by Toni Blake
“It’s just for the movie,” she heard herself say in the darkness of the car.
He didn’t pretend not to understand what she meant. “It can be for whatever you want it to be, Candy.”
“Well, it’s just for the movie,” she reiterated.
And he laughed.
Of course, she knew she had the option of making it not just for the movie.
Tessa and Rachel and the rest of the girls would surely approve of that.
But . . . he was leaving. Soon. Really soon. And she deserved more than some fly-by-night affair. So as they turned into her driveway, even as she felt that certain invisible pull of desire, she resolved that it would still be just for the movie. Because it made sense to protect her heart. Didn’t it?
The fact that he’d been there before made having him there again more comfortable than it would have been otherwise. Especially when her silly cat greeted him like an old friend, hopping right up into his lap when he sat down on the couch. “Hey there, Frosty,” he said. “Staying out of the snow these days?”
“Yes,” Candice answered for the cat. “As you already saw, snow and Frosty don’t mix. Or . . . they mix too well, I guess.” She went around the room turning on lights, then told Shane she was heading to the kitchen for some snacks.
When she came back, he was on his feet, stooped down, building a fire in the hearth.
“Thanks,” she told him softly, watching his butt. He’d had his coat on all night, but now it was off, and the way he was shifting and moving and bending made it hard not to see how his jeans curved over that part of him. She had unwittingly noticed his butt more than once while trimming Grampy’s tree, too. If he takes off his shoes and is wearing thick, cozy socks again, I’m a goner.
Once the fire was going, crackling and blazing, he came back to the couch. She’d put the DVD in and had it queued up, ready to go. A tray of Christmas cookies and candies rested on the coffee table alongside two steaming mugs.
“Let me guess,” he said, sitting back down next to her. “Hot chocolate.”
“Of course.”
He laughed.
“Seriously—what’s funny about hot chocolate?”
“Nothing,” he said. “But I’ve drunk more hot chocolate since coming to Destiny than I have in my whole life.”
She just shrugged. “It’s winter. And we like hot chocolate. So what?” Then she motioned toward the tray. “You should try some of Sue Ann’s cookies.” They were cutout and decorated, in shapes of stars, trees, bells, and reindeer. “They’re delicious, from an old family recipe. Amy’s buckeyes are yummy, too.” The regional treat consisted of a peanut butter mixture dipped in chocolate. “And I made these.” They were drop cookies with crushed candy cane crumbs mixed in.
He went straight for those, picking one up, and took a big bite. “Mmm mmm,” he said in approval, then gave her a look that was downright smoldering. “I told you candy canes are my weakness.”
The look moved all through her body, and she decided it was a good thing to just . . . ignore. “Ready to start the movie?” she asked, glancing toward the TV as she reached for the remote.
“Can we turn out some of these lights?” he asked.
“Um . . . sure,” she said, even though she thought that was a positively horrible idea and had, of course, turned them on for a very good reason. Fortunately, though, even after she went around the room flicking off a couple of lamps and an overhead dome, the fire and Christmas tree kept the room at least somewhat illuminated—in a warm way. Even if the dim lighting nearly made her trip over the cat, now curled up on a rug next to the fireplace.
Though when she returned to the couch, Shane had—uh-oh—removed his shoes. And wore cozy, gray, snuggly socks underneath. Her gaze rose to his sexy eyes to find him casting her a warm, seductive sort of glance, so she dropped her own gaze—back to the socks. Hell, no place seemed safe to look at the moment. And what is it with you and socks suddenly? Since when do you find socks of all things such a turn-on? You’re being ridiculous.
Yet as she sat back down and started the movie, she realized—the problem was that when you really started being into someone . . . everything about them was sexy. Even their socks.
“Here we go,” she told him as the movie began, two blinking stars in the cosmos having a discussion about George Bailey, saying tonight was his crucial night. And as the story got underway, she couldn’t help wondering if tonight might be her crucial night. Albeit in a far different way. And she was pretty sure no one was going to send an angel down to save her from herself—what happened here was entirely up to her, for better or worse.
At first, she sensed Shane quietly scoffing at the whole scenario, at Clarence the angel, at the old-fashioned feel of the black-and-white movie. But just like when she watched it every year, she could tell he was soon sucked in to the story, seeing George’s life unfold, the joys and disappointments alike.
She nibbled on a couple of Sue Ann’s cookies out of nervousness—just at having him here, being on the same couch with him. But he didn’t seem nervous at all, stretching out and making himself right at home. The move put him farther away from her, at one end, but when he extended his legs and crossed his feet at the ankles, it placed them perilously close to her own feet, which she’d drawn up next to her.
And by the time Mary said, “Welcome home, Mr. Bailey,” on her wedding night with George, Shane’s feet were touching hers. Just a little.
She felt herself blinking at the TV screen, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Then she reached for another cookie.
She considered resituating herself, moving her feet away from the cozy warmth of his—which, simple as it was, somehow rippled up through her legs and into her abdomen. And to stay like they were was to . . . welcome it. That was the message it sent. Which also would probably imply wanting to touch more of him than just his feet. And maybe not every guy would make that leap—but she had a feeling this guy would.
