Together for Christmas (25 page)

“Are those paper snowflakes?” he asked.

She looked. “Looks like it. So, about this party—”

And leaving it,
she was about to say, but then she realized that Casey had stopped cold near the senior center’s glass-windowed sunroom, while she’d already been motoring past it. He was staring at the hand-cut scraps of lacy-looking office-bond white paper adorning the windows in homemade holiday style. Against the dark night outside, they looked stark and bright and old-fashioned, reminding Kristen of the umpteen paper snowflakes she’d created as a kid during those long—and sometimes boring—days of Christmas vacation from elementary school.

Looking transfixed, Casey strode inside the sunroom. He was already at the nearest window, holding out his hand to touch the closest paper snowflake, when she caught up with him. The look of wonder on his face was as astonishing as it was moving.

“I’ve never seen them up close like this before,” he said. “They really look like gigantic snowflakes, don’t they?”

And
that’s
when Kristen realized that she couldn’t simply shanghai Casey into a night of between-the-sheets passion. At least not right away. Because she had to consider who she was dealing with here. And it was very obvious, all of a sudden, that she was dealing with a seriously Christmas-deprived man.

Casey hadn’t even encountered in-person paper snowflakes before? No wonder he was so grumpy sometimes.

But Kristen knew she could change all that. Just for him.

“We should make some ourselves!” With an eager air, she went to the sunroom’s coffee table. Someone had left a partial ream of paper, a cup full of safely stowed scissors, and a trash can full of scraps at the ready. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

Casey snatched away his hand. “I was just looking.”

“And soon you’ll be doing.” Kristen patted the sofa beside her. Party sounds still filtered down the hallway from the rec room. Bayberry potpourri scented the air. “Grab some scissors.”

“No. We shouldn’t be here.”

“Right.” Poker-faced, she nodded at him. “And
you’re
a total rule follower.” She laughed. “You’ll like it. It’s easy.”

Casey lifted his chin. “I didn’t say I couldn’t do it.”

As it turned out, he didn’t have to. Because it was evident, from the clueless way Casey folded his paper, snipped huge, aggressive chunks out of it, then frowned in bewilderment as it fell apart in pieces instead of unfolding into a graceful paper snowflake shape that he (literally) couldn’t do it.

As unlikely as it was, Kristen found that endearing, too.

Casey couldn’t construct a gingerbread house to save his life, she realized. He couldn’t fashion a paper snowflake. He probably didn’t know how to make construction-paper garland. Or an orange-clove pomander. Or a wooden-clothespin Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer with googly eyes. Or a tissue paper red poinsettia. He probably had never pulled taffy, enjoyed a horse-drawn sleigh ride, or gone caroling with all his friends. In an otherwise perfect world, that did not make Casey her dream man.

But in
this
world . . . all Kristen wanted to do was help him.

She wanted to give Casey everything he’d been missing—and more. Because she cared about him. Because she was (let’s face it) a little bit crazy about him. Because he was just so . . .

. . . determined to mangle his latest sheet of paper. Yikes.

“Try behaving
less
as though you’re trying to show the paper who’s boss,” Kristen suggested, “and just go with it.”

Casey tried glaring his paper into submission instead.

“Whoa. The goal
isn’t
to light it on fire, you know.”

He set down his scissors. “Are you
sure
you want to do this?” Invitingly, he angled his head toward the door. “We could be at my B&B in twenty minutes.” A meaningful pause. “Alone.”

As she glanced in the direction Casey had indicated, Kristen could have sworn—for an instant—that she saw
Heather
passing by in the senior center’s hallway. She clearly caught a glimpse of long, blond hair, oversize sunglasses, and a flashy leopard-print winter coat. But then she changed her mind.

This was one time when she
definitely
didn’t want the subject of her superglam sister to come up and spoil the mood.

“We’re alone right now,” she told Casey. “We couldn’t be any more alone than this at your B&B.”

“Oh, yes, we could. We could be
nakedly
alone.”

Hmm. That sounded good. Really good. Momentarily diverted, Kristen considered the idea of Casey in the altogether. She bet he would look
incredible,
with tawny California-guy skin and sleek muscles and a dazzling smile that would entice her into getting naked, too, so they could kiss some more and touch each other some more and find out—in explicit detail—exactly what felt the best when their bodies came together, skin on skin . . .

