by Liz Talley
“Did I protest when you said it meant nothing?”
“But you think this girl is better than Creighton because she bought you a damned coffee and put a pair of ugly-ass socks on your bare feet.”
“Defensive, aren’t you?” Malcolm looked around at the half-filled restaurant with clear eyes that glinted with devilment. The small upscale restaurant had started emptying and the clatter of silver and tinkling of glasses had dulled to the occasional clink over the jazz played by Nico Batiste at the piano.
“Not defensive. Just clear in saying I will not fake romantic entanglement with Mary Paige. Good girls aren’t my thing, old man.”
Ellen snorted. “Yeah, you’re apples and oranges. Oil and water. Cats and dogs. Brooms and—”
“Point made, Ellen, dear, though I can’t fathom what brooms are opposite of.” Malcolm set his fork down by his half-eaten pie.
Ever since the heart attack, his grandfather had followed strict dietary guidelines, but tonight he’d indulged in some of his favorite foods, although he ate only half in begrudging compliance with his doctors’ decrees. More worrisome than that was the fact Brennan had caught him halving the blood thinners a few days ago. When Brennan confronted him, his grandfather had claimed the medicine made his stomach ache. These little tiptoes over the lines set by the doctors scared Brennan, but he didn’t dare push too much and risk making his grandfather even more stubborn about eating what he wanted.
“Do whatever makes you feel comfortable, Bren,” Ellen said. “Tomorrow you’ll help the Greater New Orleans Food Bank prepare Christmas food baskets and take a tour of one of the shelters in St. Bernard parish. Decidedly unromantic.”
Her comments led Brennan’s thoughts back to the kiss, to the way Mary Paige felt in his arms. He would never admit it, but it was one of the better kisses of his life. Not frenzied like the ones he’d shared with Meredith Vittre the first time he’d gotten laid, nor was it slow and erotic like the ones exchanged when lying in twisted sheets with a woman. No, it was different. Kind of like the feeling of lying in the sun on an autumn day, lazy and completely relaxed, in tune with one another while also aware of your place in the spectrum of the universe. Sort of transcendent. That’s what he’d felt when he kissed her. And he’d known Mary Paige would be a comfort to him.
He didn’t know what to think about that.
And he wished he hadn’t caved and kissed her.
But…he’d wanted to touch her so badly, to know how she felt in his arms, to eliminate the intrigue. It had backfired. He was intrigued more than ever.
“Change of subject. I’m asking someone special to the Christmas gala next weekend,” his grandfather said, leaning back and giving his stomach a pat. The cable-knit sweater pouched slightly over the buckshot belt his grandfather bought at Perlis.
“Oh?” Ellen asked.
“Her name’s Judy Poche and she’s the director of Holy Trinity. A fascinating, remarkable individual,” Malcolm said, his eyes lighting with something more than benign admiration. The man looked smitten, an expression Brennan had never seen on his face before.
“You’re not taking Margaret?” Brennan asked. Margaret Pride was the high priestess of New Orleans society. Her displeasure with a person immediately resulted in invitations being rescinded, the name being left off guest lists and being branded a social pariah. She welded power like a chain saw, hacking off personal connections like withering limbs on a tree. She often attended events with Malcolm, mostly because she liked arriving with a billionaire.
“That asp? Heavens, no. I’m done with that set, haven’t you noticed?”
Brennan had. And part of him was glad Malcolm no longer entertained the waspish elites of their city. The other part of him was scared to let go of the familiar. He scarcely knew this man sitting in front of him anymore.
“I look forward to meeting Judy,” Brennan said, using his polite voice. “Ellen?”
“Originally, I’d thought to bring Asher, but his plans for Christmas are still up in the air, so I’m bringing Mark Naigle.”
“Mark of the paisley folders?” Brennan asked.
“Well, he’s trying so hard to be fashionable. We’re just friends, of course.”
“Of course,” Malcolm said with a smile. “I like Mark. He’s got energy and he’s good at his job. You could do worse, my dear.”
