Together for Christmas (32 page)

Breaking off, Kristen scooped up Casey’s shirt. Feeling sentimental, she inhaled the distinctly masculine scent that clung to its starched folds. She hugged it to her chest. Just holding it reminded her of everything she and Casey had shared.

Kristen never wanted to forget it. She doubted she ever would. No matter what happened between them next, now that their romantic, sex-filled, amazing lost weekend was coming to an end.

“. . . wondering whether you’re out of quarantine yet,” Kristen went on to her sister, “and I wanted to let you know that I
have
been receiving all your texts with your food-in-a-jar ideas.”

There had been, literally, at least a dozen texts from Heather over the past several days—so many that Casey had taken to teasing Kristen about her “consultant” sister and their budding “partnership” involving the Galaxy Diner and its food.

“And thank you for thinking of me,” Kristen added, “but that’s probably all the new-item ideas I need for right now . . .”

Or for forever,
her more prideful side suggested, unwilling to admit that Heather—as a pop star and
not
a baker-turned-diner owner—had actually proposed a few useful suggestions, scattered among the obviously hallucinatory food-in-a-jar concepts.

“. . . and um, well, usually you answer your phone,” Kristen told Heather, still hugging Casey’s shirt, “so I’m sorry I missed you, but I guess maybe the doctor is there with you or something. I’ll try again later, okay? I hope you’re feeling better.”

With a shake of her head for her typically flaky sister, Kristen disconnected the call. She might not have reached Heather, but at least she hadn’t been shunted automatically to a member of Heather’s entourage via the “personal number” (actually an assistant’s phone) that her sister usually gave out.

Kristen was one of the chosen few who had Heather’s real phone number. Heather had ordered her to guard it with her life—even though, as far as Kristen knew, her sister still wasn’t feeling well and would hardly be expecting a gazillion calls.

It was possible that Heather was being extracautious now though because, deprived of oddball sightings of their favorite pop-star diva during her chicken-pox quarantine, the press had gotten more desperate than ever to get the scoop on her.

In Heather’s absence, they’d started speculating that her quarantine was only a publicity stunt. They’d begun hanging around her holiday TV-special set with new fervor, printing rumors, and pressing “close friends” of Heather’s to confide in them about what Heather was “really” up to in her “hideaway” at Lagniappe at the Lakeshore. Gareth had been approached for gossip; so had a couple of Kristen’s regulars at the diner.

Kristen hadn’t been approached. Not yet. But until Heather emerged from quarantine and (A) proved she had
not
been hiding in a “love nest,” (B) was
not
pregnant, and (C) was
not
dating a “bohemian boy toy,” those shenanigans would probably continue. Because evidently, where the paparazzi were concerned, “friends” were merely “unnamed sources” and “quarantine”
had
to be code for “astonishing secret that should be published immediately!”

Not for the first time, Kristen felt glad not to have her sister’s “charmed life” for her own. Because despite her occasional protests, Heather (mostly) lived for the attention. Everyone knew Heather loved getting special treatment. It was like oxygen to her. She wanted it, demanded it, and got it.

Whereas Kristen got . . . well, she got a variety of sore muscles in unusual places after a long weekend spent doing some
very
imaginative things with Casey, she remembered with a private grin. That man was definitely creative. He had stamina to spare, too. Kristen had the pleasantly achy inner thighs, twinge-y shoulder muscles, and (possible) minor neck strain to prove it.

She really ought to try to behave with a little
less
abandon sometimes, Kristen told herself as she headed for the other room. But when it came to Casey, control was very hard to find.

So was perspective, Kristen learned as she entered her kitchen and found Casey sitting at her built-in peninsula, chowing through a mini mason jar full of chocolate-cherry Black Forest pie with mocha whipped cream and bittersweet chocolate shavings and almond brittle. Because the downright
blissful
look on Casey’s face left Kristen with no perspective at all.

He was fantastic. And sweet. The end.

He was also, Kristen observed, making roughly the same kinds of pleasure-filled sounds he’d made last night while making love to her. With each new forkful, Casey’s ecstatic expression grew. His eyes fell closed. Another moan burst from him. He even gave a burly shoulder shimmy. Evidently, despite his frequent and enduring protestations to the contrary, Casey did
not
“hate” her pie, after all.

