Her Christmas SEAL (When SEALs Come Home Book 7) (4 page)

“Wreaths,” I snapped and waved a hand at the wall. “Pick one. Pick them all, but do it quickly. I’m off in the clock in a few.”

Naturally, he ignored the Christmas display.

“Give me your phone,” he grunted, holding out his hand. He had great hands, big and strong. Sun bronzed, too, from being outdoors so much and because Jacks really wasn’t much for protective gear. A wicked-looking scar slashed across the back of his right hand—he was probably lucky he hadn’t lost a finger or three. I had no idea how or when he was injured. Could have been when he was overseas with his SEAL team, or maybe it was a smoke jumping injury.

“You’re not deleting my pictures,” I told him. A girl needed all the leverage she could get with a guy like Jacks, plus he’d blackmailed me since we were six. This was my chance for a little payback.

He shot me a look. “Don’t make me take it.”

We both looked down at the front of my elf costume. Lots of women tucked their phones into their bra straps. It was an occupational hazard of not having any pockets. Still, just the thought of Jacks sliding his fingers inside my shirt and over my boob—even if it was just to grab my phone—did something to me. Melty, hot, swirling
things
that I would never, ever admit to.

“Stick your fingers in there and die,” I informed him cheerfully. “You want a wreath or not?”

“I want your phone,” he repeated.

“Which is not for sale.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, and nothing in those two syllables announced
I agree with and respect your position, Holly.
He was going to push me on this. We both knew it. And sure enough, somehow he was right behind me, the front of his legs brushing the back of mine. The man moved like a ninja—maybe it was a required skill in the military—and it was a good thing I was half-frozen from our tree-hunting trek, because otherwise the slide of his denim over my almost-bare skin might have shut my brain down entirely. He was big. He was in my space. And God bless him, he was
warm
. No matter how annoying he was, I wanted to cuddle up to him like an electric blanket.

“Let’s negotiate.” He rumbled the words against my ear.

“The only thing for sale here are Christmas wreaths.” I stabbed my forefinger toward the wall of wreaths. The other elves and I essentially worked on commission. We tipped the trees, we made the wreaths, and then we got fifty percent of the sticker price when the farm sold one of our creations. Unfortunately for me, despite my love of art, I’d never been particularly good with a glue gun or with arts and crafts. Maybe that was why I appreciated good art so much. My wreaths were amateur time compared to the effort of some of the other girls—my bows lopsided and my decorations disappearing like the cash in my checking account.

“Do you work on commission?” His hands came down on either side of me, caging me in place.

“You’re evil.”

“I’m negotiating. The wreaths are for sale. Tell me which ones and how many.”

How could one man be so tempting? I got ten dollars a wreath, and I personally had six wreaths hanging on that wall. Sixty bucks meant grocery shopping and
not
eating ramen noodles twice a day even if I made a payment to myself in my college account. When the University of California opened admissions in November, I’d be ready.

“I want my phone back,” I warned him. No way could I afford to replace it.

“You bet,” he agreed. “We got a deal?”

“Those six wreaths on the end.” It pained me to admit it.

I waited for him to say something about that particular selection, but he didn’t. Maybe it was a guy thing. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that the circles were a little less than perfect or that you could see the spots where the glue had dripped. I probably wasn’t supposed to use pink velvet ribbons either, but I got tired of the constant red and green. And okay, I ran out. And added sequins, because sparkly was good and just looking at those wreaths cheered me up.

Frankly, I was cheered up now, thinking about Mr. Buff and Tough hauling them through the Christmas tree farm. Glitter shed like crazy, which he’d find out when he got home. Wherever home was. Next time he jumped, he’d leave a trail of sparkly dust behind him like Tinker Bell on steroids.

He reached in his pocket, pulled out three twenties, and tucked the money into my hand. “Sold.”

“I feel sullied,” I told him, and he grinned. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I
felt
his mouth stretch against my throat. Jacks really should have come with a warning label. Or a
keep off the grass
sign.