So she knew she should move her feet. She should scoot a little farther away.
And yet . . . what if you let this happen? All of it? What if you just let go completely and let your lust and desire take over here?
You’ll probably get hurt, that’s what.
This was so different than with Bobby. The difference being—you know now. You get it. You understand what you’re in for.
And yet you’re still considering it?
Yes. You are.
Because maybe Tessa was right. And Rachel, and all of them.
She would never personally minimize something as intimate as sex into holiday cheer—but . . . was it possible that maybe even just a night—or two, or three, depending on how things went—would somehow . . . give her something that would make the imminent pain worth it?
Even if this wasn’t how she operated. Not what she wanted. Not what worked for her.
Maybe it was time to consider making something else work for her.
Doing what Tessa said and taking a chance.
Deciding that maybe the hurt she’d feel later would be worth it for the joy she’d feel now.
Believing that the joy would be greater than the pain.
As George hid the petals from Zuzu’s flower, Candice stole a glance over at Shane. She took in the line of his heavily stubbled jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, the way his dark hair touched the collar of his shirt.
It was hard to explain to herself, but already, this quickly, she felt a certain comfort with him, with all those little things about him, and it all added up to what made the idea of sleeping with him this soon even feasible.
Chemistry. It was a curious thing. It could make an otherwise normal, even prim woman suddenly feel at ease with the idea of touching someone she barely knew. Someone she’d never touched before.
Candice had always been . . . selective about touching. Some women were comfortable with casual sex, and that meant being comfortable sharing your body, and someone else’s body, in the most open, raw, intimate
way. But she’d never understood the ease with which so many people accomplished this. Maybe that was why she was more comfortable hiding herself away in her great big house and putting her focus on instructions. Manuals. Guides. How-tos. Maybe she thought the things she wrote manuals for were all ultimately simpler than the act of touching someone else in an intimate way.
Bobby had been the one anomaly to that way of feeling in her whole life. Of course, she’d dated before him. She’d kissed guys before him, made out with guys before him. But they’d been guys she’d known awhile. Or guys she’d dated some first. Bobby had been her only lover. And it had happened fast. Magically. Perfectly. He’d wounded her over and over again out of bed, but in bed, they’d been perfect together.
And she’d always felt sure that something so perfect could only happen once. That two people so sexually in sync, two people so connected in the ways of touching and loving, could only come together once in a lifetime. She’d had her magic and it hadn’t lasted. She wouldn’t get another turn at it. That didn’t happen. Couldn’t happen.
Only . . . that was the thing about chemistry. Chemistry could change what you think might happen, what you want to happen. Chemistry could wipe away certain fears even as it created new ones. Chemistry could . . . almost make her believe in magic again.
And so . . . she didn’t shift her feet away.
Simple move—so simple that it was actually a non-move. And yet, something in the gesture felt . . . unaccountably bold.
Maybe asking him out had seemed bold. Maybe inviting him here, to her house, had felt bold. But the greater courage came, for Candice, in accepting—and silently, quietly returning—this small, warm touch, even if just between their sock-covered feet.
And that small, warm connection . . . felt good. It was like holding his hand, but somehow more personal.
And they stayed that way through the rest of the movie. Right up until that perfect ending, that moment when Clarence gets his wings. And then The End flashed across the screen—and that same little burst of joy and satisfaction she always got from the story rushed through her, and she felt it more for having shared it with someone.
So she cast a shy glance in Shane’s direction—to find him looking back. “Well?” she asked cautiously.
Relief struck when he said, “Loved it.” And she knew he meant it. Not because he sounded particularly emotional about it, but because Shane was straightforward, up front.
“I’m glad,” she said, sorry when the words came out more whispery than intended. But the way he was looking at her right now, with their feet still all cozied up together, had, in fact, stolen a little of her breath.
“I’m glad, too,” he said. “Glad you invited me over.” There was sex in his eyes.
And she felt it squarely between her legs.
It still amazed her to feel that again—she hadn’t in so long. No one had come into her life to make her want to. Until now.
It surprised her a little when he pulled his feet away then, got up, walked to the fire. She immediately missed the physical connection. She’d had no idea feet were such erogenous zones for her. But maybe they were only that way with Shane.
She used the remote to turn off the movie, then shifted her gaze to where he stood jabbing lightly at the flames with the poker before setting it aside and putting another log on. Sparks flew and she followed the urge to stand up herself, walk to where he stood.
“Is it warm?” she asked. “At the Mercantile? Where you’re sleeping?” Funny, ever since she’d started softening toward him, she’d been concerned about his keeping warm.
He kept his gaze on the fire. “There’s a space heater.”
“A space heater doesn’t always give off much heat.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. I’ve got plenty of blankets.”
“I worry about your hands being cold,” she said. Though she immediately regretted the confession the moment it left her.
And when he slanted her a sexy grin, she realized just how close they stood. Their faces were mere inches apart. She could smell him—some simple, masculine sort of scent she couldn’t put her finger on.
