Spicy with a Side of Cranberry Sauce (6 page)

Mom nodded. “Okay, then. You know better than to lie to your mama, so that’s all I’ll say about it. I’m going to head upstairs. Tomorrow will be a very busy day.” The message was clear: go upstairs to bed.

It should have hurt him that his mother was worried he would break Amy’s heart. But she’d been privy to his “relationships” for too many years. She’d seen the way he dated girls—on a weekly or nightly basis. Never anything serious, even if the women he dated wanted to be. He was always up-front with them, but sometimes they thought they could change his mind.

He kissed Mom good night on the cheek, and she left him alone in the kitchen. He finished his beer as he listened to the footsteps above him. As the house quieted, he took care of the bottle and then went up. The lights in the hallway were off, but the bathroom door was open, the night-light inside enough to illuminate the familiar corridor. He went into his bedroom and grabbed his pajama pants. He pulled out his toiletries bag and made his way into the bathroom. A long, hot shower would relax his limbs, but a cold one would calm this burning desire that had taken root in his body. The urge to find out which bedroom Amy was using for the night pulled at him, but he resisted.

He took a quick shower—hot, then cold—thinking about Amy’s long legs and sharp tongue the entire time. When he got out, he was more worked up than before. Frustrated, he went into his bedroom and grabbed his iPod. He put the earbuds in and lay down. He turned the music on and shut off his bedside light. Closing his eyes, he couldn’t help but picture the fire in Amy’s gaze as her body had moved so perfectly with his.

He didn’t know if he’d ever had such a well-matched dance partner. She’d molded herself to his body like she belonged. Mason floated in that place between sleep and wakefulness, images of Amy taunting him. He might’ve lain there for minutes or hours, he wasn’t sure, but a crash from downstairs jolted him awake. He pulled out the earbuds and listened.

“Shit.” Amy’s voice floated up from the kitchen.

He looked at the clock beside him. One a.m. What the hell was she doing? She was going to wake the whole household with all that racket. He sprang from bed and padded down the stairs, careful not to make them creak under his bare feet.

“Amy,” he whispered as he neared the bottom. The last thing he needed to do was startle her into knocking over or dropping something.

She didn’t stop whatever she was doing. He stepped off the last stair and into the kitchen just as she spun around. And dropped the can of cranberry sauce she’d been holding. He crouched and snatched the can from the air for the second time that evening.

He looked up when she gasped. She was covering her mouth with her hands.

“Hi,” he said.

She reached down to take the can from him and set it on the counter. She extended her hand, and he took it. He wanted to yank her down beside him, or on top of him, but he let her help him to his feet, trying to ignore her nightclothes. She wore a small pair of pink shorts. He had to look twice as she pulled him up to make sure they weren’t underwear. A thin black tank top barely covered her breasts and left an inch of bare skin between the bottom of the fabric and the top of the bikini-sized bottoms.

She blushed, and he blinked, looking around the kitchen. He’d been staring at her inappropriately. And was still holding on to her. He let go of her hand immediately and moved back two steps. The kitchen was a disaster area. All the groceries he’d put away earlier and a ton more lay all over the island and counter around the sink. The fridge was wide open, and a pad of paper sat among the food.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said.

She looked down and shifted from one foot to the other. She muttered something, but he couldn’t hear her.

“What?” he said.

“I was just trying to make sure everything was ready for tomorrow.” She sounded so lost. So unlike the openly snarky, vibrant woman she’d been earlier tonight. He fought the urge to wrap her in his arms and comfort her. She probably wouldn’t take comfort from him now anyway.

“You clearly haven’t known my mother very long. Trust me. Everything will be perfect. It was actually very unusual for her not to have everything bought before tonight. But I’m sure she didn’t forget anything on the lists she gave to either of us.”

He looked down at the pad on the counter. And the ten pieces of crumpled yellow paper that littered the counter and the floor. How long had she been down here? She cleared her throat, and he stepped back even farther from temptation.

