by Brill Harper
He joins me, taking the second stool at the breakfast bar next to me. “It’s too quiet.”
I grab a Santa cup off the mug tree and pour some whiskey into it for him. He huffs a small grateful laugh and thanks me. His large hands wrap around the mug and make me quiver a little.
Get a grip, Emily.
We sit in silence for a few minutes while he eats a slice and I sip my whiskey. I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at ice-breaking. If we had something in common, it would be easier. But all we have is Carter.
He clears his throat. “You’re wearing red.”
Well, that’s an interesting icebreaker, but probably no less weird than what I would have come up with on my own. I look down at my long underwear shirt and plaid jammie bottoms. “Yes. I’m wearing red.” Time for another sip.
I meet his eyes over the rim of my cup, and they are taking me in from head to toe. It’s disconcerting. Most guys don’t notice me these days.
“I’m just surprised. Red is a standout color.”
I jerk back involuntarily.
“Easy, mistletoe.” He puts a hand on my arm to stop me from retreating. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. From what I saw at dinner, from the pictures of you around the house, you don’t wear bright colors. You like to blend in.” He pauses. Like maybe he hopes that is enough of an explanation. Then he sighs. “I’m not good at this, am I?” I look down at his hand, and he removes it quickly. “I was trying to say that red looks nice on you and you should wear it more often. I don’t usually have such a problem talking to women, but I’ve been blowing it with you all night. I’m sorry.”
First, my mind gets stuck on the part where he notices what I’m wearing at all. Much less pictures of me. And then it catches up and latches onto the last thing he said. “What do you mean you’ve been blowing it with me all night?”
His eyes widen in the only amount of panic I’ll probably ever see on his face. Sometimes, boys are really ridiculous. I am hardly scary. “Look, I can tell you don’t like me.”
“I hardly know you. What makes you think I don’t like you?”
He shrugs and starts tracing the top of his mug with his finger. The action should not make my nipples tighten under my long johns. I pull my eyes away from the mug.
“You just don’t seem to. At dinner...after dinner when we were all in the living room...I thought you were angry or something. Or that I rubbed you the wrong way, no matter what I said.”
I sink all the way back onto the stool. Reaching for the whiskey, I say, “That’s not true. I’m quiet. Usually people just call me shy. I’ve never been accused of being a snob before.”
“I didn’t say you were a snob.”
I’m not shy, either. I just don’t like being noticed. I never thought that maybe by trying so hard to be unnoticed, I might be drawing even more attention to myself.
But none of that is Charlie’s fault.
I’m about to say something polite when I remember he gave me a nickname. “Did you really just call me mistletoe?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He tips his mug for a refill. “So, my guess is that we are the two worst communicators currently in residence.”
I pour, grateful for something to do. “And here we are with no backup.” This awkward encounter is not getting any less awkward. I take a sip of the whiskey. “I’m much better with people one on one than I am in a crowd. I was just being quiet tonight. It wasn’t personal. Let’s start over.” I point to his cup. “Hi, my name is Emily. Can I buy you a drink at this bar in the middle of nowhere?”
Lame. Geez.
He scrunches his brows together and then shakes his head. Confused, because duh, I am so weird. Then he grins. “Hi, Emily. I’m Charlie. Where I come from, men buy the pretty ladies a drink. Come here often?”
I giggle. In spite of myself. In spite of the fact that there are no nearby rocks to crawl under. “New in town. You?”
“Here on business. I’m a...” Charlie looks around the kitchen, his eyes resting on the stove. “I’m a ...pot holder salesman. From Kansas.”
“Pot holders? That’s fascinating.” I take another sip. “I bet you are very influential in your company.”
He nods, a smile breaking out a dimple I didn’t realize he had. “I’m kind of a big deal.”
Charlie holds up his hand like he is getting the bartender’s attention and indicates two more drinks.
“Oh, I shouldn’t,” I say, while pushing my cup toward him for more.
