Christie Ridgway (16 page)

“Well…” She leaned her elbow on the bar, and her tongue swiped the gloss on her lower lip.

His blood rushed south, as well as the intelligent instinct to run. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, but that didn’t erase the tactile memory of the silky softness of her bare legs. Making love with Bailey had always begun with slow, heated kisses. The kind of kisses he never tried to rush, even though his teenage hormones were screaming,
In! In! In!

Once her mouth was red and swollen, her lips trying to follow his as he lifted them away, he’d allow himself to touch her body. A hand over her breast or his fingers sliding along the damp small of her back.

More kissing. When he’d finally move to bare her, she would squeeze shut her eyes, tight enough to make sunburst lines at their far corners.

He’d unbutton her shirt. Unhook her bra. Catch the elastic edges of her panties and draw them down her legs. And because Bailey was still flying blind, he found he could deliberately run his palms up her legs and spread them without her protest or any sort of modest resistance. Maybe she pretended it was happening to someone else. Maybe she avoided embarrassment that way.

Whatever the reason, his heart would be slamming against his chest and his blood would be rushing in his ears as he pushed against the silky skin of her inner thighs…and then looked his fill. He supposed she didn’t know how his heart would stop, his air back up in his lungs as he traced with his eyes the blond curls and the petaled wetness of her sex.

Then he’d reach out a finger—one of his rough fingers with its even rougher-looking black tattoos—and bathe the tip in her arousal so he could paint her folds with it. One finger became two and he didn’t think she ever knew that he would always suck her taste from them before donning a condom and beginning the slow slide inside her heated body.

Then
her eyes would fly open, but only for a moment. As if reassured that it was her bad boy covering her, she’d release a little sigh and he’d complete the journey. The
In! In! In!
screamers inside him would sigh too, and settle.

Inside Bailey,
they’d say, as if all was right with the world.
Inside Bailey.

“You were so…cute with the little kids the other day at The Perfect Christmas,” this open-eyed Bailey now said. “I should have thanked you more. Several people have stopped in to comment on what an excellent job you did.”

The
kids
had been cute, not Finn, and she knew it. He sighed, even more wary. “Back to the original question. What do you want, Bailey?”

She made another swipe of her mouth with her tongue. Witch. “Would you consider a reprise of your role as Santa?”

“No.”

Tanner had quit arguing with his brother and turned his attention to them. He was smirking. “Finn?

Santa?”

“Ho ho ho,” he answered. “But I’m not doing it again.”

“Please, Finn.” She put her hand on his forearm. “I didn’t want to have to ask, but Byron’s surfing at Swami’s Beach tomorrow, so I’m desperate. It’s either you or me, or…” Her head turned so that her gaze included Tanner.

Finn stood. It wasn’t that it bothered him she was looking farther afield. It was that it released him from looking at her anymore: her mouth, that skirt, those legs. So “See you later,” he said, and made for the exit.

Damn if Gram’s T-Bird wouldn’t start. He’d taken it instead of his SUV because its battery needed the workout, but now it
heh-heh-heh
ed like a barking seal instead of catching with its usual powerful
vroom
.

Rather than sticking around to coax it to life, he decided to leave it in case Bailey struck out with Tanner and went for Finn again.

And if she didn’t, if she found her knight in Santa’s clothing within Hart’s bar, then Finn wouldn’t have to know anything about it.

There wasn’t a reason in the world he couldn’t make the less-than-a-mile home on foot. Lucky him, he was wearing his running shoes.

He took off at an easy jog. A turn or two and there weren’t a lot of streetlights to go by, but he continued at a decent pace. At the hospital, he’d been taught to move his head slightly from side to side to compensate for the loss of peripheral vision on his left. The first attempts at walking briskly or running outdoors had freaked him—in the same way as weird vibes could creep up on him while snorkeling. In the ocean, there was that foreboding awareness of great depth and darkness lurking somewhere ahead.

Without one eye he would perceive a similar shadowy looming well to his left.

Picking up speed, he shoved the uneasiness away by congratulating himself on his escape from Bailey.

