Together for Christmas (5 page)

It didn’t matter that Casey Jackson was handsome, likable, and (potentially, at least) intelligent. He was the interloper here. He was in town to cause trouble (potentially, at least) for her sister. Sibling loyalty demanded that Kristen retaliate.

As of right now, she decided with an upward tilt of her chin, Casey Jackson was her official archrival.

It didn’t matter that he
seemed
charming (as Heather had direly warned her). It didn’t matter that everyone in town seemed to think he was some irresistible amalgamation of machismo, guy-next-door affability, hubba-hubba hunkitude, and superhero kiddie-taming mojo. Because Kristen didn’t want what everyone else wanted. She was more original than that.

She could think for herself. She didn’t need to see flirty Missy Neiman—insurance adjuster and die-hard PTO member—cuddle up to Casey Jackson and suggest he look into “concurrent causation exclusions” to know that
she
would not be getting on this particular Christmas-crush bandwagon.

She was not in the market for hunkitude.

Especially not now, when she couldn’t even count on Christmas. She
needed
Christmas, too, Kristen told herself. She needed its sweetness and sentimentality and sense of fun. She needed its reliability. Most of all, she needed its authenticity. Because at Christmastime, people’s better, kinder,
truer
selves always shone through. All year long, Kristen lived for that. It
made
Christmas for her.

And what
didn’t
make Christmas for her?

Casey Jackson. Here, in her town. In her diner.

Seeming unaware of all the excitement he’d caused—and of Kristen’s budding opposition to him—Casey extricated himself from those multiple conversations he’d been having. He shucked his coat. With a carefree air, he hung it on the stand-alone coatrack, almost as though he didn’t realize all eyes in the entryway (and some in the dining room) remained fixed on him.

Refocusing
her
attention on him, Kristen wasn’t surprised by the general fascination he’d caused. Because, to be fair, Casey Jackson wasn’t like anyone else in her tiny, thirty-two seat diner. He stuck out like the Easter Bunny in a Christmas parade. Like a packet of candy corn in a box full of candy canes. Like a polished-looking, square-jawed, dark-haired Adonis with chiseled muscles (she guessed), pouty lips (she noticed), and a knack for wearing a suit and tie (she assessed) as though he had on nothing fancier than a worn-in T-shirt and jeans.

Actually, Casey Jackson was . . . pretty intriguing, she couldn’t help thinking. If he was that welcoming in a crowd, how much friendlier would he be on a more
intimate
scale? If he was that comfy in a suit, exactly how relaxed would he be when naked?

Not that
she
needed to find out. Not personally.

But she had to keep those things in mind. Because it was crucial to understand your opponent when trying to distract him. It was important to gauge his capabilities when preparing to oust him from your town. It was critical to know, when going against a professional troubleshooter, exactly how much trouble he might dish out. Say, by flicking his soulful-eyed gaze in your direction—just for an instant—and making your heart skip a beat or two. Which Casey Jackson did in that moment . . .

Those were bedroom eyes,
Kristen thought nonsensically.
That’s what people meant by that
. And before she could even prepare herself, she was struck by a simultaneous urge to darn Casey Jackson’s socks and/or file his taxes and/or kiss him.

She didn’t even know what darning socks
meant
.

Irked by her own unexpected susceptibility to Casey’s charisma—the same charisma she’d been specifically warned against—Kristen jerked away her gaze. There was no
way
she was falling for some L.A. hotshot’s befriend-the-yokels routine.

He probably didn’t even mean it. He probably looked at every woman that way—as if he wanted to darn
her
socks, file
her
taxes, and kiss
her
. . . all while whispering sweet nothings in her ear and making her knees go weak with unfulfilled longing.

Not that Kristen knew anything about unfulfilled longing. She generally took what she wanted, got what she needed, and gave as good as she got. When it came to relationships, she was . . .

Not
considering Casey Jackson as a potential relationship.

Period.

Although if she
had
been . . .

But she wasn’t.

And that’s what Kristen staunchly reminded herself of as she watched Casey take the sole available seat at her diner’s crowded counter—and watched everyone else at the counter immediately smile and greet him and scoot their things sideways to make sure he had enough space to peruse the menu. Because she couldn’t possibly distract him or banish him from Kismet if she was busy mentally undressing him. Even if she
had
made it all the way past his suit coat and tie so far, and was rapidly . . .