Ahem. So far, she was a terrible Christmastime tutor.

“I know you can do this.” As encouragingly as she could, Kristen scooted closer on the sofa. Her hip encountered Casey’s hip. Their thighs touched. Their breath combined. The instant intimacy of it reminded her again of the amazing kisses they’d shared earlier and nearly changed her mind. But then she remembered that Casey was practically the Dickensian poster child of Christmas deprivation. It was her mission to change all that. “Look.” She picked up her scissors. “Just watch me.”

“I have been watching you. That’s why I want to leave.”

“Huh?” Busily scissoring, Kristen didn’t look up.

“You look incredible tonight,” Casey clarified. His voice took on a low, husky tone—a tone meant to seduce her into doing whatever he wanted. It was predictably effective. “You make cutting out snowflakes look really,
really
sexy,” he said.

“Thanks. You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

His groan of frustration almost made her laugh. But it was this part of being with Casey that made Kristen feel so happy—this sense of connectedness and understanding and fun.

Casey accepted her wholeheartedly. He gave her the freedom to be herself.
And
he might have been the only person who’d never once acted as though he wished she was more like her famous sister. That made Casey unique. The least Kristen could do, she reasoned, was give something back. Something like Christmas. Or at the very least, an appreciation for Christmas.

And
paper snowflakes. Lots and lots of paper snowflakes.

Feeling overcome with affection for Casey despite his Grinchy ways, Kristen snuggled a little closer. Trying to ignore the appreciative (if over-the-top) glances he tossed her simple red sweater dress and boots and cardigan—because her go-to wintertime festive-but-not-sexy party ensemble did
not
deserve that much admiration, even in a perfect world—she snipped and turned and cut and frowned and unfolded. A few minutes later . . .

“Voilà!” She displayed a rudimentary paper snowflake. Then she handed Casey another piece of paper. “Now you go.”

“If I do,” he grumbled, “will you quit pestering me?”

“Just get scissoring, sexy.”

So, handily enough (and with an adorably telltale blush at her nickname for him), Casey did. Apparently he was a quick study, because after having watched her intently for several minutes, he managed to cut out a very acceptable snowflake.

Kristen could tell as much even before he unfolded it. But Casey, as a surprising newbie to this most elementary holiday activity (something Kristen had mastered in fourth grade) could not. With bomb-defusing-worthy concentration, he unfolded the first edge of his cut-out paper. Then the next edge. Then the next. Finally, obviously expecting disaster, he opened it.

When it
didn’t
fall apart, the look of wonderment on his face was everything Kristen could have asked for. And more.

“I did it!” Casey blurted, gawking in amazement. “Look!”

He proudly held out his paper snowflake for her to see, and she almost burst into tears at the sight. What kind of childhood had Casey had, Kristen couldn’t help wondering, if
this
ordinary activity came as such a revelation to him?

“It’s beautiful,” she said. And she meant it, too. It could have been the crookedest, lamest, most hacked-up paper snowflake in the whole universe of paper snowflakes, and she would have thought it was the best one ever. “You did a good job.”

Looking abashed now, Casey swerved his gaze from his first-ever paper Christmas snowflake to her face. “I could make a bigger one.” He set his jaw in a mulish line. “A
lot
bigger one.”

His determination and rawness only made her love him more.

“Maybe later,” Kristen said. “I have more to show you.”

But Casey wouldn’t be dissuaded. He reached for another sheet of paper. “I’ll make it quick. And humungous. For you.”

He folded and creased, snipped away, folded again, peered at his creation, cut some more . . . and then something else seemed to occur to him. He looked up at her with an intimidating frown.

Hastily, Kristen tried not to seem head-over-heels infatuated with him. She seriously doubted she succeeded. But Casey appeared far too intent on saying something to notice.

“If you tell anyone about this,” he said in an extremely fierce tone, “I’ll only deny it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of telling a soul.”

“No one would believe you if you did,” he warned, deepening his frown, “so you might as well save your breath.”