Then a slow-cruising car approached him from the rear. It wouldn’t be…it couldn’t be…

He glanced over his right shoulder, groaned.

She must have spotted him. He increased his pace, but she accelerated to get even with him. Then her window rolled down. He kept his gaze focused ahead.

“Hey, Finn,” she called out.

He pretended deafness.

She tooted her horn.

And scared something out of the darkness on his left. He heard its rustle, but he didn’t see it—cat—until its path bisected the visual field of his remaining eye. Too late to avoid the tangle.

Too late to avoid the tumble.

He went down on his knees, hands, and elbows, hard. He kept the position for a few minutes, to catch his breath and to curse black cats, black shadows, blindness, Bailey.

“Finn!” Her high heels clattered on the sidewalk. “Are you okay?”

Yeah, but of course he had to accept her apologetic offer of a ride back to Gram’s—unless he wanted to look even more like a graceless idiot. Then he let her talk him into allowing her to play nurse.

Trailing him through Gram’s house toward the kitchen, she spared a single glance for the set of medieval armor with the wide gold bow tied around its chest that he’d propped up against a wall in the living room.

There really was no sane way to explain it, so he didn’t bother.

First aid supplies had always resided in the narrow cupboard to the right of the sink. He settled into a kitchen chair, holding a paper towel against the worst wound on his left elbow to staunch the bleeding.

When Bailey approached, a box of bandages in one hand and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the other, he drew back in his chair.

“I just remembered,” he said, eyeing the brown bottle with distaste. “You used to enjoy this kind of thing.”

She laughed. “
I’m
not the one into self-tattooing.”

“They’re all gone now.” The ring on his left hand squeezed his finger. “And that was a long time ago.”

Her citrusy-flowery smell filled his head as she neared. He watched her saturate a cotton ball with the peroxide, and then she pushed his palm toward his shoulder and pulled the paper towel away from his elbow.

Finn focused on the kitchen faucet and waited for the first sting.

It didn’t come.

He glanced up at pseudo-Nurse Sullivan. She was staring at the wound on his arm, sticky with blood. A single tear ran down her cheek.

“Bailey?”

She blinked, then rubbed her face with the heel of her hand. “I’m okay.” Another tear spilled over.

“GND? What’s the matter?”

Shaking her head, she swiped at her cheek again, then under her nose. “Lost…” With a little cough, she cleared her throat. “Lost my clinical detachment for a moment, I guess.”

Finn frowned. “It’s not that bad. Really.”

Nodding, she sank to her dominatrix heels and made quick work of cleaning, then bandaging his elbow.

Without looking at his face, she moved on to his hand, then his other elbow. His right palm, the least injured, she saved for last, dabbing it with peroxide on a clean cotton ball.

He stared at her bent head, bemused by her odd mood and uncharacteristic silence. She threw the used cotton onto the table but kept hold of his hand, studying it as if she was reading his fortune.

Weird, he thought, frowning again. “Bailey?”

She made a choked sound and pressed her face to his fingers. More tears.

“God, Bailey.” His pulse jacked up and he touched her hair with his free hand. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

Her voice was thick. “Something happened to you.”

Now he felt even more like a graceless ass. “It’s just a little case of road rash.”

“You could have died, Finn.”

“Not even cl—”

“Not t-tonight. Then.”

Oh. She was crying about, thinking about, talking about, the assassination attempt.

Sometimes he wondered if maybe he should have died. Maybe it would have been easier than to live with the screwed-up mess the assassination attempt had made of his life and his future. At least it would have saved him from the damn agony of feeling Bailey’s hot tears and not knowing what the hell to do about them.

“But I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay.”

Tears continued to drip between his fingers. Hating this helpless feeling, he pulled her up and onto his lap.

She buried her face against his neck, whether for comfort or out of embarrassment, he didn’t know.

“Shhh,” he said, stroking her soft hair again. “I’m right here.”

Her shoulders continued to shake, and a sick sense of panic rose inside him. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her cry. She’d never been that kind of girl.