Ellen gave an embarrassed smile. “I know I haven’t been the same since the divorce, Uncle Mal, but I’m pretty certain Mark is gay.”
“Eh?” Malcolm said, raising an eyebrow. “Who would have guessed?”
“The lime-green and red paisley folders sealed the deal for me,” Brennan said. “And what’s this about Asher, Ellen? He may come home for Christmas?”
“He planned to come to New Orleans when I spoke to him last month, but you know my baby brother—he goes where the wind blows.”
Brennan nodded because Asher had the freedom to go where he wished thanks to a string of good investments he’d made after selling his stock in MBH. In addition, he was a silent partner in a luxury leather goods company, so had to spend little time at a desk. For so many reasons, Brennan had always admired Asher. “Perhaps the wind will blow him to us.”
“I hope so. I miss him and wish he’d move back. Maybe when Elsa retires, she’ll agree to spend at least part of the year here,” Ellen said, waving at someone across the room before returning her gaze to Brennan. “So who will you bring?”
“No one.” Brennan hadn’t intended on escorting Creighton even before Mary Paige and her captivating girdle had tumbled into his life. Ever since her best friend in Charleston had married this past spring, Creighton had marriage on the mind. He suspected that she wouldn’t see attending a society gala together as only a friendly gesture the way he would intend it…even if he’d broken things off with her.
Of course, so far Creighton had ignored all of his let’s-be-just-friends, farewell speeches—she’d texted him three times during dinner.
“You’re still number one on the top ten most-eligible-bachelors list in the Crescent Quarterly.” Ellen passed her credit card toward her uncle, who waved it off as he always did when they dined together. Brennan had to give Ellen props for still pulling it out, not making assumptions that Malcolm would pay.
“Such quality subject matter,” he drawled, eternally perturbed his friend and Crescent’s editor Cason Scott placed him at number one each year. Cason liked to poke things with a toothpick wit.
“Cason sent the framed list again. Told me it was good for business.” His grandfather smiled, scrawling his name on the bill. “Maybe I’ll hang it in the lobby this year.”
“I’ll sue,” Brennan growled.
“For what? Displaying your eligibility?” His grandfather rose, indicating dinner was complete. “Enjoy your afternoon out of the office tomorrow, Brennan, and give Mary Paige my thanks for all she’s done.”
Brennan nodded and watched his grandfather work the room as he left, shaking hands with several remaining diners, tossing out Merry Christmases to the waitstaff and generally playing lord of the manor.
“He still has it, you know,” Ellen said, placing her napkin on the table and pulling her purse onto her shoulder.
“But he’s not the same man. Not the man who taught me the company is above all else.”
“Nope. He’s better.”
Brennan said nothing as his cousin took her leave. Before he left, he slid a hundred-dollar bill beneath the already generous tip his grandfather had left. Their server, Ernesto, had two kids in college and had lost his home during Katrina.
It was another unstated rule in the Henry household—take care of those who take care of you.
Simple as that.
CHAPTER NINE
“I NEED MORE peas.” The homeless man jabbed a finger toward the section of his plate where Mary Paige had placed a scoop of sweet peas. Was she supposed to give more? The woman in charge of the soup kitchen had said “one small scoop” like it was a law,
but she hadn’t said if she could give an extra serving of “one small scoop.”
“I don’t think—”
“Here,” Brennan said, dishing out red beans. “Have some red beans. Balances out the peas.”
The homeless man looked like he might argue, but when he caught Brennan’s fierce look, he snapped his mouth shut and moved down the line to where Gator slung mashed potatoes.
Mary Paige smiled at the next person in line—an older woman with a dirty shawl and a sweet smile. “Here you go.”
“Thank you kindly,” the woman said before shaking her head at Brennan’s beans.
“No one likes these beans,” Brennan said, his tone fittingly grumpy.
“I don’t like beans much, either. My mom used to cook them all the time. You eat enough beans, you—”
“Get a lot of gas?”
She looked up then at him to make sure the ceiling wasn’t falling. Brennan Henry cracking fart jokes? “I guess that, too, but I was going to say you develop a bias against them.”
