by Tawna Fenske
“You can promise him I’m not the least bit interested in lifting my leg on your sister.”
“That’s reassuring. Her ex-boyfriend, Zak, is our photographer this year, so you’d have to get through him, too.” I pluck a stray piece of alfalfa off the end of my ponytail and wonder how long it’s been there. “I guess you’re here to try on the Santa suit?”
Anthony the reindeer steer nudges Brandon’s hand with his nose, and Brandon strokes his neck again. Not the most subtle request for affection, but effective.
“I’m sure the Santa suit is fine,” Brandon says. “Aren’t these things kinda one size fits all?”
“You seem a little bigger than average.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back and shove them under the water trough. I expect a smug response from Wonder Boy, but he doesn’t smirk at all. Not even a smile. Just clears his throat and taps the toe of his boot on my fencepost.
“I pulled out my yearbooks last night,” he says. “You were cute. How come we didn’t know each other in high school?”
“Because all cute girls should be required to throw themselves at you?”
He laughs. “Are you always this touchy?”
“Are you always this cocky?”
“Yeah,” he says, his tone oddly sheepish. “But I’m working on that.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, since I can’t tell if he’s kidding. I realize I didn’t acknowledge his “cute” remark, but it feels weird now to thank him for a compliment I’m not sure he meant.
Besides, there’s nothing cute about that yearbook photo. My cheeks were plump and my eyes too bright, prompting someone to scribble “Miss Piggy” when I left my yearbook unattended in the lunch room.
He probably has no idea about any of that, I remind myself.
“We ran in different circles in high school,” I say, wondering if I really need to point out that there’s little overlap between the awkward farm girl circle and the untouchable sports god circle. “And you disappeared pretty fast after graduation.”
“You noticed?” His brows lift in genuine curiosity, and I wonder why it would be any surprise to him that the whole town has been hanging on his every achievement.
I shrug and try to pretend I didn’t just admit to watching for him anytime I knew he’d be home on leave. I never spoke his name or asked around about how he was doing, but I did keep an eye out at the grocery store, snatching bits of gossip like a squirrel gathering acorns.
“Sure,” I say. “The paper ran articles every now and then about where you were getting deployed and how many medals you won. Hometown Hero and all that.”
He smiles. “It’s good to be home.”
Something about the word home gives me a funny feeling in the pit of my belly, and I turn away from him before he can read the nostalgia on my face. “Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s get you undressed. Dressed. Whatever.”
I stalk away from him before he can notice my flaming cheeks. What is it about this guy that turns me into a tongue-tied sexual harasser?
I lead him into the south barn, the one we’ve been renovating to host holiday events and our meet and greets with Santa. Pushing open the door, I breathe in the scent of sweet hay and rehydrated beet pellets and my whole childhood. Brandon steps through the threshold, and I pull the door closed behind us before continuing toward the opposite end of the barn.
“There’s your throne.” I point to the massive oak chair festooned with red garland and bits of holly. It gleams like a showpiece under the window, the tufted velvet cushion waiting to cup Santa’s perfect ass.
Stop thinking about Santa’s ass.
Brandon takes a step toward the chair, bringing his ass back into view and thwarting my plan to stop ogling him.
“This is the Santa chair?” He runs his hand over the arm, making me shiver with the memory of his hands on my arms. “Where’d you get this?”
“Amber found it at an antique store in Terrebonne. We had to strip off all the old paint to get to bare wood. It took us a month to get it sanded down and refinished.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.” There’s a niggle of pride in my throat, and I swallow hard to get it down. “The hardware is all original.”
Brandon strokes one of the sleek honey-gold spindles. “It’s amazing. Way cooler than that ratty-looking easy chair they had at Cascade Mall.”
“You remember that?” I laugh, surprised that I do, too. “It always smelled like rotting meat.”
“I thought that was Santa,” he said. “For years, I associated St. Nick with decomposing bodies.”
“Now there’s a childhood memory guaranteed to mess up all your future Christmases.”
Is it my imagination, or did something just shift in his expression? It’s faint, and I probably wouldn’t notice at all if I weren’t staring at his face like I’m worried it’ll melt away. It’s like a cloud passing by the sun, and his gaze snags on mine and holds for a few seconds. I feel like a yellowjacket trapped in a jar of congealed cola.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s find that suit.”
He turns and heads toward the back corner before seeming to recall he doesn’t know where he’s going. He stops and looks back at me with something oddly vulnerable in his expression.
“No, you’re right,” I say, hustling to catch up. “It’s this way.”
I head toward the office, moving around the small pen we’ve built to hold the reindeer that are part of Santa’s display. There’s an empty Christmas tree stand beside that, and I remind myself to go spruce hunting sometime in the next week.
“Right through here,” I say as I tug open the door to the cramped space that serves as my office. The box containing the Santa suit is right on the edge, so I lift out the bundle of red velvet and faux fur and hand it to him.
“We weren’t sure about size, so we got a couple different things so you can mix and match.”
“Thank you.” The bell on the tip of the hat gives a soft jingle, and my heart does an awkward shimmy as Brandon’s fingers graze mine. “Where should I change?”