“Tell me what you do,” he says as he pours our drinks. “Before I do something stupid and ask what a pretty girl like you is doing in a place like this.”
He already knows I’m a bookkeeper for my grandparents, as that came up at dinner. I need a better fake profession. “I’m a singer. Karaoke champion in four counties.”
He laughs, a nice rumble that I feel strumming in my own belly and then lower. “Look at us. We haven’t offended each other for several minutes.”
He smells really good. When he cocks his head in question, I realize I said that out loud.
Well, since it’s a day that ends in Y, it’s hardly surprising that I embarrassed myself. “Sorry. I...don’t get out much.” I’ve been drinking, yes, but I’m not drunk.
He laughs again. “You smell good, too.” He is teasing, but it’s nice. “Your hair...I like it down.”
I pat my somewhat crazy curls and bite my lip. Which brings his attention to my mouth until he brings his gaze back up to my eyes.
The air feels charged, a moment dragging impossibly long between us. Like static buzzing and zapping. I can’t look away from his eyes, even though I know I’ve been staring into them too long. It’s like falling. Or maybe flying.
“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t look away. God, he is absolutely the most handsome man I have ever seen in person.
“If we were really in a bar, would you try to get me to leave with you?” That is really a stupid question. One that I don’t want to know the answer to.
Charlie swallows hard. “We’re not in a bar, though. You’re my buddy’s sister, and I’m in your parents’ kitchen.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Emily, you’re a nice girl.”
Well, that answered the question, didn’t it? Nice girl is shorthand for plain. Simple. Not the girls you pick up in a bar.
I shouldn’t feel let down. I’ve spent the last two-and-a-half years cultivating plain and simple. I try very hard not to look like a girl who could be picked up in a bar. Not to be a girl who gets picked up in a bar. I’ve embarrassed myself and my family enough this decade.
But it stings just the same.
I suck at handling rejection. Even before the incident. After... well, I’ve spent a lot of time making sure not to put myself in rejection’s path.
I get up and busy myself with putting the pizza box away and rinsing my cup. He hasn’t left the kitchen, so I have to fake being fine. I’m not sure I’m pulling it off.
“Emily.” He is directly behind me. He moves like a ninja or something.
I close my eyes. “Hmm?”
With one big hand on my hip, he turns me around until we’re face to face, barely an inch between us. The heat of his palm scorches the skin beneath my pajama pants. “You’re a very pretty girl.”
I snort and try to turn, but he cups my chin and brings me back to his dark, hot gaze. “If we were in a bar, I would have worked every angle until I got you back to my hotel room.”
My breath hitches. “I probably wouldn’t have been interested,” I lie.
This time he snorts. “Oh, you’re interested.”
“You think highly of yourself,” I balk. Also, you’re right.
“Some things are inevitable. But I’m going to try really hard to put this one off.”
“Right. Inevitable. So inevitable that you can walk away. I get it. I’m not your type. You don’t have to give me excuses—”
He s
tops me with his mouth. A hot, wet zing that goes straight from my lips to the center of my body and then lower. He’s still holding my face in one hand, and his other squeezes my hip. Holding me still. He likes being in charge.
I really like him being in charge.
Charlie slants his lips over mine and coaxes my mouth open. He tastes like the whiskey we shared, and I drink him in, getting more intoxicated with each pass of his tongue. He pauses, pulling back to look into my eyes. Then he closes his own, exhaling a sigh as he presses his forehead to mine.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Please don’t be sorry.
“No, I’m not.” He steps back. “But I’m just passing through. I’m too old for you. I’m not boyfriend material, and you deserve better. Also, your brother will kill me.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m not going to tell him. Are you?” He still looks uncomfortable. “Look,” I say. “We got carried away. Lost in a moment. Blame it on the mistletoe.”
“We’re not standing under mistletoe.”
“Right. Well, then it’s the Christmas lights. And the whiskey. And the time of year. You’re home safe from war. Whatever.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. I lift to my tiptoes and kiss his cheek before I practically run out of the kitchen.
