An Enchanted Season by Nalini Singh
She'd had some hard times. Lost her whole goddamn family at the tender age of twelve. During the holidays.
Just like I lost my dad.
And yet, she loved the freaking holly-jolly-ho-ho-jingle-bell bullshit.
He had to admit, he was curious about her. Her reaction to such a similar tragedy was so totally opposite his own that he found himself wanting to know more. Wanting to know...why.
There was more than that, though, and he knew it. He was attracted to her. Big time. And it was tough to rein it in when she was so open about feeling it right back at him. Hell, that hug. And that crack about liking him. And the look in those big blue eyes every time they met his.
Damn.
She came into the living room, bearing big plates full of food, and his stomach reminded him how long it had been since his lunch.
"Well, it smells good," he said.
"You're gonna love it." She marched to the hearth, and sat down.
He got the message--she didn't want food and crumbs all over the sofa bed because she was going to have to sleep on the damn thing. Okay. He joined her on the hearthstone, and took the plate she offered him.
The burger looked good, too.
"Whole wheat bun," she said. "Best kind."
"I'll bet." He picked up a French fry, still piping hot and salty. She handed him the bottle of ketchup at her side.
"Come on, try the burger."
"Oh, all right." He finished the fry, then picked up the burger, which was pretty hefty with all the stuff she'd added to it. He wrinkled up his nose, preparing for the worst, and bit into the damn thing.
Grimacing, he chewed. Slowly, he felt his grimace vanish. And then he lifted his brows in surprise as he kept on chewing. And then he swallowed, and he smiled. "Well, I'll be damned."
"Told you."
"Oh, there'll be no living with you now, will there?"
"Uh, actually, Matthew, there kind of will."
"Kind of will...what?" He was lost.
"There kind of will be...some...living with me."
"Huh?"
"Where did you get the idea we were only going to get a few inches of snow?"
He frowned, glanced at the window. In the glow of her hideous holiday lights, he could see that the snow was still coming down, huge flakes, falling densely and rapidly. "I overheard the waitress saying it at the diner."
"Oh. And what did she say, exactly?"
"I don't know. 'Snow' and 'lake effect' and 'we're gonna get two to three.' Then the other waitress said, 'I heard three to five.'"
"Uh-huh." Holly shrugged, sighed. "Well, I hate to break it to you, Matthew. But, um, my best guess is they weren't taking about inches. They were talking about feet."
"Feet," he repeated blankly. Then his brain interpreted her meaning and he said it again. "Feet?"
She nodded. "According to the radio, it's going to go all night, three feet by morning, and possibly more. And I can't even imagine how long it'll take to get dug out, get the roads cleared, and so on, once it's over."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"No. It's pretty common up here. We're in the snowbelt, you know."
"I knew. I just didn't know, you know?"
"Oh, hell, yes," she said. "So, I guess you and I are going to be spending Christmas together."
Matthew looked up at the ceiling and muttered, "Dammit, when I said to get me out of spending another inane holiday with my sappy sister and her know-it-all husband and their whiny, sticky-faced kids, this is not what I meant."
"I was just having a similar conversation with the universe myself," she told him. Then she shrugged. "But you know, the gods love a good laugh. And this time I think the laugh's on us."
He sighed, but found it hard to be too upset about any of this. In fact, if he didn't know better, he might think he was almost...enjoying it.
Nah.
"I've got a three p.m. flight out of Syracuse tomorrow. Think I can make it?"
"If you do, you'll miss Christmas Eve dinner," she told him.
And then the hideous holiday lights outside flickered, and so did the inside lights. They flickered, and then they dimmed, and then they brightened up again.
She sucked air through her teeth and closed her hand on his forearm. And heat shot right up it.
"We'd better get those oil lamps lit, ahead of time. The power's not gonna last through the night."
Neither, he thought, was he.
HOLLY CARRIED HER EMPTY PLATE INTO THE KITCHEN, AND her reluctant houseguest did the same. When she put a kettle of water on to heat, he crooked an eyebrow at her.
