Once Upon a Christmas (14 page)

“Did the deed?” Clarissa suggested with a wicked
lift of her eyebrows.

“Noodled. Brad called it noodling.”

“What?”

“It’s true,” Holly admitted, feeling herself
flush. “Whenever Brad was, ummm, in the mood, he’d kind of nudge me and
say, ‘Want some noodling, little girl?’”

“Gross!”

“I guess it does sound a little strange. I got used to
it.”

Clarissa gave her a sympathetic look. Holly shrugged.

“Anyway, nothing worked tonight. Brad didn’t want to
reminisce. He said playing our song would disturb the other diners, and he
flipped through the vacation pictures as if they’d catch fire if he held onto
them longer than two seconds apiece.” Tears of frustration welled in her
eyes. “What am I doing wrong, Clarissa? I’m really trying here, but I must
be doing something wrong, because it’s not working!”

“It’s not you, hon.” Soothingly, Clarissa patted
Holly’s arm. “It’s Brad the Bad. Honest. It’s got to be.” She paused.
“Have you ever considered he’s just not the right man for you?”

“No. Uh-uh.” Feeling a need to keep busy, Holly
reached for the shopping bag and dug around in it. She pulled out the DVDs and
plopped them on the coffee table.

“I can’t give up now. Not after everything I’ve already
invested in this relationship. What if I’m almost there? What if I just need a
little more time before Brad realizes we belong together? We were really great
together once.”

“‘Once’? What about right now? What about cutting your
losses and moving on?” Clarissa insisted. “You deserve better than
this.”

“I can’t just give up. Not yet, at least.”

Clarissa threw both hands in the air. “But it’s not all
up to you. Maybe you’ve done all you can already.”

Holly thought about the lingerie squashed in her bottom
bureau drawer, still in its potpourri-scented bag. “Not quite everything.
There’s still phase three of the plan.”

Groaning, Clarissa dragged the shopping bag across the
polished oak floorboards.

“You mean the seduction routine,” she said, her
voice muffled as she searched for something in the bag. “I didn’t think it
would come to that.”

That was heartening. It must mean Clarissa thought Holly
would have convinced Brad to come back long before this.

“I didn’t, either. It’s my last resort.”

“Oh, boy. I need more fortification for this.”

Clarissa ripped open the spritz cookie box. They both
grabbed a few of the delicate, sugary treats.

“I think it’ll work, though,” Holly said around a
mouthful. “The seduction thing.”

Her friend gave a skeptical snort.

“Well, aren’t people always saying men think with
their….” Holly gestured vaguely, then swallowed hard. “You know.”

Raised eyebrows from Clarissa. “Their…?”

“You
know.” Holly offered a vague hip
swivel in demonstration, got even more embarrassed, and shut up.

“You can’t even say it, can you?”

“I just don’t want to.”

Clamping her lips together, Holly grabbed the
Charlie
Brown Christmas
DVD. She devoted all her attention to opening the case,
popping the disc in the player, and searching for the remote.

“You can’t say it,” Clarissa goaded. “Admit
it.”

“No.”

Holly found the remote behind her Discoing Santa figurine.
She retreated to the couch again, where Clarissa waited to jump on her like a
little yappy dog.

“Geez, are
you
ever repressed,” she said. “I
had no idea. Come on, say it. I won’t tell anybody.” She was smiling now,
holding back a laugh. She poked Holly’s shoulder. “It’s okay, you know.
You’re a grown woman. You’re supposed to know about this stuff. Didn’t your
mother ever talk to you about sex?”

She bit into a cookie, scattering crumbs while she waited
for Holly to speak. Before Holly could get a word out, though, Clarissa held up
both hands.

“No, wait.” She shuddered in mock horror. “I
don’t think I want to know what your mother—aka, the ice queen—told you about
making whoopie.”

“Ha, ha. My point was,” Holly said laboriously, “that
I think sex appeal would work on most men. Brad included.”

Clarissa—her friend, her best friend since ninth
grade—snorted. Holly threw a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer pillow at her.

Clarissa ducked. “What about Sam?”

“He’s a perfect example of my theory,” Holly
declared, feeling smug. “Sam practically sweats sex appeal—”

“Ewww.”

