderful things to say about you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he remarked grimly. “She’s been doing the hard sell, hasn’t she?”

  Delphie felt her lips twitch and h
esitated long enough for him to swear under his breath. “She’s been very proud of you, that’s all.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Nothing is more embarrassing than having your mother interfere with your game,” he said with a put-upon sigh.

  “You’re doing well enough on your own,” she conceded, quirking a brow at him.

  He looked up at her and smiled, the grin eternally slow and lethally sexy and filled with so much heat she felt her toes curl once again. “That’s good to know,” he remarked.

  “So what about me?” she asked. “You haven’t been getting the hard sell on me?”

  “I have.” He winced. “But to tell you the truth, I didn’t pay that much attention.”

  She felt a droll smile curl her lips. “Because anyone your mother would pitch couldn’t be someone you’d be interested in?”

  He poked his tongue in his cheek. “Are you psychic or am I just that easy to read?”

  “Neither,” she told him. “I am diametrically opposed to anyone my mother suggests, as well.” She took a sip of wine. “But you never answered my question.”

  “What was that?”

  “Had you always wanted to join the military?”

  He nodded. “Always,” he confirmed. “The year I got a G.I. Joe for Christmas changed the course of my life,” he joked, smiling. “Aside from being away from home, I love everything about it. I love knowing that I’m doing something that’s honorable, that I believe in. That I’m standing in the gap, fighting for something bigger than myself, until the next group of like-minded men come along.” He peered at her above the rim of his glass. “Sounds trite, I know, but…”

  “It doesn’t sound trite at all,” she said, swallowing. It was noble and good and she was thankful there were men like him willing to serve.

  “So no wedding festivities tonight?” he asked. “Don’t they typically have a rehearsal and dinner or something?”

  “Actually, no. A friend of Lena’s is performing the service and it’s very straightforward. She goes in, we follow. They say the I-dos and then we party.”

  He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Sounds simple enough.”

  “Instead of doing the stag party and bachelorette thing, Lena and Theo are partying together tonight, hosting their own intimate wake for the passing of their single days.”

  He nodded. “Interesting idea. They sound like a very…different couple.”

  Finished eating, she settled more firmly into her seat. She laughed softly and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “They’re perfect for each other. It’s disgusting.”

  “How long have they been dating?”

  “Just a few months.”

  “So long enough for the new to still be there, but not long enough to discover any annoying habits.” He nodded once. “Probably for the best.”

  She eyed him speculatively. “You sound like you’ve put a good deal of thought into this. Any particular reason you aren’t married yet? Don’t have enough land for the livestock you anticipate as a dowry?” she quipped.

  Silas laughed again, the sound sexy and soothing, one that she knew she could easily get used to hearing. His gaze tangled with hers. “Honestly, I’ve just never met the right girl and haven’t had time to truly look. I’m not opposed to it, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m not so attached to being single that I don’t ever want to get married.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “But I’d rather be alone than married to someone who wasn’t right, you know?”

  She did know. She had a couple of friends who’d rushed into marriage—more thrilled with having a wedding than having a husband—only to realize that the men they’d promised to love till death did them part weren’t as wonderful as they had originally imagined.

  He blew out a small breath. “And when I make a promise, then…I make a promise.” A little frown creased his brow. “I think too many people go into a marriage believing there’s a quick way out of it. That the vows are just pretty words, not the oath it’s intended to be.”

  My goodness, Delphie thought, staring at him with a new appreciation. A man of his word. How novel.

  He looked up and caught her staring at him, then an adorably self-conscious smile curled his lips. “What?” he said. “You think I’m old-fashioned, don’t you?”

  “I do,” she said with nod. “And I think the world could use a lot more men like you.”

  Pity she wasn’t going to have time to get to know him better, she thought, a pinprick of disappointment nicking her heart. Silas Davenport was handsome and funny, smart and charming and held on to antiquated beliefs that she happened to share. He was good, she realized. Genuinely good. And good guys were getting harder and harder to find.

  Thankfully, though, she still had time to get to know him as well as she could.

  She looked up then and caught him staring hungrily at her mouth, as though the dinner they’d just shared had been nice but not enough. Heat flashed over the tops of her thighs and a breathless gasp slipped out of her lungs. Her palms suddenly itched to touch him, to see if the skin on the back of his neck was as warm as it looked. If it could possibly taste as good as she’d imagined.