"No hot water?" he asked.
"It's gas, and it's not lit. I didn't bother. Probably just as well we don't--I mean, we've got a limited supply of gas. It's a new tank, but it's not a big one."
"You're using as much gas heating it on the stove as you would in the hot water heater."
"I am not. Why heat fifty gallons and keep them hot for the duration, when we can heat just what we need, when we need it?"
"Because I'm going to want a shower in the morning. How much propane is out there?"
"I don't know. A tankful."
"Yeah, but how big a tank?"
She shrugged.
"All right, I'll check while I'm out. If it's enough to last three days, we light the hot water heater. Deal?"
"What do you mean, while you're out? Why are you going out?"
"To see if it looks like I could make it back to the hotel."
"In that Matchbox Car you drove?"
"It's a Porsche."
"In this weather, you'd be lucky to make it in a Bronco."
"I'm just going to take a look."
She shook her head at that. "Fine, you win. If the notion of spending any more time in my presence is that intimidating to you, then--"
"Intimidating?"
She shrugged.
"Why would you think you intimidated me?"
"I haven't figured that out yet. I think you might be afraid of me. Or maybe of yourself. If you hang around me, you might just enjoy the holiday, and for some reason, you can't let yourself do that."
"Holly, there's absolutely no chance I'm ever going to manage to enjoy Christmas. But uh, just so you know, I was thinking if I could get back to the hotel, I'd try to talk you into going, too. If the power goes out--and three feet of snow. I just think it might be safer."
"Oh."
She watched through the doorway as he bent to pull on his boots, then his coat. Then he went to the door, and headed outside. She ducked aside to avoid the rush of wind and cold that came in when he left. Then she sighed and shook her head and tried not to wonder if he had been thinking one room, or two, at that hotel.
She took her teapot off the burner, and poured the steaming water into the waiting dishpan. Then she cooled it with some from the tap, and washed the handful of dishes from their shared dinner.
As she washed the dishes, she recalled standing here at the sink at the age of twelve, washing them after dinner and complaining loudly the entire time. "I don't know why I have to do them. I'm not the mom."
To which her mother had replied, "And just where did you get the idea that dishes were always the mom's job?"
Holly had frowned. Her father had just smiled to himself and averted his eyes. "Whaddya mean? Isn't it?"
"Well, let's see. Who dirtied these dishes?"
"We all did," Holly said.
"So then shouldn't we all clean them? Doesn't that make more sense?"
Tipping her head to one side, Holly thought on it. "I guess it does. But if that's how it is, then how come I don't just wash the ones I dirtied, and you and Dad and Noelle wash your own?"
"We could do it that way, if you want to. Noelle's too little yet, of course. But I think it's nicer to take turns. That way you get two nights off after taking your turn instead of having to spend time in the kitchen every single night."
Holly nodded slowly. "I guess you're right." Then she tho
"Dad and I take turns doing dishes, but you make dinner every night, Mom. That's not really fair, either, is it?"
"No, it's really not," her mother said. "But your dad's a terrible cook."
At which point Holly had nodded hard, dried her hands on a towel, and marched into the living room, where her father had gone. "From now on, Dad, you and I should take turns with the dishes, and leave Mom out of it. She cooks every night. It would be more fair."
Her dad grinned at her and nodded hard. "You got it, kiddo. I think that's a great idea."
Holly smiled as the memory faded. She finished the cookie sheet and emptied the water, then grabbing a paper towel to wipe her hands dry, she went to the door and peeked out.
Even as she looked, he came tromping through what had to be six inches of snow already, toward the house. She opened the door for him just as he reached for it.
He stomped the snow off himself as best he could and came inside.
"So is it rude to say I told you so?"
"It's coming down so hard out there I doubt I could see to drive anyway. And there's so much snow in the road you can't tell where the shoulders are."
"And so you decided to try to leave anyway, because...?"
"I didn't."
