Lindsay Longford - A Kiss, A Kid And A Mistletoe Bride

“So how long has it been?” he asked, his voice low and rumbly, goading, baiting her. “Let me think if I can remember the last time I saw you, Gabby. It must have been—”

“A while,” she said grimly, struggling to her feet and catching one flat-heeled shoe on slippery needles and mud. “That’s how long. A while.” Her foot skidded forward and her arms windmilled crazily. Flailing, she saw her purse sail into the darkness.

“Whoa, sweet pea.” Joe’s warm hand closed around her elbow and braced her, his still-callused fingers sliding down her wrist as she balanced.

Even through the silk of her blouse, Gabrielle felt that warm, rough slide. His hand had been warm that night, too, warm against her bare skin. She shivered.

“Cold?” Amusement glittered in his eyes. Heat was in the depths, too, as he watched her.

He knew what he was doing, as he had eleven years ago, eleven years that had vanished like smoke with his touch. He knew, but she was darned if she’d give him the satisfaction of going all giddy and girlish.

She was twenty-six years old, too old for girlish. Giddy and girlish had never been her style, not even at fifteen. “It’s the damp. That’s all,” she muttered. “I’m not used to it anymore.”

“Sure that’s all it is?” His question, below the raucous rendition of the chipmunks and their version of “Jingle Bells,” tickled the edge of her cheek where he bent over her, still supporting her.

“Absolutely.”

“You moved away from Bayou Bend?” He clamped a hand under her elbow and steadied her.

“I’ve been living in Arizona. Same rattlesnakes. Less humid.” She dusted off her red velour skirt, shot Oliver a smile and a “so long” and slung her shoulder strap over her arm. “Nice to see you again, Joe. Merry Christmas to you and your son.”

She was almost safe. One second more, and she would have been up the walkway and gone, out to her car, away from the slamming of her heart against her chest, away from memory and the sizzle of his touch. One second. That’s all she needed.

Out of the darkness of the next aisle, Moon Tibo lumbered, bumping into her and pitching her straight into Joe Carpenter’s arms. “Okay, folks, let’s haul this tree up front and get you on your way. I mean, you only got twenty-four days to the big event. Y’all gonna want time to hang up them ornaments before this year’s over, right?”

“Right.” Joe’s laugh gusted against her ear, and Gabrielle felt her toes curl in memory. “Give me a minute, Moon. Got a damsel in distress here.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. How ya doin’, Gabrielle? Your dad feelin’ better?”

“Much.” She was all tied up with her purse strap and Joe’s arms, and she twisted, pushed, while Joe’s chest shook with laughter against her. Over its broad slope, she finally angled her face in Moon’s direction. “Dad’s cooking jambalaya tomorrow night, in fact. For after we decorate the tree. Come on over. He’d enjoy seeing you.”

Six foot five and built like a mountain, Moon gifted her with one of his rare smiles. “Might do that. Sure like your dad, I do.”

She tugged again at her strap, which had flicked over Joe’s head and bound them together. Mumbling under her breath to Joe, whose only help so far had been to keep her from landing face first in pine needles and mud, she said, “Give me a hand, will you? I can’t do this alone.”

“You got it, sweet pea. Lots of things aren’t any fun done alone. I like lending a helping hand.” His half smile could have lit up the town of Bayou Bend for a couple of blocks, and even Gabrielle’s forehead blazed with heat. Lifting the strap, he ducked under it, his thick hair brushing up against her mouth, and stepped back. “I’m ready to help out. When I can.” His palm was flat and firm against the hollow of her spine. “How’s that?”

“Peachy. Thanks.” Gabrielle untangled herself from Joe’s clasp and blushed back her hair. Joe Carpenter would flirt if he were wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy. “This has been—special.”

“Absolutely.” He plucked a pine needle twig from her hair and handed it to her. “A memento, Gabby. For old times’ sake.” His voice was light, amused, and his eyes teased her.

But behind the gleam, deep in their shadowy depths, she thought—no, imagined—she saw regret, a regret that made no sense, and so, surely, she must be imagining that rueful glint.

“We never had old times, Joe.” She mustered a smile and let the twig fall to the ground.

“No?”

She shook her head and hoped her own regret didn’t break through. “Not me. You must be thinking of someone else.” Anyone else, she reminded herself. Joe’s track record with adolescent hearts in high school had been gold-medal worthy.

But if she were honest with herself, and she tried to be, she knew her regret ran ocean deep because she’d never, ever felt that wildness with anyone since. She wasn’t fifteen anymore, and she could handle Joe Carpenter’s teasing. Sure she could, she thought as his eyes narrowed intently for a moment.

“Well. If you say so. Must not have been you I was remembering outside the country club.” He shrugged and let his hand rest on Oliver’s head. “It was real good seeing you again.” His gaze sharpened as he gave her a last glance. “Nice, that red skirt and silky blouse.” He smiled, and again that flicker of regret appeared in his eyes. “You look like a shiny Christmas present, Gabby.”

The weariness unraveling his voice and slumping his shoulders was real, and she hesitated, knowing she was making a mistake, knowing she’d be a fool to open her mouth when she had her exit line handed to her on a plate. Say goodbye and walk away. That’s all she had to do.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She would be asking for more trouble than she wanted, needed. And then, looking down at the boy, Joe’s son, she spoke. “Come for supper. Tomorrow night.” Joe’s sudden stillness told her the invitation surprised him as much as it did her.

She would have taken the words back, but they hung in the air, an invitation she hadn’t intended, an invitation she wished she could take back the minute she spoke.

“Why doncha, Joe? Milo sure wouldn’t care. You know how he is. More the merrier, that’s what ol’ Milo says.” Moon hoisted the tree up with one hand and strode up the aisle toward the shed where the trees were trimmed and netted.

Gabrielle stared after him. She might have known, Moon being Moon, he would stick his two cents in. Trapped, she added politely for appearances’ sake, “Dad makes a big pot. He wouldn’t mind.”

“Jambalaya, huh?” Joe rubbed his chin. “Milo makes good jambalaya.”

“How would you know?” She closed her mouth, stunned. To the best of her knowledge, despite Moon’s blithe assertion, Joe Carpenter had never met her father.

“Oh, I’ve had a plate or two of your pa’s cooking.” Running a hand through his hair, Joe glanced at Oliver, back to her, and then said, so slowly she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, “Thanks. I reckon we’ll take you up on your offer. It’s a good idea.”

Oliver, who’d been strangely silent throughout the whole incident, glared up at her, his face as fierce as it had been the first time she’d seen him, but he didn’t say anything. Taking a sideways step, he plastered himself against his father and stayed there, a scowling barnacle to Joe’s anchor.

Uneasiness rippled through Gabrielle as she saw the boy’s hostility return, and she wished, not for the first time in her life, that she’d counted to ten before speaking. She was trapped, though, caught by Moon’s interference.

Judging by the expression on his face, Oliver was trapped, too. As she looked away from his frown, her words tumbled out. “Good. Company will be great. That’s what the season is all about. Family, friends. Get-togethers. Eggnog.” Mumbling, Gabrielle scrabbled through her purse for a piece of paper and a pen.