And then his hand slid across my front, his fingers dipping inside my shirt. “Not part of the—”
deal
was what I intended to say, but something embarrassingly close to a sigh escaped my mouth instead. He tugged my phone free, stepped back, and tapped the screen.

“You should really set a password on this,” he said.

“I have one,” I muttered.

“1234 is
not
a password.” He did something and handed the phone back. “Now you’ve got my number. In case you need anything.”

He spent sixty bucks to put his number in my phone? Maybe he’d hit his head on that ponderosa pine yesterday. And then hit it again today.

“You don’t need to stare at your phone like it’s a goddamned snake.” He removed the wreaths from the wall and stacked them.

“Why?” I still couldn’t figure out what he really wanted. It darned certain wasn’t Christmas greenery though.

“Why not? You don’t think you might want help at some point?”

“I’ve got this,” I said.
This
covered pretty much everything. I wasn’t sure when Jacks had decided I was a fragile flower who needed protecting, but he needed to stop it. I’d spent the last six months discovering how much I liked being on my own.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked, picking up his purchases and turning toward the door.

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.” This was familiar ground from my married days. Mark had had plenty to say about my faults, shortcomings, and never-ending list of inadequacies. Funny how the screwups had only gone one way though. He was apparently Mr. Perfect right up until the moment he walked out the door.

“You don’t want me to help you. You don’t want anyone to help you.”

“Kind of a sweeping generalization there.” But true.

He looked down at the lopsided bow on his Christmas wreath and then over at me. “Would it kill you to accept a little help?”

I wondered how he would feel if all the women in his life decided he needed fixing and then decided to act on that decision unilaterally. I’d bet he wouldn’t be so gung ho about
accepting help
then. Nope. I bet he’d alternate between the
fuck-off
and
leave-me-the-hell-alone
camps.

“I’ve got this,” I repeated. “The tree, the job, my life. It’s all covered, Jacks. I can take care of myself. I
do
take care of myself.”

He gave another one of those disbelieving grunts that apparently passed for insightful communication in his universe. Maybe I should use one-syllable words. Maybe he’d hear me then.

“That because Mr. Dick failed so spectacularly at his job?”

Honestly, Jacks would be so much easier to take if he never opened his mouth. He had a gift for riling me up, and we both knew it. He asked his question, and my blood pressure soared.

It didn’t help that he was partially right. My ex had convinced me that dropping out of college to move in with him was the right choice. According to him, I hadn’t needed a degree in art history—I’d needed him. Being painfully, stupidly in love, I’d agreed and followed him to Sacramento, where I’d taught art-appreciation classes to middle school kids for nine bucks an hour and waited for Mark to fit me in around the demands of first his job and then later his lover. So, yes, Mr. Dick had failed on epic levels, but I’d survived. It was still none of Jacks’s business, however.

“Mr. Dick is now Mr. Ex,” I pointed out. “He doesn’t matter.”

Jacks shrugged. “What did he do?”

“Why do you care?” Bumping into each other occasionally during childhood didn’t mean he got to ask those questions.

“Because I want to know if I need to kill him. Or just hurt him.”

It actually took me a moment to process his words. He couldn’t be serious.

Could he?

“It’s not your business.”

He moved closer. Kind of predatory, I decided, but more werewolf than shark, if that made sense. He looked rough—but he also looked… concerned? “I’m making it mine,” he announced.

See? When he said things like, I remembered exactly why we’d never really gotten along. He believed he was in charge, and he definitely specialized in telling me what to do. I didn’t like that, so we butted heads. It was a natural progression.

I went on the offensive. “You offering yourself as a replacement?”

He hesitated. That ought to shut him right up. Jacks was one of the most commitment-adverse people I’d ever met. He was practically a dating virgin, never having moved past the one-night-stand. In high school and after, when I’d spotted him home on the occasional leave from the Navy, he’d never gone steady, never seen the same girl twice. I wasn’t even sure he realized this, which just made it worse. He met a girl. He kissed the girl. They had sex—sex that was, I was sure, smoking hot and ten kinds of awesome kinky—and then they parted ways. Where most people would stretch those events out over weeks, months, or even years, however, Jacks had an hourly timeline. He was over the girl by the next morning and already moving on. I could believe he was up for sex with me—hello, the proof was right there tenting the front of his jeans—but it wasn’t anything special. Honestly, it was more surprising he hadn’t tried anything with me before.