He cupped the back of her head, trying to curb his anxiety. “What can I do to make it better?”

“Nothing.” Her mouth moved against his wet skin. “I’m sorry, and I f-feel so d-dumb. I’m not usually sloppy. I’m tired, I g-guess. J-just really tired.”

“You’ve been working too hard,” he said, relief calming his heartbeat. He could fix
tired
! Anything to stop this emotion leaking all over his shirt. “Tell you what, I’ll do that Santa gig for you.”

When she didn’t immediately respond, he promised more. “I’ll do that Santa gig and anything else you want from me at The Perfect Christmas.”

“What?” Her voice was still muffled against his shirt.

“I’ll help you out at the store. Whatever you need.”

Her head lifted. His nose touched her pink one. Her lashes were wet and spiky, and he thought he could execute an Acapulco cliff dive into the drenched blue of her eyes.

Her forefinger reached out to trace the outline of his eye patch. Her pretty mouth turned down. “You don

’t want to do that.”

He wanted her to stop looking at him with something that looked suspiciously like pity. He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger and adjusted her head so she was looking at him, and not at the stupid patch. “I offered, didn’t I? I’ll help you with The Perfect Christmas.”

It was as if the sun had come out. A smile broke over her face. “Oh Finn. Oh
Finn.
”

Oh fuck.

Too late, he realized he’d held out a noose and offered to tie it around his own stupid neck. It was crazy to tangle himself up with Bailey again! He thought of that damn knight suit in the next room and wondered if he could blame it for his rescuer impulse. Or…had she planned this herself?

Damn it.

In years past, she’d had plenty of practice getting him right where she wanted him.

“Finn?” Her nose wrinkled. Smelling the renege in the air.

But going back on his promise would be stupid too. That would show weakness. To both of them. There was another way to handle this.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” he decided, pushing her off his lap so they were both standing. But he’d do it for a price.
His
price. “In return, you’ll go on a date with me Tuesday night
and
you’ll tell me exactly why you ran out on me ten years ago.”

Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas

Facts & Fun Calendar

December 11

The original “White Christmas” had an opening verse about a shining sun and swaying palm trees, as writer Irving Berlin was in Southern California when he wrote the immortal song that became a holiday standard.

Dan found the woman of his dreams standing in the afternoon sunlight on a sidewalk corner diagonal from The Perfect Christmas. She looked like his Tracy, in khaki pants that hung low on her hips, a thin white shirt that was rolled to the elbows, bare feet shoved into two-tone loafers. Dark glasses and a baseball cap almost hiding her short blond hair lent her a celebrity-on-the-lam air.

He watched a passing couple give her a second glance. The silver-haired husband half gave her a third.

Checking out her ass.

It was enough to make him hurry forward to stake his claim. “Hey.”

The woman turned dark lenses his way. He couldn’t tell what the hell she was thinking.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Same as you, I suppose.” He nodded toward the store across the street. “Making sure it’s still standing.”

Tracy returned her gaze to the two-story Victorian that had been her parents’ livelihood, her livelihood, and then theirs. In silence, they watched the steady stream of traffic going in and out of the white-on-blue front door. Eight out of ten people leaving carried the store’s signature bag—Christmas stripes around a centered watercolor version of the storefront.

“Bailey’s holding her own,” his wife finally said.

It had been Dan’s biggest gamble—walking away from the store as well as the house. He’d thought it would wake up Tracy that much quicker, shock her into seeing him, seeing
them
, when she tried managing the place on her own. Instead, she’d let the cavalry take over.

He’d considered returning to work at that point, but that would have been caving in. If they were going to make their marriage work, they had to forge something independent of The Perfect Christmas. He had to find a way for her to know him again, as a man outside of father and business partner.

“Bailey’s persuaded Finn to play Santa Claus for Story Hour and Christmas Movie Nights.”

Dan’s gaze jolted toward Tracy again. “What?”

A smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. “Alice has been ill and he’s living with her for a while. Didn

’t take long for magnet Bailey and magnet Finn to find each other all over again.”