Home For the Holidays Page 17

  They both gawked at him.

  “I’m not ten years old anymore,” Angela said.

  “I’ll say you’re not,” The Prick added. “You’re all woman.”

  Nate wanted to take the man’s head off. Especially if he didn’t quit smirking like that. But with Angela right there…he felt equally driven to just kiss her and kiss her and kiss her.

  And okay, so maybe he was making an ass of himself, but Nate didn’t know how to stop. He hadn’t known how to call it quits when he’d been in over his head in NFL training camp with Reno years ago, and he didn’t know how to turn Angela happily into another man’s arms now either.

  Maybe because he didn’t want to.

  “Good night, Nate.” She waved. “Bye.”

  Not that it mattered, because Angela left him behind all the same. Just him, some chocolate chips and marshmallows, and a whole lot of cheerful, empty household that felt like nothing without Angela in it alongside him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For the rest of the week, Reno tried to get Nate hooked up with Rachel. For his first attempt, he invited them both to Glenrosen to string lights with the neighborhood decorating committee. Rachel trotted across the snowy street right on time, bright-eyed and outrageously dressed, wearing a sweater, a vivid smile, and hip-hugging jeans that made Reno doubt the wisdom of fixing her up with someone else in the first place.

  While Reno watched, Rachel dived into the task of sorting out last year’s Christmas light strings. She held up the end-to-end plug of a strand of C9s, then glanced around at the other volunteers. Most of them were grown sons and daughters of the residents, or people his own age who weren’t legacy Glenroseners, but who hoped to gentrify the old tree-lined neighborhood anyway. All of them were hopped up on coffee—with (or without) peppermint schnapps—and crescent-shaped rugelach baked by the unlikely team of Kowalczyk and Bender.

  “Who wants to help with this strand?” Rachel asked.

  A clump of people instantly swamped her. Beaming from the middle of the pack, Rachel quickly got to know everyone she hadn’t already met and got reacquainted with the people she knew. As a side effect, the lights got untangled, too.

  Five fully-decorated houses and yards, several light-bedecked eaves, and one painted-and-repaired nativity scene later, Reno climbed down from his ladder, having just finished stringing lights on Mr. Caplan’s house three doors down from his. He directed one of his neighbors to twine more lights around the mailbox and shrubs. Then he turned to take on the next task.

  Rachel stood there, bundled up in the same hat and scarf she’d worn for their kiss at the Christmas tree farm. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me. But the word around here is that you’re always the boss of this shindig, so I guess you’re just busy.”

  He shrugged. “Somebody’s got to take charge.”

  “And of course, it’s you. Kismet’s go-to guy.”

  “I like to help out.” If Rachel wanted to believe he was some kind of do-gooder in town, he’d let her. He knew the truth about how lucky he’d been—about how much he owed everyone who hadn’t been as fortunate. After all, he was just a regular guy. A regular guy who’d lucked out with football and come home a whole lot richer and a whole lot more grateful for everything that really mattered.

  “The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can get back to decking out my house for the Glenrosen competition.” He nodded toward his place. In the daylight, its eaves, roof, and lawn showed no visible signs of the 47,000 multicolored twinkling chaser lights he’d been stringing for weeks now, but Reno knew they were there. “That’s the winning entry right there.”

  Rachel wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t look like much yet.”

  “You’ll see.” He smiled at her. “Some people like to keep their flashy sides under wraps until the right moment.”

  “Boring. I’m all about making a statement, right from the word go.” Rachel looked him up and down. “And I’d say you’ve got the kind of flashy side that should never be kept under wraps.”

  Reno thought he might actually be blushing. “Uh-oh. I’ve got that naked feeling again.”

  Her brows lifted. “Naked? Sounds promising. Go on.”

  “There are two dozen people milling around, remember?”

  “So? Live a little.” She snuggled closer to him, her breath sending frosty plumes in the clear December air. Nearby, someone’s portable stereo blasted out Christmas carols, adding to the festive ambiance. “I only came over here in the first place because I thought you might want a little warm up.”

