Home for Christmas (13 page)

Owen dropped his duffel on the old-fashioned hooked rug with a sigh of relief. “But you have to know that the reality was pretty different. Aren't you a nonfiction writer? You're not allowed to make up whatever details you want when you write your articles.”

Libby whirled to face him, her face pale and stiff. “Why would you say that?”

He blinked, his sixth sense for danger warning him he'd somehow wounded Libby without meaning to. “I just meant … what about that novel we talked about on the ferry? I'd read any book you wrote.”

Tension seeped out of the air slowly as Libby visibly deflated. She shook herself, stepping briskly toward the door without meeting Owen's eyes. “Oh. I … that used to be my dream, but things don't always work out the way we imagine. I do know that.”

“Sure,” Owen said helplessly. He still had no idea what he'd stepped in with that thoughtless comment, but Libby obviously couldn't wait to escape his presence. “Thank you for the room change. I couldn't have felt comfortable knowing I'd displaced your grandfather.”

“It's fine. I understand.” She hesitated in the doorway, her face still turned away. “Nash and I are on this floor, right down the hall. If you need anything. I'm going to check on dinner.”

Unable to let her go like that, Owen moved as swiftly as he was able to catch the door just as it was about to swing closed. Libby was already halfway down the stairs, but she glanced back when he called her name. “Libby. I mean it. Thank you for everything you're doing for me. I'm not sure what I've done to deserve your friendship, but it means a lot to me. I hope I can be as good a friend to you one day.”

It was hard to read her expression in the shadowy hall, especially when she ducked her head and the silken fall of honey-colored hair hid her face. “You don't owe me anything. All I want is to know that you and Caitlin had a good Christmas. My family and I are proud to help.”

Tightening his hand on the doorjamb until the wood bit into his fingers, Owen wrestled with what to say. Everything in him wanted to tell her the truth about her family—specifically her lying, cheating husband. But there was a reason he had resolved to get more information before butting into their marriage, and as he watched her descend the wide, curving staircase, the graceful glide of her slim body and the swing of her hair, he remembered what that reason was.

Owen wanted her. Badly. And that skewed his objectivity. He couldn't be sure he wasn't just seeing what he wanted to see when he looked at Libby's husband.

The ambush that resulted in Owen getting trapped in a collapsed building had been the result of an op based on faulty intel. He wasn't about to make that mistake again here, not when the stakes were Libby's marriage and happiness.

*   *   *

As soon as Libby was out of sight of the staircase, she broke into a quick jog. Heart racing faster than her steps, she hustled down the hall and skidded to a stop at the doorway to the living room.

Nash sat in the chair opposite their grandfather's favorite wingback, his long legs stretched out toward the fire and a cut crystal glass of amber liquid tilting precariously from one careless hand. He was still brooding, staring into the dancing flames with a bleak expression darkening his even features.

“Nash,” Libby hissed, beckoning at him.

He looked up, but didn't make a move to get to his feet. “Why are you whispering?” Nash asked, without curiosity.

“Because we have company.” Libby raised her eyebrows significantly, pointing up at the ceiling.

Nash's frown lifted a bit. “Right. The soldier. I thought he was staying in Grandfather's room.”

“Change of plans,” Libby said, reining in her impatience. “He didn't want to put Grandfather out.”

“That's nice of him.” Nash's attention drifted back toward the fire until Libby snapped her fingers in front of his face.

“Of course it's nice! But now he's going to be on the same floor as us. He's going to notice that we're not sharing a room!”

“Lots of couples don't.”

“This isn't the nineteen fifties! We aren't Lucy and Ricky. These days, you know what separate bedrooms means. He's going to think our marriage is on the rocks!”

Nash tipped his head back and regarded Libby with a sudden light in his eyes that looked like hope. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“Of course it's a bad thing,” she faltered. “I need Owen to believe that I'm who I said I was in all those magazine articles—the happily married stay-at-home wife who has dedicated her life to making her family happy through food.”