“I’m sorry,” Amy said. “I know you probably think I’m a crazy person. Between racing through the grocery store and falling all over the place and this mess…I really couldn’t blame you.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” Okay, maybe a little. But he kinda liked her that way. And he was pretty sure her thick bottom lip quivered just a bit. What had her so anxious? He picked up the list and looked it over.

“It’s just…this is the first Thanksgiving we’ve celebrated since my mom passed. And I don’t want anything to mar it for Dad.”

He turned to look at her. “How long has it been?” The words were a whisper.

“Fifteen years.”

The sheen of tears in her eyes broke his heart. God, he couldn’t imagine. No wonder James had been so reluctant to come down here for the holiday. Mason stood there, paralyzed for a moment, unsure what to do. He had to do something in the face of her suffering. Even after fifteen years, the loss of her mother must cut deeply.

He stopped fighting his instincts and enveloped her in his arms. He was desperate to offer what little comfort he could, despite his promise to his mom to keep his distance. Instead of pushing him away in anger as he half expected her to do, she clasped her hands tightly behind his back and rested her cheek against his bare chest. A few tears slid down between his pecs, peppering his skin with goose bumps. He ran his hands up and down the soft fabric of her shirt, trying to soothe her. Holidays had been a huge deal in his house forever. What would it have been like if he hadn’t celebrated them his whole life? And what if Mom hadn’t been around? His throat tightened. How could he help Amy see it would be okay and he would do whatever it took to make this holiday special? For both her father and her.

“That’s a long time,” he said, resting his chin on the top of her head. She didn’t let go, and neither did he. Whatever anger or confusion lay between them paled in comparison to the pain swamping her now. It made him feel small. And foolish for being so upset with her in the first place.

“I never really wanted to celebrate after we lost her. Not for a long time. And Dad was the same way. After the first few years, it was just our new normal, you know? Friends told me it was weird. That it was wrong of him to tell me I couldn’t have Christmas presents. But they never got it. How could I have been mad at him over it?”

He continued to rub her back. What could he say? That it was okay? It wasn’t. Losing your mother was never okay, no matter how old you were. Amy had just been a kid.

“Well, try not to stress. I promise Mom will have everything under control in here tomorrow.”

“She asked me to help, but I suck at planning anything. I can’t cook. I don’t entertain. We don’t do big meals or dinner parties or any of that shit. And I have no idea where to start.”

“Shh. Honey, that’s okay. And don’t worry. If it’s one thing I know, it’s how to make a plan.” Though she seemed to be thwarting his current one at every turn. He held her shoulders and eased her back. Her cheeks were wet, but no new tears came out. She sniffed and stepped away.

“Sorry,” she said.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” She pulled her hair behind her ears and straightened her stance. The movement made her breasts jut forward against the thin material of her shirt, and even in the darkness he could see the press of her nipples. He turned from her and slammed the fridge closed, wincing at the noise.

“You didn’t wake me,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t asleep yet.”

He clicked on the regular light and blinked in the brightness. The last thing he needed was to see Amy and her nipples in the bright light, but the dimness made this feel even more intimate. He picked up her list and ripped off the top piece and then threw it and the rest of the paper into the trash can beneath the lip of the island.

“First things first.” He cleared a section on the island and put the pad down, then leaned over it with a pen in his hand. At the top, he wrote
Thanksgiving Menu
. On the left, he wrote
main dishes
, then drew a line and wrote
side dishes
in the middle and another line and then
desserts
on the right. No doubt his mother had this all planned out in her head, but doing this small thing to help Amy feel better wouldn’t cost him anything but an hour of sleep.

He turned to look at Amy. Her eyes were wide and still shone with tears, but also now with a glimmer of hope.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

She said it as if he hated her. Shoot.

“I’m sorry I’ve been an ass. Really, I don’t know what got into me. I was just so caught off guard by everything. Meeting you, being so attracted to you, and then seeing you and your dad here.” He wasn’t angry with her. But watching the plans he’d had to seduce her crash and burn had pissed him off. He never liked it when things didn’t go according to plan, and he’d been more interested in her than he had been in anyone in a long while. Realizing that nothing could happen between them was hard, and he’d taken it out on her like it was her fault. It was completely unfair.