“In here’s fine,” I say. “There’s a lock on the door and everything.”
That earns me a curious eyebrow quirk, and I wonder if he’s pondering the likelihood of me barging in while he’s naked.
I keep my expression flat, like illicit thoughts aren’t scurrying through my brain like rabbits in heat.
Brandon nods and sets the bundle back down on the desk. Before I can move out of the way, he’s grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and started to lift it over his head.
“I’ll—uh—be right out here,” I stammer, backing out of the room so fast I trip over my feet. I slam the door behind me, cheeks hot enough to fry bacon on my face.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I move away from the office and busy myself rearranging hay bales, lugging them from one side of the display to the other. It’s heavy work, and I end up yanking off my plaid flannel so I’m down to just my favorite Wonder Woman tee.
Once the hay is moved, I fuss with the garland that Amber and I strung around some exposed beams. Then I fluff the Santa cushion, doing my damnedest not to think about Santa’s fine posterior.
“Uh, Jade?”
I jerk up at the sound of Brandon’s voice. “Yeah?”
“I’m having trouble with the suit.”
His voice is muffled on the other side of the office door, and I step closer so I can hear him.
“What sort of trouble?” I call.
“There’s this thing I can’t figure out—”
“The belt?”
He makes an exasperated noise. “I think I know how a belt works.”
The office door opens, and out steps Brandon. He’s wearing black boots and red velvet pants and—actually, I’m just guessing what’s below the waist.
Because I’m gawking like an idiot at what’s above the waist.
The red velvet coat g
apes open in the middle, exposing a wide swath of bare chest dusted with fine, golden hair. Below that, the world’s most perfect abs form a delicious row of speedbumps leading to the happiest happy trail I’ve ever laid eyes on. I swallow hard, unable to take my eyes off it. Off him.
“Jade.”
His voice hurls a spear of desire straight through my chest, and I’m having trouble breathing. I rip my gaze off his abdomen and force myself to look him in the eye.
Big mistake. Those dark, pine-green puddles turn my tongue to chalk, and I can’t seem to make my voice work.
“Uh-huh?” I manage.
“I need to borrow your hands for a sec.”
Oh, dear God.
Chapter 4
BRANDON
I take a step toward Jade and notice she takes a step back. Her eyes are fixed on my pecs, and I glance down to make sure I’m not sporting a hideous chest zit or something.
No zit.
Which means Jade—the ice queen who hasn’t given me the time of day since I set foot on this farm—is checking me out.
Before I get too smug about that, I remind myself that the sight of her in a fitted blue T-shirt with a winged W on the chest has just confirmed what I’ve suspected from day one. Jade King has a killer body. Lush curves and narrow waist and the sort of well-muscled arms I can’t stop picturing wrapped around my back.
I swallow hard, trying to get my bearings. I came out here for some reason, but damned if I can remember now what it was.
“Why are you holding that like it’s a dead animal?” she asks.
I look down at my hand, relieved to see I am not, in fact, holding a dead animal. I think. I have no idea what the hell it is, so I heft up the weird-looking padded thing with strings on it.
“Is this some sort of chest protection like a catcher would wear? Or a butt pad for Santas who have to sit all day?”
Jade laughs, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. She steps closer, and for a second, I think she’s going to touch my chest. I hold my breath, aching for that moment her hand brushes my bare skin.
But no, she reaches for the padded thing instead. “This is your belly,” she says.
“My what?”
“Your belly,” she repeats. “Like a bowl full of jelly?”
She looks at me like she’s explaining something to an exceptionally dense toddler, and I get lost in those blue eyes again. What was she saying?
“Jelly,” I repeat.
“Of course. Santa’s supposed to be a little squishy in the middle, but uh—obviously you’re not, so—”
“Fake belly.”
“Right.” Her gaze skims quickly over my abs, and I resist the urge to flex. I want her to look. I want her to touch, honestly. I want the excuse to take her in my arms and—
“Take off your jacket,” she commands.
“What?”
“Your Santa jacket,” she says. “You need to take it off.”
I don’t ask questions, willing to shed any article of clothing she asks me to. I hang the Santa coat on a nail sticking out of the post beside me as Jade fiddles with the buckles on the belly pad.
“Do I need to take off my pants?” I ask.
“What? No! No pants. Please, keep your pants on!”
I try not to take offense at the horrified look on her face, or the fact that she just took another step away from me. Maybe she needs more room to tinker with the strings on the belly device. Her fingers work the straps with impressive deftness, and I admire the curve of her neck as she bends over her work. What would it be like to kiss her there? To skim a fingertip from the soft place behind her ear all the way down to her collarbone. To brush my lips along her hairline. Would she shiver at my touch, or slap my hand away?
“Here,” she says, hoisting up the belly device. “It loops around your neck and then ties in back. Try this.”
I duck into the neck loop, conscious of her breasts grazing my ribs through her fitted tee. Her hair tickles my shoulder, and I breathe in the fragrant scent of hay and juniper berries and something sweet. Honey, I think, or gingerbread. Or maybe that’s just Jade.
She steps back, and I open my eyes, surprised to discover I’ve closed them in the first place.