  “I do.” He grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Hot coffee.” She held up a steaming mug. “Judging by the way the ceramic is melting, it’s got plenty of schnapps in it.”

  “Ah.” Gratefully—but with no small measure of disappointment, thanks to his wild imagination—Reno swallowed some of the minty brew. It burned all the way down as he eyed her empty mittened hands. “You’re not having any?”

  A shrug. “It’s a little too Midwestern for me.”

  “Peppermint schnapps and coffee?”

  “Well…the whole thing really. Everyone pitching in, helping one another, doing good for their neighbors.” Watching a volunteer hang a wreath on an elderly man’s door, Rachel gave a mock shudder. “It’s so damn cozy, it’s giving me hives.”

  “That’s just your latent good nature wanting to come out. Part of you wants to string popcorn and sing ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’ while giving someone a discoing Santa.”

  She laughed. “No way. I plan to suppress whatever’s left of my Midwestern roots later tonight with a few of my own more fashionable traditions. Starting with cranberry martinis, a roaring fire, and the best of Bing Crosby on the CD player.”

  “Bing Crosby? That’s as traditional as it gets.”

  “That’s as classic as it gets. There’s a difference.” Rachel edged closer to him, running her fingers along his coat buttons. “Gold tinsel is traditional. Silver is classic. Stick-on bows are traditional. Red velvet ribbon is classic. Fruitcake is traditional. Iced sugar cookies are classic. Get it?”

  “No. Do you have this many rules for everything?”

  “Depends on what you have in mind.”

  What he had in mind, all of a sudden, was pinning her against the nearest snowy tree and kissing her again—maybe because of the saucy look she gave him. Rebellious Rachel Porter would probably go for it, even if it meant shocking the neighbors. Especially if it meant shocking the neighbors.

  Reno’s head swam with minty schnapps and his body throbbed with remembering how kissing her had felt last time.

  Hot, urgent, and surprisingly affecting.

  No. He was here to do reconnaissance for Nate, not enjoy his own R-rated Rachel flashbacks.

  “I had in mind ringing in the season,” he lied.

  “Predictable.” Rachel made a face. “Kismet-style, I guess?”

  “Damn straight. It’s better than L.A.-style.”

  “Is not and never will be. Wanna make a bet?”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “You have a problem with betting. You still haven’t learned your lesson, have you?” Reno touched her cheek, smoothing away a wayward hank of hair. He doubted anyone noticed. “I always win. End of story.”

  At her answering smile, his heart expanded. He didn’t bother to contemplate why. He figured it was the season, the smiling camaraderie, and the peppermint schnapps. He never had time for anything more elaborate. Not with his entire family needing him, his neighbors depending on him, and the whole town constantly expecting great things from him. It had been that way ever since he’d come home from the NFL. Maybe before.

  “You don’t win with me. Not unless I say so. Besides, I’m not just making this up. I can prove an L.A. Christmas is better than a Kismet Christmas any day.” Rachel nodded for him to finish his liquored-up coffee, then took his cup with a naughty-French-maid’s curtsy. Apparently she’d signed on for un
official hostess duty. “Come over for cranberry martinis and Bing Crosby later, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

  “You’re on,” Reno said. Impulsively and instantly. Because that’s the kind of effect Rachel Porter had on him.

  And that’s how he wound up spending a long, intimate, classic night by the fire with the absentee style-queen of California…without thinking about Nate once the entire time.

  Oops.

  Still determined to keep his promise to Nate, Reno arranged for his best friend and Rachel to run into each other at The Wright Stuff the next day—ostensibly so she could help one of his “buddies” with a shopping problem.

  “It’s Nate,” Reno explained when she stopped in, glancing curiously around his crowded, holiday-decorated sports equipment store. “He needs help finding gifts for his mom.”

  “Is this the same Nate who was supposed to go Christmas tree-cutting with you and me and Kayla at the tree farm?”

  Reno nodded.

  “The same Nate who couldn’t make it to the Glenrosen decorating party last night?”

  Another nod. Nate had claimed that he needed to let his eyebrows grow before meeting Rachel. Reno had convinced him—he thought—to address that problem by wearing a hat pulled down really low today.