“I know you do,” he said, embarrassing her a little. “But they’re fine.”
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered. “They felt cold through my mittens on the sleigh. And earlier tonight.”
That was when he reached up both hands to touch her face. “Do they feel cold now?”
“No,” she murmured. “Warm. Hot.” From the fire, she realized. But the heat spread all through her. Along with the look in his eyes as they grew shaded, his gaze falling on her lips.
Chemistry. It ran thick and hot through her veins as their mouths moved toward one another, slowly but certainly, like magnets being drawn together.
When his met hers, liquid heat saturated her body. Her eyes shut of their own volition as if to feel the kiss even more. And feel it she did. It was as intoxicating as the most potent wine—one taste and she was lost to the sensation, her soft body sinking into the hard maleness of his.
He kept his hands on her face as his mouth moved over hers, the kisses starting slow but growing deeper now. When his tongue pressed between her lips, a bolt of pleasure shot to the tender spot between her thighs.
And with that came full surrender. Inside her. She could run from this if she wanted to. She could push it away. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the strength to fight her desire. It was that she . . . wanted this.
He wasn’t the perfect guy, for many reasons. It wasn’t the perfect situation. But she wanted this enough to take the risk—to risk not knowing how she’d feel when it was over and he was long gone. To risk not knowing how she’d feel when she was alone again, maybe aching for his touch or his kiss or his mere presence.
And so when his hands left her face, wrapping around her to pull her to him, chest to chest, hip to hip, she kissed him with all the pent-up passion inside her and thought of nothing but how ready she was to let this happen.
Soon his kisses trailed from her mouth down onto her neck, the pleasure from them expanding outward through her arms, breasts. She leaned her head back to give him better access as the sensation rippled deliciously through her.
She found herself touching him, too, then—her fingers threading through his thick, dark hair, her hands exploring his broad shoulders, arms.
When his kisses rose back up onto her cheek, his voice rasped deeply in her ear. “Why aren’t you scared of me anymore?”
She sucked in her breath at the question—then told him the truth. “I am.”
He pulled back slightly, looked at her. “Then why . . . ?”
More honesty spilled from her. “I guess . . . I want this more than I fear you.”
Shane tilted his head, narrowed his gaze on her eyes. “Just what is it you’re so afraid of, Candy Cane?” She almost didn’t hear the silly name anymore, and she thought he didn’t, either, because he asked the question in complete seriousness.
And as for the answer—she wasn’t sure what to say, how to explain. So she kept it vague. “Just . . . bad things.”
“What happened to you bad, honey? Is this about your dad?”
“No.”
“What then?”
Candice bit her lip. She should probably just make something up. She should end this conversation by claiming she wasn’t afraid of anything at all. And yet . . . even as little time as they’d spent together, she sensed that he’d see through it. She’d been her genuine self with him up to now, after all, at least once she’d gotten past being mean to him. And it seemed hard—or maybe even felt wrong—to change that now.
“It’s just that . . . the last guy I was with turned out to be a jerk, and I got hurt. And I know that has nothing to do with you, or with now . . .” She’d lowered her eyes, a little embarrassed—and almost regretted the decision to be so open. She definitely wasn’t going to tell him the guy was years ago and the only one she’d ever slept with. The very notion sud
denly made her feel . . . backward, immature. And maybe . . . sad. That it had taken so long to feel this again, want this again. Sad to have pushed aside all those normal, human, womanly emotions somewhere along the way.
She forced herself to raise her eyes to his and try to make him understand. “And . . . you said yourself that you were trouble. I guess all of it just made me cautious.”
He met her gaze and told her, “I am trouble, but . . . you won’t have to worry about that. Because I can’t make you any promises, Candy, trouble or not. I have to leave when my truck is ready. It’s not even a choice—I need the job.”
“I know that,” she said. “But you asked what I was afraid of, so I told you.”
“You know that,” he said, eyes narrowed slightly, “and you still . . . want this to happen?”
More honesty, this time the full-on kind. “I want it so much I can barely breathe.”
At this, his eyebrows rose. “You said no pretty fast the other night. A couple of times. This seems like a big switch.”
“Well, maybe I did some thinking since then. And maybe I decided . . . you could give me the perfect Christmas present.”
Fourteen
“You look a little older without your clothes on.”
George Bailey, It’s a Wonderful Life
Their bodies had separated slightly in the last few moments, but now Shane lowered a hand to her hip and drew her demandingly back to him, pelvis to pelvis. A small whimper left Candice’s throat at the feel of him there—at the hardness that connected with the soft, needy place between her legs.
Chemistry. Again, it was chemistry that made this okay. Normally, the idea of being crushed so intimately against a guy she didn’t know very well would totally turn her off—but this didn’t. This only felt good, and right, and like something she wanted more of. Now.
So she was glad when he didn’t say any more, question her any further. She was glad when he resumed kissing her. Glad when his mouth took hers, glad when his tongue pressed its way back inside. She was glad when the physical sensations instantly consumed her again, taking away all this thinking and talking, and leaving room for only feeling and doing. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to examine this too closely. She wanted to give herself over to it completely.