He didn’t want to explain all that, though. Admitting he was attracted to her was bad enough. Outlining his anger at not being able to have her sounded possessive, and he wasn’t sure how she’d respond to that.

“So you don’t hate me?” She sounded so vulnerable in that moment that it took everything he had not to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

“No, I don’t hate you. Now this is going to work. It’ll be fine. And we’re really only doing this to help you feel better. Because in the morning, I assure you, Mom will have it planned out to every last detail.”

Her face fell.

“But we can absolutely change and add things as needed,” he said quickly.

She nodded and moved closer to him.

“Turkey,” she said as she looked down at the list.

He put it in the proper column. Down at the bottom of the page he made a line across all three columns and put
ingredients
in the middle as a heading. She listed all the dishes and their ingredients, and he put them where they needed to go.

“Mashed potatoes,” Amy said.

He looked at her.

“I know your mom said you usually do sweet mashed. But mashed potatoes are one of the only things I can do, and do well. So she’s put me in charge of that.”

Mason bet there were a few other things Amy did well, but he couldn’t let his mind go there. So he focused on the list and tried to hurry. The less time he spent alone with Amy, the better. For all their sakes.

Amy smiled as Mason flipped the page. He started writing a time line out of when everything had to be made, and she sighed. He was right. He definitely knew how to plan. With each step he laid out, her breathing became easier; the tension between her shoulders lessened. Maybe she really could pull this off. With Mason’s help.

And he didn’t hate her. Despite the way he’d been acting toward her.

It was stupid how much that comforted her. As ready and willing as she’d been to fight with him for what she wanted, she didn’t come close to hating him either. The longer he spent in the kitchen helping her, the more he looked like the gorgeous guy who’d saved her from being smashed in the head with cranberry sauce. And the more she admitted to herself she liked him. It was a dangerous combination, this sweet fire they shared. But she wasn’t a coward. Now that she was convinced he really was a good guy, she wasn’t going to run from this attraction any longer.

She stepped back from him and put the butter in the fridge, then knocked the door closed with her hip.

“So…I think that’s it for the lists,” Mason said. His drawl was low, deep, and tinged with heat. He handed her the pad of paper, and she looked down at the pages instead of into his electric blue eyes like she wanted to. God, the man was more anal-retentive than she’d first imagined. “How does it look?”

She glanced up at his whispered question, and her muscles clenched at the sight of him standing there in nothing but dark-colored plaid pajama bottoms. In the bright lights of the kitchen, his chest looked downright lickable. But she couldn’t say that aloud.

“Good. It looks…good,” she said instead.

“Great. Let’s get this cleaned up and get some sleep. It’s late. And no doubt Mom will have us up just after the sun.” His voice was matter-of-fact. He was determined to keep her at a distance, and she wanted to let him. But the urge to throw herself into his arms and let him kiss away all her worries again rode her hard.

She walked to the counter and started moving cans and boxes off to the side. Mason reached around her, and the hair on his arm brushed along her exposed upper back. She shivered. He stiffened and inhaled sharply. She was sure he was going to wrap that arm around her like he’d done before and pull her into his body. But he stepped back, breaking the contact.

“Your dad seems like a great guy, but my mom’s been hurt a hell of a lot in the past couple of years.”

She turned to glare at him. Again with this? “I know,” she said. She wasn’t going to argue about their parents. She liked Martha, and she didn’t want to see her hurt any more than Mason did, but she knew her dad. Mason didn’t. And she wasn’t going to explain to him that her father was in love with his mother. If he couldn’t see that, he was blind. He didn’t have anything to worry about.

“I don’t think you do,” he said.

“You saw them tonight at dinner. And on the dance floor. How can you watch my dad with your mom and tell me she’s not happy?”

“I can’t,” he whispered.