Once Upon a Christmas (9 page)

“It was my idea he meet you at the Grill. And I did
encourage Sam to move into your place.”

“That’s it?”

“I wanted to help. God knows why you’re so hung up on
Brad, but I hate seeing you unhappy.”
So there
, her expression
seemed to say. “You promised Brad a roommate, and I helped deliver one.”

Holly pulled into Clarissa’s driveway. “Then you didn’t…no,
never mind.” She shook her head. “Thanks for wanting to help.”

Clarissa wasn’t having it. “Then I didn’t…what?”

When Holly only drummed her fingers on the steering wheel
and didn’t answer, she pushed a little harder.

“What do you think I did? Sam’s a big boy. I can’t make
him do anything he doesn’t want to.”

Holly drew in a deep breath. “Sam told me he was crazy
about me. He said meeting me made him believe in love at first sight.”

Clarissa’s mouth dropped open. Good Lord. She’d rendered her
speechless. Holly couldn’t remember the last time that had happened, if ever.

“This is still my cousin Sam we’re talking about,
right?“Holly nodded. “Does he do this sort of thing a lot?”

She was starting to feel concerned. Maybe Sam fell in and
out of love with a different woman every week. Maybe he was a closet Don Juan.
For all she knew, he’d used this “love at first sight” line before.

“As far as I know,” Clarissa replied slowly, “Sam
has never uttered the word ‘love’ to a woman. Except maybe in bed,” she
amended thoughtfully, “but I wouldn’t know about that, of course.”
She pursed her lips and squinted at Holly. “Did you sleep with him
already?”

“No!”

Clarissa looked at her closely. “Then why are you
blushing, Holly Berry? Hmmm?”

It was true. Holly felt the warmth spread through her cheeks
and couldn’t have stopped it to save her life.

“You’ve thought about it, then?” Clarissa pressed.
“I wouldn’t blame you, actually. Sam’s quite a hunk—even I can recognize
that, despite knowing him since he was a toddler.” A dreamy look came into
her eyes. “We both used to get stuck at the kid’s table together at
Thanksgiving dinner every year. We must have been twelve before we got promoted
to the big table. And now Sam’s falling for you. Wow.”

“Clarissa—”

“It’s okay, I won’t breathe a word to your precious
Bradley,” she said, drawing out the name until it sounded at least six
syllables long. A broad smile crept across her face.

“You and Sam,” she muttered. “Wow.”

“There’s no ‘me and Sam,’” Holly objected. “There’s
not going to
be
any ‘me and Sam.’”

“I can’t wait to tell David.”

“Oh, no. You’re not telling him a thing.” If
Clarissa’s husband even suspected something was going on, the news would be all
over town before midnight. “Besides, there’s nothing to tell. Nothing.”

Clarissa picked up her purse and swung open the car door. She
turned back to Holly, frowning in concentration.

“What’s that saying?” she asked. “Oh,
yeah—the lady doth protest too much, methinks.” She winked and stepped out
of the car. A wave. “I’ll talk to you later!”

“Bye,” replied Holly glumly. She was really in for
it, now that Clarissa was on the case. Starting the car again, she pulled out
of the driveway and headed for the only safe haven she knew. Home.

Her safe haven had been destroyed.

Okay, maybe destroyed was a little harsh. Rearranged,
redone—no, invaded—was more apt. In front, Sam’s pickup truck was parked, two
tires on the street, the other two on the sidewalk. Its bed was filled with
assorted lengths of lumber, some bricks, and—Holly peered closer—a pair of old
muddy shoes.

In the middle of the porch swing sat a squat terra-cotta pot
containing a miniature fir tree strung with tiny ornaments. Next to it was a
longneck beer bottle.

Just inside the doorway, she stepped over a box packed with
Christmas lights, larger ornaments, and a novelty Santa figurine. Beside the
sofa lay a pair of very large tennis shoes. From the kitchen came the sound of “Rudolph
the Red-Nosed Reindeer”—and a loud male voice singing accompaniment.

Sam.

Holly sniffed. He must be cooking something, probably using
her prized set of Calphalon cookware. The sauté pan alone cost more than a
hundred dollars. She bolted for the kitchen.

