Christine Pacheco - A Husband In Her Stocking

“Just what kind of parents do you have?”

“Rich ones.”

She saw him take in the kitchen, with its faded vinyl, outdated appliances and seen-better-days curtains. Despite her best intentions, she gave a shallow smile. “I don’t accept their money. They send a check every year.” She waited a couple of beats, then added, “At—”

“Christmas.” This time, Kyle winced.

She dropped her hand and raised her shoulder in a short shrug. “I send it to the childrens’ shelter.”

“They don’t spend the holiday with you?” he asked incredulously.

“Aspen’s quite a drive from here.”

“So they live in the state?”

She shook her head. “They have places in France and Florida. They just fly to Colorado for two weeks each year. Great skiing. Even better parties.”

“And they don’t come to see you?”

“They did. Once.”

Kyle’s four-letter word was ferocious and forceful. She grimaced. “And Santa Claus?” he asked, leaning forward, adding to the intimacy, stealing rational thought.

“Didn’t have time to stop at my house.”

“Jeez, Meghan, what the hell kind of life is that for a kid?”

“At least it was a little better than the Christmases when I was left at boarding school.”

Kyle’s hands tightened into fists. “That’s not the way it is.” Each word was tight, leashed with control. “Not the way it should be.”

“Maybe not,” she said softly, the sharpness of his voice reverberating in the quiet. “But it’s the only way I’ve ever known. There was one night,” she said softly, “that my nanny found me asleep on the stairs, waiting for Santa Claus, for my parents to come home and tell me they loved me, waiting for some of the Christmas magic people talk about.”

In a painful whisper, she added, “It never happened.”

“I’m going to change that,” he vowed.

For the hesitant flash of a stolen moment in time, she believed him.

Reality rushed back in an unwelcome return. She hadn’t felt disappointment only once. She’d experienced the sting twice, as if the heavens weren’t satisfied with a single serving.

A mother’s inflicted pain had been nothing in comparison to the anguish caused by a man who’d stood in front of a preacher, looked in her eyes and swore he would love and cherish her, forever.

And that part was her secret.

Years later, Meghan still had trouble believing anyone could be as coldly merciless as Jack had been on their first holiday together.

Feeling a tear form, she rapidly blinked, refusing to give in again.

“You don’t believe me.”

Meghan might be a fool once, maybe even twice, but never three times. She met Kyle’s eyes, as bleak as his words. “No. I don’t. Christmas isn’t for everyone. It isn’t for me.”

In a fluid motion that belied his size, he stood, the chair toppling with a resounding crash. He demolished the distance between them, placing his hands on her shoulders and pulling her up to face him.

She tried to swallow, but there wasn’t enough moisture to make it possible. His masculine scent surrounded her, making her thinking clash simultaneously into thoughts of safety and danger. She feared for her own sanity and her ability to keep a foothold on the reality life had dealt her.

His look was purposeful.

Meghan trembled with anticipation.

When he drew her closer with firm pressure, she didn’t resist. Just for now she wanted to succumb to the thundering impulses inside.

She felt his hands in her hair, tangling in the sleep-tousled strands. Gently, he moved a hand down, skimming her neck, her spine, spreading across her upper back and holding her tight.

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