“Or … do you need to give a soldier and his daughter a great Christmas so you can write a good final article about it?” Sitting up straight, a new energy seemed to infuse Nash's motions. “I mean, that's what your publisher cares about, right? He wants the publicity. He doesn't care about the details, right?”

“I don't know.” A matching hope started to percolate under Libby's skin, fizzing like champagne. “It would be wonderful to get a little closer to the truth with Owen. I hate lying to him, especially about being married.”

Nash smirked a little. “I see how it is. Soldier Boy must be hot stuff.”

Heat flooded Libby's cheeks. “No, not because … I mean—”

“No, really. I shouldn't tease.” Nash stood up and set his untouched whisky on the mantel. “I'm hardly one to talk about the perils of lying about being married.”

“What is going on with you? Ever since last night at the Christmas Village, you've been acting like you were auditioning to play Heathcliff in an amateur production of
Wuthering Heights
.”

When Nash gave her a blank look, Libby rolled her eyes and clarified. “You've been brooding. Which is what we call “sulking” when a grown-up man is doing it.”

“I have not been sulking!”

“Uh, going to bed before dark, hiding in your room, avoiding the gingerbread party,” Libby said, ticking things off on her fingers. “Sitting alone and staring into the abyss…”

“Okay, fine, maybe there's been a little brooding,” Nash conceded, his mouth twisting. “Although I would more call it
thinking
. And trying to strategize.”

“About what?” Libby perched on the arm of the chair he'd vacated, sensing a story.

Nash hesitated, and Libby tilted her head. “Come on,” she coaxed. “You know everything about me, including, apparently, that I'm attracted to our houseguest. Which is incredibly inconvenient and a very bad idea, but still. That goes to show you what a mess I am. Nothing you have to say is going to make me judge you or think less of you.”

“I agreed to pretend to be your husband partly to make the woman I love jealous as hell and convince her to give me another chance.”

Libby nearly fell off the chair.
“What?”

“I know.” Nash sank into the opposite chair, obviously not caring that it was covered in white dog hair. “I am an idiot.”

“You really are,” Libby said with feeling. “I mean, I know I said I wouldn't judge you, but seriously.”

Laughing, Nash lifted his head. “Okay, okay. I get it. Worst plan ever. But maybe I can salvage it if you and I had a trial separation from our fake marriage. I could tell Ivy…”

“Ivy! The gorgeous deputy you introduced me to last night?” Looking back, Libby thought she could see the sparks she'd missed in her excitement over the Christmas festival.

Nash nodded. “We were together when I lived in Atlanta, and I want her back. Letting her go was the biggest mistake of my life. There's no one like her.”

The fervent passion in his voice struck a chord in Libby. “And you had a chance with her, until I showed up and embroiled you in my awful lie. Nash, I'm so sorry. Look—if you think it would help, and that we can trust her, you can tell Ivy the truth.”

Nash looked glum. “Thanks. But Ivy's best friends with your soldier's sister, Sheriff Shepard. I don't think there's a chance in hell I could convince Ivy to keep a secret like this from her best friend. At least, not for me.”

Rising from her chair and going over to put her arm around Nash's wide shoulders, she laid her cheek against the top of his head. “Oh, Nash. We are so bad at this love thing.”

He sighed and circled his arm around her hips in a quick hug before standing up. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, Nash said, “We're not so bad at it, Libs. Have I mentioned lately how glad I am that you're here with me?”

In spite of the messes she and Nash had both gotten themselves into, Libby felt her spirits lift. Standing on tiptoes, she threw her arms around Nash's neck and hung on tight. “Me, too. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” Nash echoed, and she knew he meant the same thing she did.

That no matter what happened with Owen, Libby's job, or Nash's heartbreak, at least they'd found connection—family—with each other.

That was worth a lot of heartache.

*   *   *

In the hallway, Owen let the door to the living room swing closed all the way. He had to stop lurking around overhearing things that were none of his business. For his own peace of mind, if nothing else.

His stupid brain wouldn't stop replaying the image he'd seen when he stumped down the hall and cracked the door open to ask about dinner.