. . . rapidly
stopping
that. Because it was more important to research what she was up against here. For instance, she could notice the way a nearby baby (and the kid’s infatuated-looking mother) made goo-goo eyes at Casey. She could observe the way the woman’s husband shook hands with him, his face alight with hopes for a budding bromance. And she could caution herself, no matter what else she did, to be careful this time.

Because Casey Jackson was not to be underestimated.

On the plus side, neither was Kristen Miller.

And it would only be fair to find out exactly what Casey really wanted in Kismet before she took action—before she cut him off at the knees and made sure he didn’t get it.

So, in the interest of starting off fairly, Kristen put on a smile and decided to offer him a never-fail, always-in-demand, ultra-delicious serving of pie—her specialty, her pièce de résistance, her foodie stand-in. If
she
had been a dessert, she would have been her pie: sweet, tender, and in-your-face good.

Casey Jackson couldn’t possibly refuse.

Casey was still considering the possible ramifications of getting stuck in a snowbank on the way back to his hotel when Kristen Miller sashayed over to him, slid something on the counter, and then stepped back with an undeniable flourish.

On her, that aura of bravado was pretty cute. Partly because she appeared about as arrogant as a baby giraffe. And partly because he knew
he
was going to win in this situation.

“Here you go. On the house!” she said. “Sorry about the long wait for a table. It’s been crazy busy today, with everyone downtown doing Christmas shopping.” Hands on hips, she glanced from him to the object she’d given him: a plate with a napkin at its center, topped by a squat, wide-mouth mason jar full of something sugary-looking, and accompanied by a fork. “It’s our specialty: pie-in-a-jar.”

“Pie? In a jar?”

She nodded. “Yes. Pie-in-a-jar. The jar makes it easy to take with you,” she explained. “It contains all the mess, too. It’s really good. What you have there is Dutch apple pie.”

“Oh. Thanks, but I’m not much for sweets. That’s really kind of you, though.” Casey nudged away the plate. “Here. You have it.”

“
Me?
What? No. I—” She gawked at him, plainly incredulous. “You’re not much for sweets? I’ve never heard that before.”

“It happens.” He smiled. “Sorry. I’m sure it’s delicious.”

She still appeared gob-smacked. “You’re not serious.”

Casey shrugged. “I just . . . don’t like pie.”

Her gaze sharpened. “You don’t like pie.”

“I don’t like pie.”

“Before you said it was ‘sweets’ that you didn’t like. Now it’s pie? Specifically pie?
My
pie?”

“It’s not just
your
pie,” he hastened to say. “It’s—”

“No pie? Ever? What are you, some kind of communist?”

He laughed. “I applaud your passion for your baked goods. But I just—”

“Eat it.”

He had to give her points for persistence. Maybe “handling” Heather’s little sister wouldn’t be so easy after all.

Dubiously, Casey examined the jar of pie. It looked sweet and sparkly from the sugar, with a spicy crumb topping and a neatly crimped crust, all contained in the mason jar. He had to admit it was cute. But he was a grown man. He wasn’t interested in cute food. However, if he had to . . . “Do you have any ketchup?”

It was possible her head swiveled around. “For
pie?
”

“Well, if I’m going to have to choke down piecrust, then—”

The thud of an industrial-size ketchup bottle hitting the diner’s counter drowned out his explanation. Standing behind it, Kristen Miller eyed him with evident challenge. A hush fell.

“I
dare
you to put ketchup on my pie.”

Two stools down, the plumber he’d just met leaned forward to catch Casey’s eye. “If I were you, I’d eat that pie.”

“Plain,” his wife advised. “No ketchup.”

“Kristen’s got on her angry eyes,” someone else said in a knowing tone. “I wouldn’t push your luck.”

Casey held up his hands in surrender. “I happen to like ketchup!” he told the diner at large, feeling as though he’d confessed to, once in a while, slapping on a pair of kittens and skiing downhill on them. “But I
don’t
like pie.”

“That’s impossible,” someone said.

“You’ll like
this
pie,” someone else added.

Okay. Well, clearly the town was on Kristen Miller’s side in this controversy. Casey knew when he was licked.