"I heard the motor--"
"Oh, that. No, I just thought if I could turn the car around, I'd have a better chance of getting out once the roads are cleared."
"Oh."
He peeled off his coat, shook it, and hung it on the peg by the door. He was pulling of his boots when she said, "Just so you know, breakfast will be on you. Both prep and cleanup."
He lifted his head slowly.
"We share chores in this house," she told him. "And I did dinner."
"I brought in the wood," he countered.
"I'll get the next load."
"If I make breakfast, we get to have meat."
"If you can find any meat in this house, besides the turkey, you're welcome to cook it."
"I might just go out and shoot something."
"If you can find a gun in this house--"
He held up a hand. "Yeah, yeah. I know. I was being sarcastic." His boots were off, and he carried them over to the fireplace, set them on the hearth, and then turned and went still. She'd taken all the blankets and pillows he had carried down the stairs and made up the sofa bed, and she had to admit it looked awfully inviting.
And he looked awfully nervous.
"There's no other bed," she told him. "Nothing that can be used for one, and if we divvy up what few blankets there are, we're both going to freeze."
"So we're gonna sleep together?" he asked.
She grinned broadly. "Yeah. You don't need to worry, though. Your virtue is safe with me."
"Gee, I'm very reassured."
"What, you don't trust me?"
"It's nothing personal. I don't trust hippies as a rule." He was teasing her.
She smiled even wider. "I don't think there are any such things as hippies anymore."
"I'm not sure we've come up with a slang word that describes you better."
"Fine. You call me Hippie. I'll call you Ebenezer."
"Whatever."
She shrugged and headed for her bag, which she'd slung on the floor near the stairs. "I'm going up to change."
"I'm going down to light the water heater," he said.
"It won't do any good. Power will be out by morning. You'll have a tank full of hot water and no electric to pump it."
"I'm willing to risk it."
"Have it your way."
She headed up the stairs with her bag, so she could change clothes in the bathroom. And while she was thinking about it, she ran the bathtub full of cold water, just so they could bail buckets full to flush the toilet if the need arose.
And it did. No sooner had she changed into her favorite flannel pajamas, than the lights flickered and died.
It was the bang, followed by a deep shout from the cellar that made her go running down the stairs blind, but knowing the house by heart.
Eight
HE'D FIGURED OUT THE INSTRUCTIONS, FOUND THE MAIN gas valve, cranked it on, and was holding a match to the pilot, his thumb on the required button, when the lights went out.
Just as they did, the hot water heater lit with a soft "whoosh" and he let off the button, watching the flame inside. It stayed lit. Good.
Or not so good, depending. If the lights stayed out this time, Miss Know-It-All upstairs would probably never let him hear the end of it. Then again, it had to come back on sooner or later. And when it did, he would have hot water for a shower. So there.
He put the cover back on the hot water heater's control panel, and rose, turning to make his way across the cellar to the stairway, but finding himself immersed in ink-thick darkness.
No problem, he could find his way out. It was straight ahead, about ten steps or so, and then--
He walked as he thought, and promptly banged his knee on something solid as a rock with an edge to it, which caused him to yelp in pain.
Dammit!
Her footsteps pattered rapidly up above, and seconds after that, there was a light at the top of the stairs. "Don't move," Holly called. "Let me get down there with the light first."
"My hero," he muttered, returning her earlier comment to her, just as sarcastically as she had delivered it. But his knee was throbbing big time, and he thought he'd done some damage there. So, okay.
She was beside him a moment later, holding the flashlight and examining his face while burning out his corneas. "Are you okay?"
"Yep. Fine. Let's go upstairs."
"What did you hurt?"
"Knee," he said.
And he shouldn't have, because then she was hunkering down, holding her light as if she could see something, when his jeans covered it anyway.
"Hell, it's bleeding right through the denim. Come on, I can't do anything down here." She slid an arm around his waist, held him firmly against her side as she moved the both of them to the stairs, and then up them. He almost told her he didn't need any help. Right up until he stepped on the leg, that is. The second he did, he knew from the surge of pain that he did need help. And she was the only one around to give it.