Libby, embracing her seated husband and whispering that they were bad at love … and the way Nash had returned her embrace and obviously calmed her fears about their relationship.

Owen clenched his jaw against the surge of emotion. It wasn't seeing Libby in her husband's arms that drove him crazy—it was the fact that Nash seemed entirely sincere when he told Libby how glad he was to be with her. Nash loved his wife. Owen had seen it with his own eyes. Of course, he'd also seen Nash trying to convince another woman to give him a chance—so what was the truth?

The truth was that Owen ought to keep his nose out of it. He was a Christmas guest, nothing more. A traveler passing through Libby's life. What good could come of butting into the Leeds' marriage, rocky or not? What could Owen offer Libby?

Either he'd get better and be on his way, back to the fight, or he'd be forced to accept the doctor's prediction that he'd never walk without a cane again, in which case he'd be saddling Libby with a useless, crippled … no. Wasn't gonna happen.

Nothing was going to happen between Owen and Libby. He needed to keep that in mind and focus on his mission. Get to know his daughter. Make sure she knew he loved her and that he had her best interests at heart, no matter who ended up taking care of her. Get fit. Get back to the only thing he'd ever been any good at: fighting.

 

Chapter Twelve

The front door opened with a bang that made Libby jump. The sound of a cane thumping down the hall, accompanied by the plodding click of a bulldog's lumbering steps on the hardwood floor, were interrupted by a creaky voice demanding, “What the hell are you doing, loitering in my foyer?”

“Grandfather is home,” Libby said, heading for the door.

“Just in time for dinner.”

“Ugh, don't remind me,” she moaned, nerves fluttering up into her throat. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Why? I thought Grandfather said he was taking care of it.”

“Yes, but he refused to tell me what he has planned!” Libby tried to keep her voice low, but it was hard when anxiety kept pushing it shrill and way too loud. “I mean, what is he going to do? I think it would look pretty weird for the so-called favorite cook in America to serve Chinese takeout to her illustrious guest.”

“Well, you're in luck, because there is no Chinese restaurant on Sanctuary Island. There's only the Firefly Café, and I'm pretty sure they don't do takeout … or Chinese.”

“You're missing the point,” Libby said, aiming a withering look at her cousin.

Nash followed along in her wake, not seeming especially withered. “Am I? What was the point?”

“Disaster,” was all Libby could say, as she pulled open the living room door and saw Grandfather sizing up Sgt. Owen Shepard in the front hallway.

“Nice cane,” Grandfather was saying, in what passed for polite for the cranky old man.

A muscle ticked in Owen's jaw, and Libby winced, knowing how much he hated to be reminded of his injury. But all he said was, “Not as stylish as yours. I like the topper. Was this handsome guy the model? Hey, buddy.”

Owen leaned down to scratch behind the droopy ears of Grandfather's pet bulldog, Pippin. The usually morose dog opened his mouth in a wide, panting grin, tongue lolling out hilariously as he pressed his head up into Owen's touch. Relaxing a little, Libby had to admire Owen's keen grasp of tactics—making a big deal over Pippin was the surefire way into Grandfather's good graces.

Emerging from the living room, she smoothed her sweaty palms over the thighs of her corduroy slacks and wished she'd packed something sexier. She wished she
owned
something sexier, but even when she used to care what she looked like, she hadn't really understood how to dress to set off her own looks. And without a mother to help her figure it out, Libby eventually gave up on the whole thing.

One of the advantages of an isolated career working from home meant that she could wear sweatpants and ratty T-shirts every day, and no one minded—but it turned into a disadvantage when it came time to go out in public and the nicest clothes in her closet were jeans and sweaters.

Not that it matters,
she reminded herself as she walked over to greet her grandfather with a kiss to the papery thin skin of his cheek.
Owen isn't here to take me out on a date. He's here for his family, nothing more.

Still, the combination of how intensely he'd looked at her, the way he'd leaned in close back in the upstairs guestroom, and Nash's idea about letting Owen believe their marriage was in bad shape made Libby's pulse quicken with possibility.