Because while I know it could be any or all of those reasons, I’m afraid it is the one I didn’t say. That despite everything I’ve done, no matter how hard I’ve tried to hide my body, my looks, Alan was right that night two-and-a-half years ago. That his words were true then and true now.
You’re a slut.
Chapter Four
Charlie
DURING A HUGE BREAKFAST of bacon, eggs, pancakes, hash browns, and freshly-squeezed orange juice, Mrs. Jones hands out to-do lists to her children and asks me to go with Carter and Emily. After being treated to a meal that almost made me forget I’ve ever had to eat an MRE, I don’t feel like I can tell Mrs. Jones no to anything ever again, but I’m worried about any awkwardness for Emily.
Damn. I still don’t know what came over me last night. I just couldn’t watch her shrinking the way she had been. It was more than just her being introverted, hell, I’m just as bad about being social as she is. No, it was something different. She had been withdrawing into herself like she thought there was something wrong with her, and no way could I let her think that.
She can dress as plain and simple as she wants, but it doesn’t change the fact that she is fucking beautiful. It isn’t the kind of beauty that smacks you with glamour. It’s quiet, luminous. And if other guys can’t see past her outfits, that is on them, not her. She has a quality I’ve never come across before—and her brother is right about her. She is special. She deserves a smart guy who will get to know her before he makes judgments about what kind of woman she is.
I’m still not sure why she protects herself with boring, shapeless clothes, but underneath, she is warm and sexy and she deserves to know that. The way she kissed me back, melting in my mouth and twining around my body—I have no doubts she was made to be pleasured.
But she also needs the guy that figures that out to not be someone like me.
She is no quieter in the car than she was last night at dinner, but I can’t deny that part of me hoped she would feel more comfortable with me. Like she was when we were talking alone. Two strangers in a bar. But I ruined that when I kissed her, and it’s my own damn fault. I’m lucky she hasn’t told her brother what a jackass I am. By all rights, I should have been kicked out and banished to the streets of Maple Grove by the Jones family for disrespecting their daughter like that.
And I begin to wonder why she didn’t tell her twin what happened. Jonesy told me more than once how his sister was his best friend. If she keeps things like last night from Jonesy, how is the guy supposed to protect his sister? I start getting mad at her for not telling. She shouldn’t keep things like that from her family. What if I were a different kind of man? One who took her quiet as permission? One who cares more about getting laid than her feelings or his friendship with her brother? One who uses her or even hurts her?
I shake my head when I realize that I want to kick my own ass on her behalf.
The whole situation is messed up.
We park on a street that still has angled parking. Jones hands the keys to Emily after popping the back open. “Would you two mind taking the boxes to the library for Mom on your own?” he asks. “I have some shopping left to do.”
Emily claps and smiles. “Yay! That means he’s shopping for me.” She gets out of the car and goes to the trunk where Jones hands her a box. “Don’t do all your shopping at the hardware store this year, ‘k?”
“Hey, everyone should have their own set of tools. Even bratty sisters.”
“I have two brothers. What do I need with tools? Something breaks, I call you guys.”
Jones tugs her braid as I grab the other box. I bet she is probably too independent to call her brothers for every little thing and that she probably makes good use of the tools. But even I know that was a boneheaded gift.
“Come on, Charlie. The library is this way.” She starts walking, so I nod a quick goodbye to Jonesy. Jones. Carter.
The street reminds me of Bedford Falls from It’s a Wonderful Life. I’ve seen the movie every year since enlisting thanks to the sentimental saps I worked with. After about the fifth time seeing it, it became a tradition I looked forward to. Like a hot dog on the Fourth of July or turkey—or what passed for turkey in the mess hall—on Thanksgiving.