“Hey, there.” Filled with simultaneous amusement and affection, Kristen stopped on the other side of the counter. She eyed Casey’s expression of almost illicit pleasure. She grinned. “It looks as though you found a way to tolerate my pie.”

At her poker-faced observation, Casey snapped open his eyes. Caught in the midst of actively cradling his pie-in-a-jar in one hand while fisting a whipped-cream-festooned forkful in the other, he gave her a guilty grin. “I was starving.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And I, um, couldn’t find the ketchup in your fridge.”

Kristen marched to her refrigerator. She opened the door. She pointed to the ketchup bottle. “It’s right here.” A meaningful pause. “Next to all the remaining pies in jars. You know—the pies that are identical to the one you’re eating.”

“Oh. I must have missed it,” he bluffed. Outrageously.

“Of course. You missed it.” At the realization that Casey
obviously
loved her baked goods, even if he didn’t want to say so, Kristen couldn’t hold back a wider smile. That was
almost
as good as him loving her. At least it was a fine first step. “Yeah, I’m always not seeing things that are right in front of my face,” she told him wryly. “Sometimes, it’s a real problem.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Confusingly, Casey’s knowing tone suddenly matched hers. So did his smile, as he lowered his gaze to her chest. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice that you’re hugging my shirt.”

“Hugging your . . . huh?” Caught now herself, Kristen froze. Dumbly, she looked down at her arms—which were, just then, blatantly cuddling Casey’s shirt like a teddy bear. “Oh!” Snared in the act of openly
embracing
Casey’s shirt, as though it were a part of him instead of merely a memento from their weekend together, she searched for an excuse. “
This?
I’m just tidying up.”

“That’s funny.” With utter confidence, Casey forked up more pie. Overtly, he savored it. “Because there are clothes strewn from one end of this place to the other”—at that, he gave her a wicked eyebrow waggle and a thigh-warmingly suggestive look—“yet you chose to wander around with my shirt in your arms.”

Kristen lifted her chin. “It was within reach, that’s all.”

Casey’s pointed gaze swerved to the small pile of gloves, scarves, and knit caps that had wound up on the peninsula after their ongoing adventures. Those misplaced items definitely needed tidying. They were, literally, well within arm’s reach. Both of them knew it, too. Kristen felt her cheeks warming up.

“I’ll forget the pie if you’ll forget the shirt hugging,” she offered hastily, giving him a canny look. “Deal?”

Casey considered it. “Maybe.”

Argh. “Maybe what?”

“Maybe I’ll want to sweeten the deal before agreeing.”

Aha. “I’ll throw in more pie. With my eyes closed.”

At her flippant offer to support his secret pie habit—while simultaneously pretending not to know about it—Casey shook his head. “I don’t want you doing anything with your eyes closed. Not when I love the way you look at me so much.”

Deliberately, Kristen gave him a goofy, goggle-eyed look.

He laughed. “Although, speaking of your baked goods . . .”

Kristen waited, expecting him to request ketchup, just to make a point. Instead, Casey hesitated. He drew in a breath. He darted a glance at her, then rubbed the back of his neck.

Spying that gesture, Kristen froze. That neck rub was Casey’s “tell.” It was what he did when dealing with the cast and crew members from Heather’s
Live! from the Heartland
holiday TV special, for instance. She’d seen him do it many times. But since that movement was so slight and seemed so natural, Kristen doubted most people noticed it. What in the world was he up to?

Probably he was conjuring up a custom pie-in-a-jar request, she decided as Casey’s easygoing demeanor returned. That’s what most people wanted from her—that or recipes. Most likely, Casey had been considering which items he could request in a personalized pie-in-a-jar that would best improve the deal she’d proposed. It would be just like him to push for bonus sprinkles.

Instead, to her surprise, he asked, “Have you ever thought of marketing your pies-in-a-jar? Maybe on a national scale?”

It was exactly what Shane Maresca had pressured her to do, Kristen realized. The idea had more appeal coming from Casey—from someone she trusted. But she still didn’t want to do it.

She didn’t want to risk grabbing for that brass ring—being the “
second
big success story” to come out of her hometown “burg”—because that was Heather’s territory. Kristen couldn’t possibly compete. She liked her life the way it was. Mostly.