“Okay, bad word choice.” She thought about it some
more. “What I mean is, he’s totally centered in the here and now. The man
lives like there’s no tomorrow. He eats what he wants, wears what he wants….
Sam takes what he wants.”

Shivering, Holly remembered the heat of his body pressed
against hers. Remembered what he’d said as he’d all but dared her to savor the
experience.
Feel. Feel us together. Feel me.

“Sam’s definitely a man who thinks with his
you-know-what,” she concluded. “And I’ll bet he’s pretty typical.”
Liar,
a part of her whispered.
He’s anything but typical.

Clarissa shook her head. “Sam is in love with you.”

“Sam only thinks he’s in love with me. That’s
infatuation. There’s a big difference. That kind of love can’t last.”

Looking sober, Clarissa pushed away the spritz cookies and
wiped her fingers on a napkin. “It might, Holly. And if it did, it would
be the greatest kind of love there is.”

“That kind of love only happens in the movies.”
Holly aimed the remote at the DVD player. The opening credits rolled. “Only
in the movies.”

Chapter Seven

The next morning dawned bright and sunny and much too early
for someone who’d slept as poorly as Holly had. She rolled over in bed, whacked
the snooze button on her clock radio, and dragged a too-cheerful
Christmas-print pillow over her face. Why in the world had she set the alarm
for seven-thirty on a Sunday morning?

Because she’d invited her mother, along with Clarissa and
her husband David, over for brunch, that’s why.

Groaning, Holly pulled her matching comforter over her head,
too. After her disastrous evening with Brad, hosting a brunch party fell
someplace below having a bikini wax on her list of Things to Look Forward To.

Snap out of it.
It’ll probably be fun, she told
herself as she crawled out from beneath her comforter cave. She pulled on a
pair of old shorts beneath the soft cotton T-shirt she slept in—no sense
ruining her nice clothes by cooking brunch in them—and headed for the kitchen
to get started.

Forty-five minutes before everyone was due to arrive, Sam
ambled barefoot into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of plaid boxer
shorts and a groggy smile.

“‘Morning. You look busy,” he remarked as he
poured himself a cup of black coffee.

“You look as though you just got up.” Holly eyeed
his rumpled hair and unshaven jaw. The rest of him she tried to ignore, but it
wasn’t easy. The man sure looked good wearing mostly skin and a smile. “It’s
after ten already.”

“I know. I was out kinda late last night.” He blew
on his coffee, then sipped. “Ahh…that hits the spot.”

Holly didn’t doubt it. It had been after one o’clock when
she’d finally heard Sam come home. Not that she’d been listening specifically
for him, or anything. It was probably just a coincidence that she’d still been
awake finishing the last of the peppermint stick ice cream when his key had
turned in the lock.

“Did you have a good time?”
Wherever you were?

“Yeah.” He squinted into the distance and didn’t
say anything else.

Poor Sam was a slow starter in the morning. Probably the
caffeine hadn’t reached his brain yet.

He blinked, downed the rest of his coffee, then examined the
kitchen. “Quite a production. Are you expecting company, or are you just
especially hungry today?”

“Did I forget to tell you?” Holly maneuvered
around him, then picked up the basket of strawberries she’d bought to go with
the French toast she was making. “I invited Clarissa and David—and my
mother—over for brunch this morning.”

“I’m not invited?”

“Sure you are—if you really want to join us.”
Holly made a face. “I just thought I’d spare you the ordeal of meeting my
mother.”

Sam remained silent. Holly sliced away the green top of a
fat strawberry with surgical precision, not looking at him. He wasn’t buying
it, she could tell.

“My mother can be pretty hard to take sometimes,”
she added by way of explanation.
You big chicken,
her conscience jabbed,
but it was already too late. “Clarissa and David are used to her by now,
but…”

“But I’m not.”

“Right.” Holly stemmed the strawberries faster,
weak with cowardly relief when Sam left her to pour another cup of coffee.

He came back and put his hand around hers, taking the paring
knife from her grip. “You’re going to slice more than the strawberries if
you keep that up,” he said, gently bumping her aside with his hip so he
could reach the green plastic berry basket. “I’ll finish this. It looks as
if you’ve got a lot to do.”