Old-fashioned lamps decorated with wreaths line the sidewalks in front of the Victorian shop fronts. A grassy median lined with oak trees gives the appearance of a different, slower time. But it is the shop windows that draw my attention. Some of them project out with white panes—but all of them showcase a Christmas scene. Glitter, lights, baubles, toys...and since there are no cars on this part of the street, I really could have stepped into a different era.
When I catch up to Emily after pulling myself away from a Santa’s Workshop scene, I ask, “Hey, why are we bringing books to the library anyway? Doesn’t it usually work the other way?”
“These are for the Christmas party. Santa gives each child a book for a gift. My parents purchase them every year for donation. The librarian will curate them for the different age groups.”
“Your family is pretty great,” I say, liking that she hasn’t clammed up on me. Maybe we can be friends. I had a couple female friends in the Army, but never a civilian one. The women I met on leave were nice, but I’d never classify them as friends.
“We’ve been fortunate. My parents always taught us to pay it forward. Give back. But yeah, they are pretty great.”
She smiles at me, and I almost drop my box. It’s like the one I saw her give her brother yesterday. It feels like warm sheets from the dryer.
And I am acting really weird. Warm sheets? It was a smile, for God’s sake.
But if she thinks wearing those baggy slacks and a turtleneck makes her smile less potent, she is wrong.
The library is a small brick building on the corner. It has been a long time since I’ve been in one, but Emily walks straight behind the desk like she’s been here hundreds of times. She probably has.
“Hey, let me take that,” a man’s voice says from the stacks behind me.
I turn and find a well-dressed, preppy dude wearing glasses rushing to Emily’s aid. I should probably have taken both boxes from the car. Why hadn’t I thought of that? What kind of idiot lets a pretty girl carry a box of heavy books for a block without offering to help her?
The snappy dresser takes the box from her and gestures to me. “Follow me, man.” As I follow, I get an introduction. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Mike Page. Town librarian.”
Mike drops the box against a wall, so I put mine on top and thrust out my hand. “Charlie. I’m a friend of Carter Jones.”
Mike’s handshake is firm and sure. “Not the Se
rgeant Warner we’ve heard about?”
“That’s him,” answers Emily. “Charlie is having Christmas with us, the poor guy. Which reminds me, my mom asked me to remind you you’re invited to Christmas Eve dinner.”
I watch the warm chitchat between the two and realize this Mike Page is the kind of guy Emily should hook up with. She probably already is. Page is smart, friendly, and a good dresser...and they seem to like each other well enough. He is intellectual, could probably talk to her about important things that I don’t know about.
My gut churns, though I’m going to blame that on too much breakfast and not jealousy. Because I have no rights to her. I’m not staying and even if I were, she’d be better off with a librarian than a guy like me. Mike and Emily fit together in a world that makes sense.
But I never figure the world for making much sense.
If Mike and Emily are dating, why did she kiss me back when I laid one on her last night?
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” she asks the librarian, obviously disappointed. He must have turned down the invitation while I was remembering how whiskey tasted off her soft lips and tongue.
Damn. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Plans this year, but thank your mom again for me.”
“Will do.” She looks to me. “What do you say, Charlie? Think we have time for a hot chocolate before my brother finishes his shopping? My mom will be ecstatic if I fit in an unscheduled bonus Christmas activity.” She turns to Mike. “I’ve never seen her like this. She’s bordering on manic this year.”
“I’m sure she’s just glad to have your brother home.” Mike smiles at her, and I want to punch something. I’m never going to make it in civilian life if I don’t learn how to deal with people. But I really, really hate the idea of this librarian being perfect while I’m anything but.
In the Army, I knew where I stood. In bars, I know how to talk to women. How to get them to flirt with me. In any given situation, I’m used to being in charge, respected. I don’t like this lack of confidence I’m suddenly feeling around a guy who isn’t even trying to size me up. In a physical fight, it’s clear who would win, and that’s pretty much how I’m used to earning my place most of the time. The strong man, the confident man, wins. Wins the fight. Wins the pissing contest. Wins the girl.