Although having Repo Man/bankers stalking her over her mistakenly “in default” business mortgage wasn’t ideal . . .

“I’ve thought about it,” Kristen admitted. “I could use the money, if I could ever find any investors. And I do like the idea of more people being able to try my baked goods. I have that much ego. But . . .” Then she realized what Casey must
really
be doing: distracting her from her offer that they mutually agree to ignore their shirt-hugging, pie-loving,
hooray-I’m-in-love!
tics. “But what about my offer?” she pressed him, unwilling to give up on the idea so easily. She was stubborn that way. “No shirt-hugging noticing? No pie-loving mentioning? Is it a deal?”

“I don’t know.” Idly, Casey swirled his fork through his pie-in-a-jar’s mocha-whipped-cream topping, giving up on his baked-goods-marketing idea much more readily than Shane Maresca had. He glanced up at her. “I still might want more.”

“More? Well, I
do
have more pie in the fridge.”

“And I have more shirts available for nonstop hugging.” His eyes gleamed mischievously at her. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Okay.” Kristen tried not to feel like a freak for holding on to his laundry. She couldn’t relent now. “I’m listening.”

“Well, what I want isn’t a big deal,” Casey said casually. “The thing is, we’ve spent a few really great days together—”

“Yes.” Kristen nodded. Her thighs practically tingled in agreement as she considered everything that had gone on between them during the past few days—and nights. “We sure have.”

“—and I’ve been thinking that I might want to duck out of The Christmas House earlier than I’d originally planned,” Casey went on. “Because despite my interest in keeping an eye on Shane, and despite the B&B’s friendly management and staff, I’m not really into all that holiday atmosphere.”

At that preposterous understatement, Kristen smiled.

“So, if your offer to stay here for a while still stands,” Casey said in a musing tone, “I’d like to accept.”

Kristen blinked. She’d tossed out that invitation on a whim. But now . . . “You want to escape Christmas by staying
here?
”

Casey nodded. As though proving it, he looked around Kristen’s apartment. Prompted by his example, she did, too—only to realize immediately that
no one
could ever realistically hope to escape Christmas in her apartment. Because pretty much, it appeared as though a supersize Christmas cracker had exploded inside. There were holiday lights and festive tchotchkes in every corner, plus a lighted Christmas tree in the other room. From its holly-and-poinsettia welcome mat to its wreath made of starlight mints glued to a Styrofoam circle—a handmade gift from the fifth graders at Kismet Elementary School—Kristen’s apartment was decked out like Christmas Central. While it was
possible
that her place was a smidge less Christmassy than The Christmas House B&B was, it was certainly was no Grinchy haven.

But there was no payout in calling his bluff. Casey wanted to stay. And that made Kristen want to whoop. And maybe do a little happy dance. And maybe hug
him
, too. But she didn’t.

Nonchalantly, she said, “Sure. I’ll need
someone
to help me eat all those pies-in-a-jar. They’re demo pies. Samples.”

“They’re delicious. Not that I’m admitting I ate any.”

His grin captivated her, just the way it always did.

“I’ve never laid eyes on any of your shirts, either. Just FYI,” Kristen told him, still cuddling the one she held. “As far as I’m concerned, you might as well be permanently shirtless.”

It was an idea that had merit, she decided as she swept her gaze longingly over Casey’s ultrabuff bod. He really was amazing to look at. Especially now, all shirtless and muscular and wearing yesterday’s pants. They dipped dangerously low on his hip bones, encouraging her to look at Casey’s bare rippled abs, consider his taut thighs, and remember all of the
very
impressive rest of him that was currently hidden from view.

If Kristen had her way, none of him would stay hidden for long. She liked the idea of meandering over to Casey’s bar stool, dolloping some whipped cream on his chest, then licking it off. Slowly. She liked the idea of unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants, and making sure Casey found something else to sound blissed-out about besides breakfast-time Black Forest pie-in-a-jar. Absolutely. She liked the idea of making Casey beg for her to love him, because he’d already done that at least once during their time together—in a husky,
urgent
tone that had thrilled her then and still thrilled her now—and Kristen suddenly wanted more. She wanted all of him. She wanted to give him all of her.