“I hardly ever speak as it is,” she fibbed, deadpan.

At her joke, he gave her a long look. “I know what you’re trying to do, you know. I’m not an idiot.” Casey nodded at his in-progress paper snowflake. Roughly, he said, “So . . . thanks.”

Kristen brightened. “There’s more where that came from!”

“God help me.” He scissored some more. Scowled anew.

“Don’t try to pretend you don’t want more.”

“I don’t want more,” he said convincingly. “You can’t make me like Christmas,” Casey informed her. “It’s not happening.”

“It’s already happening.”

“Don’t you know how to take ‘no’ for an answer?”

“If I ever hear you say it convincingly, I will.”

“I said ‘no’ fifteen minutes ago, when you suggested sneaking in here to make sneaky paper snowflakes!”

“That was different,” Kristen hedged. “I could see in your eyes that you were
dying
to make some snowflakes yourself.”

“Oh, so now you’re psychic?”

“I don’t have to be psychic to know what you want.”

“Oh yeah?” Undoubtedly prompted by her semi-smug tone, Casey eyed her. He let his gaze rove from her tights-covered knees to her messily upswept hair to her face. Intently, he looked into her eyes. “Tell me then: what do I want right now?”

“Right now? What do you want right now?” Feeling pleased with herself—and full of certainty—Kristen prepared to tell him.

She inhaled a deep breath. She met Casey’s steadfast gaze with a straightforward look of her own. She considered all the potential options, one by one. Maybe Casey fancied a glass of mulled cider. Or a walk around the Glenrosen neighborhood to see the famous Christmas lights all the residents put up. Or a session of making funky chenille garland out of red and green pipe cleaner loops strung together to make a festal decoration.

Then . . .
no,
Kristen realized. Casey didn’t want any of those things. What he wanted just then, she discovered as she gazed more intently at his dark eyes and smoldering expression, was
her
. Casey wanted
her
. He wanted her in ways that had nothing to do with holiday handicrafts or seasonal activities or mulled apple cider. In fact, if pressed, she’d have had to say . . .

“You want me,” she said in an awestruck tone.

“Right here,” Casey confirmed. “Right now.”

Compared with an invitation like that—and it
was
an invitation, Kristen realized while gazing raptly at him—the idea of sharing wholesome Christmastime activities with Casey simply couldn’t compete. Not when he was right there beside her, giving her bedroom eyes and letting her know—with an intense increase in the amount of heat crackling between them—that he meant it.

She ought to resist, Kristen knew. For the sake of Casey’s continuing Christmas education, she ought to hold firm to her higher ideals. Maybe she should take him ice-skating at the Kismet rink, which was decorated and outfitted for candlelight skating on wintertime nights like this one. Maybe she should teach Casey how to make gift tags from leftover greeting cards or create fancy gift bows from spools of ribbon and a little ingenuity. Maybe she should . . . slide a little closer and kiss him.

With an impressive amount of fortitude, she didn’t.

“
That
would stun the senior-center residents,” Kristen joked instead. “Us, getting busy in here amid the paper scraps and the back issues of
Reader’s Digest
. I mean, seriously, we’d hit the
Kismet Comet
for sure.” With an unsteady grin, she held up her hands to span an imaginary newspaper headline. “Sexed-up snowflake bandits strike again!” she said. “Authorities are baffled by what appear to be breaking and entering sexcapades—”

“It’s more than that between us,” Casey said quietly, echoing his earlier statement. “And you know it.”

She did. Maybe that’s what scared her the most.

But because Kristen Miller didn’t admit defeat easily, and because she was proud of her higher ideals and her new impulse to help Casey experience the best Christmas season of his life, she actually managed to try again. “I think I saw a gargantuan roll of paper in the senior-center office on the way here.” She gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “With that, you could make the world’s biggest, most awe-inspiring paper snowflake!”

She nodded at him, expecting to see the usual competitive fire she often saw in his expression. But, apparently, Casey’s desire to conquer the world of paper snowflake construction had already been satisfied. Or it was taking a backseat to his much greater desire to conquer
her
. . . lustily, sweetly, and completely. Because all he did was carefully set down his scissors.