He picked up his fork. He eyed the mason jar full of pie. Then he shifted his gaze longingly toward the ketchup bottle.

Kristen appeared ready to clobber him with it. Casey almost spoiled his advantage by laughing out loud. He didn’t really like ketchup on pie. But the minute he’d seen the expression of certainty on her face, he hadn’t been able to resist poking fun.

Other people’s convictions had that effect on him.

Casey took a bite. He chewed. Swallowed. “Hmm.”

The diner’s customers awaited his verdict.

So did Kristen. With her arms folded, she watched him take a second experimental bite. Her eyes were vivid blue, he noticed, and appeared capable of shooting retaliatory laser beams at him if he said the wrong thing.

Doubtfully, he shook his head. He forked up another bite, tasting the flavors of apples and brown sugar and cinnamon, all enrobed in pastry and crumb topping. He quirked his eyebrow, then reached for the ketchup.

A collective gasp rose in the diner. Carelessly, Casey squirted ketchup on his next bite of pie. The people near him reared back in astonishment. Someone snapped a photo with their phone’s camera. Blinded by the flash, he chewed.

“Mmm. Better,” he announced in an approving tone.

Instantly, another animated murmur swept the place.

“I want ketchup on my pie, too!” someone called out.

Kristen heard. Defiantly, she grabbed the huge, forty-four-ounce ketchup bottle. She shoved it under the counter, where it landed with a crash, then dusted her hands together.

“Okay. That’s it. Nobody’s getting ketchup with their pie,” she announced to the diner as a whole. “It just became Galaxy Diner policy.” She narrowed her eyes at Casey. She leaned closer to him in a menacing fashion, propping both palms on the countertop. “Nice going, genius. You just started a dumb trend.”

He shrugged. “You’re the one who made me eat pie.”

“That’s right. And I’m not done yet.” She sized him up with a glance. “It just became my mission to make you a pie convert.”

If she kept on leaning over at him—inadvertently treating him to a glimpse of the lacy red bra she had on underneath her plaid flannel shirt—Casey just might let her convert him.

“Impossible,” he said. “It can’t be done.”

“Now I’m twice as committed.”

“Then you don’t know when to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Something tells me you have the same problem.”

She was right. That was interesting. But Casey didn’t intend to admit it. “And you can tell that because . . . ?”

“Because my sister warned me about you, Mr. Jackson, and—”

He held up his hands. “Call me Casey. Please.”

“—and you’re wasting your time in Kismet. All you’re going to do is slow down the progress on Heather’s TV special.” Kristen lifted her chin, seeming to gear up for . . . something. “She’s an artist. She can’t create magic if she’s under stress.”

He watched her lips quiver tellingly. He became momentarily sidetracked by noticing that (unlike all the women he knew in L.A.) she wasn’t wearing any lipstick or gloopy lip gloss. He found himself musing that the absence of those things would make it feel nicer to kiss her. She would feel . . .
really
good, he bet.

No. He had to concentrate. “That line would go down better,” Casey said, “if you weren’t laughing while you said it.”

“I wasn’t laughing!”

“On the outside, you weren’t,” Casey agreed. “But on the inside . . .” He examined her, heedless of the curious diner customers observing their exchange. “You were cracking up. Nice try at defending your sister’s ‘artistry,’ though. That’s very loyal of you. I admire that about you.”

“You do?” Wide-eyed, she regarded him. “Aw. That’s sweet.”

He felt satisfied with that outcome. As usual. Until . . .

“Seriously?” Kristen straightened. Her red bra and pert cleavage vanished from sight. “Do people really fall for that?”

He blinked, dismayed. “Fall for what?”

“Your whole ‘I’m so charming’ routine.”

“I
am
charming.” As proof, Casey refrained from pointing out all the new friends he’d already made in the diner. A less charming person would have gloated about that. “So are you, Kristen. Everyone in the world has a certain unique—”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Incredibly, she interrupted him by miming a talkative hand puppet at him. Her multiple silver bracelets jangled with the motion. She didn’t seem at all surprised that he knew her name. It was possible he’d underestimated her, given that he’d prepped for a sparkly-vampire-obsessed teenager. “You’re wasting your time with that ‘unique’ line, too,” she said. “I’m immune to flattery.”