“Hang on, let me help with the ties.”
“Thanks,” I manage to croak as she wraps her arms around my waist. I lift my arms up, not sure if it’s more to get them out of her way or to keep myself from touching her.
Her whole body presses close to mine as she cinches the laces around my torso. “God, it’s like a corset or something,” she mutters as her fingers flutter against my lower back.
“Not a very convenient design,” I manage to reply, a little lightheaded from her closeness. “How’s Santa supposed to get dressed by himself? Or undressed, for that matter?”
“Maybe they figure you’ll have a whole team of elves helping you,” she says. “Hang on, let me try it from the other side.”
She moves behind me, and the tip of her ponytail grazes my ribs. I suck in a breath, not sure why I’m ticklish when I never have been before. It must be her, then, Jade with her sweet-smelling hair and graceful hands and mouthwatering curves and—
“That’s quite the tattoo,” she says.
Her hand grazes my compass, and I hold my breath wanting her to trace every line with her fingers. It’s a big tattoo.
“I got it in Baghdad,” I say. “It’s pointing the direction home.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Not as much as the shrapnel it’s covering.”
“Oh,” she says softly. “Sorry. And, um—thank you for your service.”
I nod, not sure why I’m feeling so undone. It’s not like I’ve never had a beautiful woman look at me before. It’s not like I’ve never had female hands raking my torso, so why the hell do Jade’s make me so jumpy?
Because she’s different.
I swallow hard, praying she’ll get a knot in the laces. That she’ll have some reason to stay back there forever, butterfly fingertips brushing my back as her breath fans my shoulder blades.
“There,” she announces as she moves away. “How does that feel?”
I turn to face her, socked full-force in the gut by those lake-blue eyes. God. I need to stop this. I look down at the fake belly, hoping my desire will be dampened by the fact that I look utterly ridiculous.
“It’s a little weird,” I admit. “I guess it matters more how it feels, right?”
“To you or to someone sitting on your lap?”
My libido flares again, and I order myself not to picture Jade perched on my thighs, her perfect, round bottom cupped in my lap.
Way to go, asshole. Now you’ve got a tent pole in your Santa pants.
I pray the fake belly hides it as I return my gaze to Jade’s. “I wonder if it would feel real to someone touching it,” I say.
She seems to hesitate for a second. Then she reaches a hand out and presses her palm into the middle of my gut. I flex my abs instinctively, which is ridiculous considering there’s five inches of padding over them. Her hand sinks into the foam, and she holds my gaze with amusement in her eyes.
“Very nice,” she says. “Soft. Everyone’s going to want to hug you.”
She’s the only one I want hugging me right now. It’s all I can think about, the way she’d feel pressed against me, her hair tickling my nose and her breasts soft against my ribs.
I shove my hands in my back pockets to keep from reaching for her, discovering too late that Santa pants don’t have back pockets. My hands skid unhindered down the slippery velvet.
Jade giggles. “Did you just pet your ass?”
I give her a sheepish smile. “Just checking the fit.”
She peers at my ass, and I could swear I see hunger in her eyes. There’s definite heat when she lifts her gaze to mine again.
“They look great,” she says. “Good thing Amber picked the shorter coat.”
I remember the conversation I overheard th
at first day in the paddock. The Studmuffin Santa crack. I suppose I should take offense at being discussed like a piece of meat, but I actually like it. Coming from Jade, anyway. It tells me I’m not the only one distracted by the view here.
“Amber picked the jacket?”
Jade nods, and it’s her turn to look sheepish. “She wanted to make sure your ass was properly showcased.” She lifts one shoulder in a sort of apology. “Sorry about what I said in the paddock,” she says. “That first day you showed up? It was unprofessional, and I apologize.”
Considering I’ve had about a hundred unprofessional thoughts about Jade since I got here, there’s no way I’m holding that against her. “It’s flattering,” I tell her honestly. “Besides, I obviously wasn’t hired for my Christmas spirit.”
The words come out sounding more bitter than I mean them to, and Jade gives me a curious look. “Why do you say that? You seem perfectly jolly to me.” She shrugs. “But I guess I don’t know you that well.”
This is my out. My opportunity to fake some holiday cheer and put on a happy face. My chance to make some cocky sex joke or do something else to get Jade laughing.
But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. “I’m not a huge fan of Christmas. Don’t worry, I can fake it for the families.”
Jade looks at me like I’ve just admitted I kick puppies for fun, and I wish like hell I hadn’t opened my big mouth. “Really?” she asks. “What’s not to love about Christmas?”
I should stop talking now, or make up some bullshit about an aversion to pumpkin pie and tinsel.
“My mom walked out a few weeks before Christmas.” I hear the words coming out of my mouth, and I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve said them out loud. “Told my dad she was sick of all the fake holiday bullshit and the forced cheer and the ho-ho-ho. Just walked out the door and didn’t come back.”
“Oh my God.”
I nod and keep going, spurred by the softness in Jade’s eyes. “My dad tried to hold it together, but he started drinking like a fish, which didn’t help the health problems he was already dealing with, so he had a stroke a month later. He’s—uh—not been himself ever since.”