Hell, just what he needed: to be dependent on a damn happy hippie--much less one so damn sexy he could barely keep his hands off her as it was. And to be stuck with her for God only knew how long to boot.
Just shoot me now, he thought. And then the thought faded, because she smelled so damn good. He hadn't been close enough before to realize it, he guessed. Or maybe she'd put some scent on when she'd been upstairs changing. Just for him?
HOLLY LED HIM TO THE FOLDED-OUT SLEEPER SOFA. HE SAT on its edge, tense as a bowstring. "Just relax. I'm not going to amputate, I promise." She met his eyes, tried to put a reassuring light in her own, but he didn't look reassured. He looked nervous.
"I'm going to get my first aid kit out of my bag."
"You brought a first aid kit?"
"Well, of course I brought a first aid kit. I never travel without one. Not that I travel much. Or at all. But I wouldn't, anyway, without a--" She shook her head. "Never mind. Take the jeans off. I'll be right back."
"I'm not taking my jeans off."
"Well, you're not sleeping with them on. You'll get the sheets all bloody, and they're the only ones we have." She ignored him, grabbing the second of the four oil lamps from the mantel, and lighting it. She'd already lit the first. Then she went to the kitchen, where she'd dropped the duffle bag she was pretty sure contained the first aid kit. She rummaged around until she found it, and came back to the living room.
He'd taken off the jeans and sat there looking obstinate, blood trickling from an inch-long gash in his knee.
"Hell. That must hurt like crazy." She hurried to him, kneeling in front of him and opening the first aid kit, which was a hard plastic minisuitcase chockfull of supplies.
"Damn," he said, looking down as she ripped open
"I filled it myself," she said. "It pays to be prepared. Hold still now." She pressed a few gauze pads to the cut. "Can you hold these here? Nice and hard. You need pressure on it so the bleeding stops. Okay?"
He replaced her hand with his on the pads. She got up and ran back to the kitchen, wet a fistful of paper towels in cold water because there wasn't time to heat any, and hurried back to him. Then she washed the blood away from his leg. He had a hairy calf. Strong, too. Firm. It flexed when she ran her hands over it, washing away the blood. She liked it. She liked it very much.
"Your sock's all bloody, too," she said, trying to keep her voice from betraying her. She set the wet paper towels aside and took hold of his sock, peeling it off his foot, her fingers in contact with his skin all the way. There was something--a rush of warmth. Attraction. Pleasure. Something. She paused and lifted her head, met his eyes, wondering if he'd felt it, too.
He held her gaze, and the look in his made her aware of the suggestiveness of her current position. Kneeling in front of him.
Oh, yeah. He'd felt it, too.
He looked away before she did. Okay, so he felt it, but he didn't like it. Or maybe he liked it, but he didn't want to. Whatever. She washed the blood from his ankle, and then returned her attention to the knee, covering his hand with hers, lifting the gauze just enough to peek. It bled again when she did.
"I'm going to have to tape it up. Butterfly bandages should do the trick. It ought to have stitches, but I don't have a sewing kit on me."
"Not quite as prepared as you thought you were, are you?"
"You can bet I won't leave home without one again." He held the gauze while she unwrapped the butterfly bandages. "We should clean it first. I have peroxide. It won't hurt as much as alcohol would, but it won't be fun, either."
"Distract me then."
"How?" she asked, opening the bottle and trying not to hope he'd say something just slightly inappropriate. And yet hoping just that.
"You said you never travel. Tell me why."
She nodded at him to move the gauze. He did. She held a wad of fresh pads beneath the wound to catch the blood and excess, and then poured peroxide over it, saying as she did, "I don't like to leave Aunt Sheila. It's not like we can afford someone to take care of her, and she'd hate that anyway. I don't know, maybe now that she's apparently got a love life, he'll help out now and then."