“I could explore my options,” he said finally, setting down the wreaths.

What did that mean? I opened my mouth to say something—because surely
something
intelligent would pop into my head any minute now—and Jacks sort of danced me up against the wall. My back hit the boards, his legs pinned mine in place, and he cradled my face in his big hands.
Whoa
.

“Jacks—” Shoot. My heart pounded, my whole body tensing in anticipation of what might come next. If I was really, really lucky.

“Shhh. Busy exploring here.” He leaned in, giving me more of his weight, and I should have protested. He would have backed off. Jacks actually did understand the word
no
even if it appeared to be his least favorite word ever. He wasn’t that much of a dick, and rumor claimed he definitely didn’t kiss where he hadn’t been invited. My issue was the sheer
number
of those invitations, because I’d never been one for a queue. But then he pressed an impressive erection against me, and that felt so darned good that I gasped.

Like that was his cue and permission slip rolled into one, he lowered his mouth to mine. I had no idea a hard kiss could feel so tender. His hands gripped my face, his thumbs slowly rubbing over the sensitive skin of my cheeks. Kind of learning me, tracing the bones like he had all the time in the world. His mouth though was hungry. He took me, his tongue driving inside me and opening me up like he wasn’t waiting for
that
any longer. He kissed harder, deeper, and I moaned. This was perfect.

I’m not sure who let go of whom, but it might have had something to do with the slow clapping coming from the door. Shoot. Jacks lifted his head and let go of my face, but he didn’t step away. Instead, he braced a hand over my head, kind of blocking me from our audience’s view. The move was thoughtful, which was another thing I hadn’t expected from Jacks. He didn’t brag about his sex life, but he wasn’t shy either.

The elf at the door was one of my female coworkers. Merry. I wasn’t sure if that was actually the name on her birth certificate or if she’d picked a Christmas-tree-farm-appropriate alias, but she’d always been perfectly nice to me. There were worse people to be discovered by. Our audience could have included Santa—and he’d made it perfectly clear when he hired me that there was no “fraternizing” between his elves—or anyone else. My coworker left with a giggle and a wave, but I knew I’d be hearing about the kiss later. Probably repeatedly, too, because Merry loved details. I’d already heard plenty about her last Friday-night date with a smoke jumper from the Donovan Brothers jump team.

I slapped a hand on his chest and shoved. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing it better.” He humored me—we both knew it—by stepping backward and collecting his wreaths. His answer kind of pissed me off—even as it turned me on. Mr. Big Bad Firefighter apparently thought he had a magic dick or a magic mouth. One kiss and boom—all my troubles would be solved.

As if.

“Does that line work for you?”

“Do you feel better?” He answered my question with one of his own.

“I’m over sex.” Maybe. I’d have to be dead and buried for Jacks’s mouth not to have woken
something
in me, but I wasn’t stupid. I’d had good sex before, and being single was infinitely easier. Plus, since this was Jacks, he had a built-in expiration date. He was a limited-time opportunity like a really fabulous dress that was on sale right now, just enough that you could justify taking it home with you, except then it turned out to be Cinderella’s dress and it went poof at midnight.

Right now, my hormones thought it would be a shame to
not
take advantage of what he was offering, but my brain vetoed them ruthlessly.

“I like being single,” I continued, because Jacks didn’t always seem to hear the words coming out of my mouth. Or he interpreted them to suit himself. “I like not having a man in my life. I can do whatever I want. Cream puffs for breakfast, socks in the bed, going back to school, and wearing sweatpants instead of Victoria’s Secret—all those options are on the table because I don’t have to be Mrs. Sexy on the off chance my guy might want some.”

He blinked. He looked cute when he was confused, which was also not fair. “I’m not sure how we got from kissing to dessert, but okay. It was just a kiss, babe. Not a proposal.”