What she smelled was dinner, but he wasn’t cooking it. He
was…agitating it. Sam held two white Chinese take-out cartons in each hand,
and he was swinging them by their wire handles to the beat of the song still
blasting in the background. As she watched, he lifted his formerly injured toe
and spun on his heel. He bopped across the kitchen floor, wiggling his backside
as he went.

Holly smiled despite herself. Sam danced with the kind of
abandon she hadn’t witnessed since the drunken festivities at Clarissa’s
wedding reception.

“Hi,” she called out.

He shimmied across the linoleum, unable to hear her over the
music and his own singing. Holly marched over to the portable stereo taking up
most of the counter space in her little kitchen and switched it off. Sam paused
in mid–spin, the take–out cartons still swinging.

“Great, you’re home!” He didn’t look the least bit
chagrined to have been caught in mid–song. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Holly slung her purse on the counter. “You made dinner?”

“Don’t go getting all mushy on me,” he warned upon
seeing her smile. “I just ordered in. It’s nothing fancy.”

From the looks of things, it was nothing neat, either. He
hadn’t left a stone unturned—or a cupboard door unopened. For the first time,
Holly felt thankful for the meticulous order Brad had always insisted upon
keeping everything in. Trying to look as un–mushy as possible, she went through
the kitchen flipping the cupboards closed.

Sam lifted the cardboard containers. “I was looking for
some bowls to put these in. Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

His smile grew wider and twice as seductive. “I’ve got
just what you need,” he teased. “Come on over and get it.”

Did he really mean what she thought he meant? Sam leaned
against the countertop watching her, his bare feet braced against the old
linoleum floor. Holly let her eyes travel up the length of his denim-clad legs,
past his haphazardly buttoned shirt, to his face. What she saw there made her
tremble. He meant it all right, and every sensual spin she could put on the
words.
Come on over and get it.

Her breath left her. This was going to be harder than she’d
thought.

“You probably want to bring in the things you bought
first, though,” he said.

Holly’s mind flashed on the supplies she’d purchased and the
bags of lingerie, still in the trunk.

“You did go to the mall with Clarissa like you said,
right? Do you want help carrying your things in?”

And let him see the stuff she’d bought? The “holiday
appropriate” garter belt and stockings set? The massage oils? The red and
black velvet groping-hands bra? No way.

She shook her head. “I…no, thanks. I can manage.”

“Sure?”

Holly nodded.

“Okay, then.” Sam indicated the food cartons. “I’ll
get this ready while you do. Just leave everything to me.”

He couldn’t know how tempting those words were…could he?
Half on auto-pilot, Holly headed for the car to bring in the clothes she’d
bought.

Just as she added the last shopping bag to the mountain of
others on her bed, Sam called her for dinner. Walking back through the house,
she felt his presence everywhere—saw it in the toothbrush beside hers on the
bathroom vanity, in the stack of unfamiliar books on the coffee table, in the
basketball game that flickered on the television.

It gave her a strange feeling. Until now, a roommate had
been just an idea, a faceless entity to make good her boast to Brad and help
pay the mortgage. She hadn’t counted on feeling Sam’s presence so strongly.

Beneath the archway to the kitchen, she stopped and stared.

Sam spotted her. “Come on, it’s getting cold.”

The lights were dimmed. Just beyond him, the banquette table
glowed with light from the number of red and green votive candles he’d set on
it, along with the bowls of food. There were two place settings, side-by-side
on one long edge of the table, a teapot and cups, and a little
cellophane-wrapped pile of fortune cookies for a centerpiece. Holly blinked. It
was all still there.

“I thought we needed a better beginning than we had at
our last dinner,” Sam said when she reached the table. “Thanks for
sharing your house with me.”

“You’re welcome.”

Holly gazed across the table again, wondering at a man who’d
actually eat by candlelight without being cajoled into it. The food smelled
wonderful and the table looked beautiful. It looked…romantic. She raced for
the light switch.

Sam’s hand landed on top of hers before she could switch on
the lights.

“Wait.” He slid his fingers beneath her palm and
gently lifted her hand away. “Don’t do that.”

She glanced up at him. He laced his fingers with hers and
came closer,
closer
, until she was backed up against the wall behind
her. His other hand came to rest on the wall beside her shoulder. He pressed
forward, and Holly felt his hips touch hers, then withdraw. Her breasts grazed
his shirtfront. When her nipples tightened beneath the layers of blouse and
bra, her breath caught and held. What was he doing to her?