  She’d been thinking about him all day. Anticipated seeing him again more and more with each passing second. She’d been keenly aware of her body, the way the air felt moving in and out of her lungs, the tight fit of her bra, the slide of silk over her hips. She’d worked, yes, but she’d also spent a great deal of time peeking out of her window, trying to catch a glimpse of him. And she’d spent just as much time watching the clock, waiting until the hour hand struck five and the countdown to having him had officially started.

  Yes, she still had a little time to get to know him.

  And if they were naked, then all the better.

  5

  SILAS KNEW THE EXACT moment he was going to get lucky. Something in her gaze shifted, became more open, less guarded…and a lot hotter.

  “Thank you for dinner,” he told her. “That’s the best meal I’ve had in a very long time.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “It was the least I could do considering you’re braving the wedding for me. You’re going to make me look considerably less pitiable and for that I am forever grateful.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, waving negligently. “I think you and I could find something to laugh at anywhere.” He leaned forward. “And just think of all the material we’re going to have to work with at a wedding. There’s certain to be a crazy uncle, a drunken aunt and a too-blunt grandmother to provide entertainment.” His gaze tangled purposely with hers. “And as an added bonus, I get to dance with you. Win, win,” he told her.

  “How did you know about Uncle Harry?” she quipped, her eyes widening.

  “It’s a given. There’s always a crazy uncle at these things.”

  “Are you a good dancer?” she asked, her gaze lingering on his mouth again. Honestly, if she didn’t stop looking at him like that, he was going to clear the table and have her for dessert.

  He studied her for a moment, let his gaze drift over her face, along the slim line of her throat, the gentle swells of her breasts. And honestly, why didn’t he do just that? They both knew that he wasn’t here to eat fried chicken—he was here to make a meal out of her.

  He stood and offered her his hand. “Why don’t you turn the music up and find out?”

  She visibly swallowed, then bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling. She knew where this was going. What sort of dance he really had in mind.

  And she wanted it, too, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

  With a simple inclination of her head, she picked up the remote control to the stereo and increased the volume. The music was bluesy and low, the perfect background for making love. The next second, she placed her hand in his and he drew her close, savoring the feel of her body next to his. Soft, warm, womanly. He inhaled, tasting her scent—musky with a citrusy finish. Something inside of him tightened and released, as though a lock had been thrown, the tu
mbler rolling into place.

  She felt…right. Better. More significant than any other woman he’d ever held before.

  “You smell nice,” he said, whispering the compliment into her ear. Gratifyingly, she shivered and murmured a thanks. “Who is this?” he asked her, nodding toward the stereo. He wrapped his arm more snugly around her waist, knowing that it was going to make him harder and she was going to be able to tell. He could feel the tension gathering along her spine, her need pinging his, making it all the more potent, all the more intense.

  “Marc Broussard.”

  “I like him.”

  She drew back and looked up at him. “I’m breaking my own rules for you, you know,” she said, as if unable to prevent the disclaimer.

  “Rules?” he scoffed playfully. “What rules?”

  “I typically have to know someone better before I—” She struggled to find the right word.

  “Make fried chicken for them?” he helpfully supplied the euphemism.

  She chuckled, lowered her gaze. “Yes. I ordinarily have to know someone a little bit longer before I…make f-fried chicken for them.” He loved her smile, the way her ripe lips curled just so. Her lashes were long and lush and painted shadows beneath her eyes. He loved that, too.

  He grinned down at her. “So what you’re trying to tell me is that I’m special.”

  “Something like that, yes,” she confirmed.

  “You’re pretty damned extraordinary yourself,” he told her. And she was. She was smart and creative, funny and warm-hearted. Aside from being unbelievably attracted to her, he genuinely liked her, Silas realized. She’d been an instant friend, which was rarer than this phenomenal appeal. He might have thought about that little realization and its significance if she hadn’t chosen that exact moment to nuzzle her nose along his throat.

  Sensation bolted through him, snapping the thin line of restraint he’d been holding on to. He drew back and kissed her, let his lips slide purposefully over hers, feeling the petal softness of her mouth against his. She bloomed, opening for him, and he slipped his tongue into her mouth, delving into the soft recesses, tasting her, sampling her, dragging her into the pit of lust he’d found himself in since meeting her.