For a few moments, silence fell.
“So about that kiss last night.” His voice was low and serious. No more fart jokes.
Mary Paige swallowed and bade the butterflies to still in her stomach. She’d gotten up this morning, fixed a cup of tea and found the headline of the Times-Picayune Living section to be, well, interesting. Playboy Gets into the Spirit blazed above a picture of her arching backward in Brennan’s arms, the two of them lip-locked while wearing absurd elf hats. It had been alarming, exciting and mostly embarrassing.
Even worse, the reporter had insinuated the passion evidenced at the tree lighting was an indicator she and Brennan were falling into the spirit of love. She’d tried to call her mother to share all that had occurred last weekend before Freda saw the paper and flipped out for being out of the know, but she hadn’t been home.
Was it only last weekend? Seemed forever ago she’d bought that coffee and pair of Christmas socks.
“Mary Paige?”
“Huh?” She jerked around and found Brennan staring at her.
“Give the gentleman his peas.”
“Yeah, I like peas,” the man standing in front of her said.
“Sorry,” she said, giving him a big scoop. To heck with the small-scoop directives.
Mary Paige Gentry, pea-scooping rebel of 2012.
“So about that kiss,” Brennan continued as though they hadn’t been interrupted. “The papers are making us out to be a couple, spinning this as some kind of romantic story nonsense.”
“Yeah, I read that. But we’ve already established this is business only.” Her gaze met his. His gray eyes were unfathomable, but for a moment she thought she glimpsed fleeting regret. Which was odd. Because the idea of him and her together was ludicrous. Outlandish. Not going to happen, pea-scooping rebel.
“Of course,” he said, nodding at the family of four who sloughed by, gazes averted, trying to blend in with the faded blue linoleum underfoot. “But if we protest, it will look worse. No benefit in correcting the misconception. If the general public wants to create smoke where there is no fire, they will. The upside is that innocent kiss has generated more interest in the Spirit of Christmas campaign. People are fascinated with you. The whole gauche, country-girl routine makes it even more delicious paired with—”
“The city’s most eligible bachelor?” she said, lifting an unsculpted country-girl-comes-to-town eyebrow.
He rested the spoon in the vat of beans and stretched. “If that’s what you want to call me.”
“So you’re seeing dollar signs?”
“I seriously don’t understand your aversion to profit. You’re an accountant, for Christ’s sake. Y’all get boners when businesses are in the black.”
“I don’t think you have to bring the Lord into it.” She set down her own spoon since the line had dwindled to a few people seeking extra banana pudding. No one had come back for peas. “Or boners, for that matter.”
“What?”
“Besides, I don’t have an aversion to profit. At all. But I do dislike plucking the heart strings of the general buyer for pure profit. I dislike lying to her by creating a heartwarming illusion that will lure her into spending more money.”
“Good thing you didn’t go into marketing.” He sighed with disgust. “I’m not trying to trick anyone. I’m doing this for the company, for my grandfather and ultimately because it will get me what I desire. The more money we make, the more we can spare for places such as this since MBH Industries donates a huge percent of its profits to charities. That was in practice before my grandfather started having nut-ball ideas and giving all our family money away. We did what was required before you put ugly socks on him and he launched this half-cracked Christmas cheer plot.”
“Required?” Mary Paige echoed, wondering if that was exactly how he felt. Required to be with her. Required to scoop beans. Required to write checks to those less fortunate.
He frowned. Or maybe it was a glower. She wasn’t sure because she’d been good at math, not vocabulary.
“Can we talk outside?” She jerked her head toward the open door. She’d rather argue with him in private since several of the people at the folding tables stared at them. Fortunately, the cold front that had spat sleet at them had moved on to the east leaving them with typical December weather, which meant it was sixty-two degrees outside.
He inclined his head and followed her.
When they emerged into the ripe-smelling alley, she closed the door and spun on him. “What is your problem? Why do you hate Christmas so much? And why do you resent me?”
He blinked. “I don’t resent you.”