“I dare you,” Sam said in a low voice. “I
dare you to leave everything just the way it is. I dare you to leave it and see
what happens.”

He pressed their interlaced hands hard against the wall. “I
dare you to feel, to feel us together. Feel me.”

He was hard and hot and breathless, and she was melting
against him. His hips rocked, once, sending the heat deeper through her,
leaving her pulsing with sensation.

Feel, feel us together, feel me.

“I can’t,” Holly gasped, ducking beneath his arm.

She took refuge on the other side of the banquette, the
candlelight blurring from her sudden, inexplicable tears. Her whole body
trembled with emotion. Whatever it was that Sam brought out in her, whatever he
wanted from her, it scared her half to death. She couldn’t look at him.

He switched on the lights, and Holly’s breath returned with
the brightness. Sam slid onto the other banquette booth. For a long time, he
didn’t say anything. The only sounds were the clink of the teapot against the
cups and the faint swirl of the tea as he filled each one. Steam rose, fragrant
and warm. Holly slipped her fingers around the heated cup and risked a glance
at him.

“There’s a sensuous woman inside you,” he said
quietly. “I think she’s worth waiting for.”

She shivered. No one had ever described her that way. She’d
never thought of herself that way.

“Well, somebody ought to let her out,” she joked,
hoping to turn their conversation to safer ground. “It must be stifling in
there.”

Sam didn’t smile. “You’re the only one who can let her
out.”

He wasn’t looking at her, and for that she was grateful. He
picked up a plate and gestured toward the serving bowls with a spoon. “Want
to try some?”

She could have cried with relief at his change of topic.
Holly peered in the bowl. “What’s in it?”

“I’m not sure. It’s better not to look too closely at
Chinese food.” He grinned. “But it tastes great. You game?”

“Is there MSG in it? That’s bad for you, you know. Some
people have allergic reactions to MSG.”

Sam paused, the spoon held a few inches above the bowl. “Do
you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to find out, though.”

“This allergic reaction—it’s not fatal is it?”

“I don’t think so, but—”

“Then the Kung Pao Chicken is worth it.”

With certainty, Sam scooped some on the plate. He added a
generous portion of beef with broccoli, then filled the remaining third of the
plate with rice. He transferred a set of napkin-wrapped utensils from his side
of the table to hers, then set the plate in front of her.

Holly stared at it doubtfully. “Is this brown rice?
Brown rice is healthier.”

He shrugged. “I doubt it.” He ladled rice on his
own plate and topped it with heaping spoonfuls of both entrees. “Go on.
Live dangerously.”

It
did
smell good. She had to admit that much. Holly
unfolded her napkin.

“It was nice of you to get dinner,” she said,
poking tentatively at an unfamiliar, but very precisely cut, vegetable.

Sam nodded, already chewing happily. Holly lifted a strand
of something green and stringy between her fork tines and examined it. It
looked like seaweed. She frowned.

“What’s the matter?” Sam asked.

She twirled the seaweed around the fork and scooped up some
rice to help it go down easier. “I’m just not used to eating things I can’t
identify,” she confessed.

“Then don’t look,” he suggested. “Just close
your eyes and take a bite.”

She was being a baby. Next thing she knew, he’d be
suggesting she hold her nose, or take twenty-nine bites—one for each year of
her life—like the lunch ladies used to do back in elementary school.

She ate the bite on her fork, then speared a piece of
chicken and ate that, too. She was the new, spontaneous Holly, a
lingerie-buying adventuress who lived to try new things.

“Like it?”

She was surprised to realize she did. “Mmm-hmm, it’s
pretty good.”

It probably had a million calories, one plateful equivalent
to twenty-five Big Macs or something, like that report on the movie theater
popcorn. Heart attack on a plate. She ate some more. It was addictive, seasoned
with flavors she didn’t recognize and filled with weird vegetables, but she
liked it.

Her eyes started to water. All of a sudden, her mouth was on
fire. Her lips, her tongue—even her gums—burned. Her nose started to run. She
sniffed, swabbing at her watery eyes with her napkin.