It was worse than she’d thought. Sam was going to be nice
about being excluded from the brunch party, despite the lame excuse she’d given
him. Nobody’s mother was so difficult to deal with as to be unmeetable. Well,
Holly’s probably came close. Still, it would have been easier if Sam had gotten
mad instead.

Holly took a clear glass pitcher from the cupboard and
poured in the orange juice she’d defrosted. “This Sunday brunch is kind of
a regular thing. My mother’s been out of town the last couple of weeks, so we
haven’t been able to get together for a while.”

Holly had hoped to avoid a meeting between her mother and
Sam even longer. Forever would have been nice. If her mother met Sam—her new
roommate—then Holly would have to explain what had happened between her and
Brad. Her mother would be so disappointed.

“Business travel or pleasure?” Sam handed her the
bowl of sliced strawberries. “Tell me this workaholic thing doesn’t run in
the family. Or do all of you work a billion hours a week?”

He popped a hulled strawberry in her mouth. Surprised, Holly
chewed. When she finished, she said, “I don’t work a billion hours a week.”

Brad had never pestered her about how much she worked—he was
exactly the same way. Maybe that was why they were so well-suited for each
other. Of course, that might turn into a problem when they had a family
together someday, but…but she’d deal with that when it happened.

Sam raised his eyebrows, still waiting for her answer.

“It was business,” Holly admitted. “A broker’s
conference. My mother’s a real-estate broker. A good one, too—she’s a
million-dollar producer.”

He nodded, looking suitably impressed. “What does your
dad do?”

“He’s a plumber—at least he was the last time I talked
to him. He’s lived in Montana ever since the divorce. I haven’t seen him for a
while.”

Holly sprinkled sugar on the strawberries and shoved the
bowl into the refrigerator. She shut the door, turned around, and ran smack
into Sam’s chest.

He handed her the juice pitcher. “I finished the orange
juice.”

“See, you
can
cook!”

“Only under pressure.”

Holly put both hands around the cold glass pitcher, but he
didn’t release it. She had to look up at him.

“The divorce must have been hard. How old were you?”

“When they got divorced? About ten, I guess.”
Exactly ten. They’d announced it the morning after her birthday slumber party. “Can
I have the juice, please?”

Sam handed it over. “Don’t want to talk about it?”

“No. Yes. No.” She swung the refrigerator door
closed with her hip and hurried past him. “I’ve just got a lot to do, that’s
all. I still need to get dressed, and I haven’t even started the French toast
yet.”

“Can I help?”

His offer barely registered. “You know, I don’t have
any hidden traumas over my parents’ divorce, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She just wanted to make that clear. “Lots of people get divorced.”

She grabbed a sauté pan from the cupboard and plopped in
slices of Canadian bacon to warm them. Waggling the empty package at Sam, she
added, “In fact,
most
people get divorced. Did you ever think of that?”

He took away the bacon wrapper and tossed it into the trash.
Holly couldn’t believe she’d actually waved it at him like a shrewish wife on a
TV sitcom. She was losing it.

Sam rubbed her shoulders as if she were a boxer going into
the ring. “Tell me what to do and I’ll help you,” he said patiently.

She didn’t deserve such kind treatment. Not when she was
purposely trying to hide him from her mother. Okay, not
hide him
,
exactly—it wasn’t as if Sam embarrassed her. Holly only wanted to…delay all
the explanations for a while.

“It would probably be safe to let me get the stuff out
for your French toast,” he offered, still rubbing her shoulders.

His hands felt really good. Holly hadn’t realized she was so
tense. It wasn’t even noon yet. It ought to be illegal to feel tense before
noon.

“It’s nice of you to offer, Sam, but you don’t have to
help. Really. I can do it.”

“I know that. I want to. Where’s the bread? In the
cupboard?”

He headed for the row of cupboards above the sink. Missing
the touch of his hands, Holly glanced at the clock again. She felt like a
sprinter at the starting line of a race. Everyone would be here soon. Any
minute, in fact. She couldn’t resist any longer. If Sam was going to insist on
helping her she’d just have to let him, however rotten a person it made her
seem.

“It’s right there in the—”

“In the…?”

“In the grocery store!” Holly grabbed him. “Oh,
no—I forgot to buy the bread! How am I going to make French toast without
bread?”