“You do. Your grandfather rewarded my kindness with your family money and that irks the hell out of you.”
“Mary Paige, did you just use an obscenity?” He smirked at her like she amused him, and that made her even madder.
“You know, I wouldn’t pretend to like you, much less love you if Mr. Henry gave me another million dollars. You’re an ass. There. Another obscenity.”
He smiled. Again. Like a Cheshire cat. “Technically, an ass is an animal and not an obscenity. Now, if you’d called me an asshole, that would be another matter.”
“Asshole,” she said, crossing her arms. She meant it, too. He was irritating and hopeless and—
Something flared between them that had nothing to do with the potshots they’d been taking at one another.
“So you really think I’m an asshole?” His expression seemed to contain a mix of emotions, maybe even hurt. That shocked her. Did Brennan Henry have feelings?
“Gotta call a spade a—”
His lips covered hers and she forgot calling anyone anything because he tasted delicious.
Following close on the heels of desire came anger. How dare he kiss her to shut her up? He wasn’t in charge. Who put him in charge?
She struggled against the sweet taste of him, breaking their embrace. “Don’t you dare kiss me. If anyone is doing the kissing, it will be me.”
He drew back, his dark eyes intense, measuring her. Mary Paige reached up, cupped his head and jerked it toward her. Then she kissed him because she wasn’t some helpless, clumsy accountant who waited on a man to do what she was perfectly capable of doing herself.
She felt his laughter against her lips, and the rare sound flooded her with satisfaction, fueling the urge to do more than kiss the sexy millionaire. She doubled her efforts to maintain control of the kiss, but, like before, she faltered before being completely sucked under by a current of desire she had no power against.
Brennan’s arms wound around her, hauling her against him, and a hot heaviness bloomed low in her belly. The kiss grew bolder and the need rising inside her expanded.
Brennan groaned and tightened his hold on her, sliding one hand to her waist, bringing her into tight contact with the hardness of his body. He felt so good, so warm and so manly—a feeling a woman couldn’t get enough of. Her hands slid up his shirt front, p
ast his jaw and into his thick dark hair, and met his mouth with an abandon she hadn’t experienced in any of her dealings with the opposite sex.
Finally, he lifted his head and peered at her, his gray eyes dilated, his breathing ragged. “Damn, you really know what you’re doing, don’t you, Miss Merry Christmas.”
“Uh, I shouldn’t have—” Mary Paige shook her head, before releasing the death grip she had on his hair and stepping away. “I don’t know why I did that. Sorry.”
He didn’t say anything, simply looked at her as though he couldn’t figure out why he’d been kissing her in an alley that smelled like a fast-food Dumpster on a hot day. Well, if he wanted answers, he needed to look elsewhere because she had no good reasons for why she’d taken the wheel and pounced on him like a love-starved psycho chick.
“It was bound to happen.” He thrust a hand through his hair, which made it stick up a bit, softening his hard corners.
“Why?”
“Because that kiss on the stage wasn’t real—it was playacting to satisfy a bunch of people hopped up on spiritual eggnog. Only natural it stirred curiosity in us.”
Sounded logical but something about his words pricked her pride because the kiss on the stage had felt real to her. In fact, it had totally tilted her on her elf hat and spun her for a loop. “Well, I don’t make a habit of going around kissing people. I mean, I kiss guys, just not as many as you.”
“I don’t kiss guys.”
“You know what I mean.”
A shadow from the crumbling building adjacent to the shelter stretched into the alley.
“I know why I kissed you,” he said finally, his low voice breaking the silence. “I wanted to see if it felt the same.”
“Felt the same? How did it feel?” Was she some kind of strange experiment? Or was she actually a bad kisser?
“Just felt different when I kissed you last night.”
“Different bad or different good?” she asked, her heart beating harder despite the fact she shouldn’t give a flying tomato what McScrooge Moneybags thought. Maybe she was bad at it and no one had been honest enough to tell her until now. After all, Sam Schneider had been the one to teach her in high school, and he’d later fessed up he’d learned all he knew from Cinemax After Dark.