  Now, fifteen minutes after the meeting time he thought they’d agreed upon (and four phone calls later), Reno was having second thoughts about his renowned persuasive ability.

  “I’m beginning to think,” Rachel mused, “that your friend Nate is dodging me on purpose. What’s up with that?”

  “Nothing! He’s a great guy. Really.” Torn with guilt about how much he’d enjoyed those froufrou cranberry martinis—and the hot-hot-hot kisses they’d shared in front of the fire before Rachel’s parents had accidentally barged in and they’d all wound up playing a game of Pictionary instead—Reno busied himself by rearranging a rack of replica hockey jerseys. “Nate’s a teacher, so he has a good job. He works out, so he’s in good shape. He’s incredibly frugal, so he’s dependable. Nate’s a real bargain for the right woman.”

  Not you not you not you. Damn it.

  Rachel shifted her gaze to him. “Um, you might as well know—I’m not up for a fix-up, if that’s what you’re angling at.”

  Helplessly—stupidly—Reno remained mum.

  “Dating is a lost cause for me, I’m afraid.” Reaching out to touch the jerseys, she recoiled as her fingers encountered one hundred percent polyblend. “I just got over a bad breakup. That’s part of the reason I’m here in Kismet.”

  “Somebody broke your heart?” He wanted to break their nose.

  “Nothing that drastic. The breakup wasn’t pretty, but it was a long time coming. When it came down to it, Tyson just—”

  “‘Tyson’?” He flapped his arms. “Like the chicken?”

  She guffawed. “Yeah. Like the chicken.” Her smile made her lips look luscious—and her whole attitude seem twice as light. “I think I’m going to call him that from now on. Tyson-Like-The-Chicken. Anyway, he obviously wasn’t the right guy for me. He was just…there. He was good-looking, and he fit the part—”

  “Were you casting him or falling for him?”

  “Honestly? A little of both, I guess.” Rachel leaned against the checkout counter, elbows flaring toward the Christmas cards he’d pinned up—greetings from other Main Street business owners. “I didn’t have time for a relationship, but I did need an escort to events. I needed someone to wake up with. I needed sex.”

  “Yeah,” Reno rasped in a casual tone. “Who doesn’t?”

  He could barely speak for the sexual image that flared to life in his mind though—him, Rachel, and yards and yards of classic red velvet Christmas ribbon.

  A gentle knot here, a gentle knot there, and he’d be able to satisfy all his holiday fantasies. He’d unwrap her slowly, bit by bit, kissing every inch of bare skin he revealed until Rachel begged him to let her touch him, too…until they both wound up so tangled they would never get enough of each other.

  “You’re wrinkling that shirt pretty bad,” she said.

  Startled, Reno glanced down. He’d fisted a Red Wings jersey so hard, it had a permanent crinkle across the numbers.

  “Want to share what you were thinking about?” she asked.

  Her playful tone almost enticed him to do it. He looked at her expectant face—stripped today of some of the glamazon makeup she’d worn when they’d met—and felt an almost palpable sense of longing. Longing…for his best friend’s dream girl.

  “Boring stuff. Gift wrap bondage. Making you beg for—”

  Her eyes widened…with unmistakable interest.

  “—another shot at meeting Nate.” Briskly, Reno moved behind the counter and fiddled with the cash register. Where the hell were his customers? Sure, it was early, but he could really use some distraction. “He’s meeting me tomorrow morning at my place to get geared up in our costumes for Kayla’s Christmas pageant. Kayla and Angela will be there. You should come, too.”

  Rachel crossed her arms, examining him. She wasn’t buying it, he could tell. “As curious as I am about the sight of you in a full-on Santa suit, I’ve got to ask…gift wrap bondage?”

  “Red velvet ribbons. Nothing major.” Carelessly, Reno waved. “The usual small-town Kismet Christmas shenanigans.”

  “Hmmm.” Her eyes sparkled. “I’ve been away for too long.”

  “I thought you might think so.” Damn, he was making an idiot of himself. Why couldn’t Rachel be like most of the women in town? They were so awed by his superstar football past that they didn’t do much except nod, smile, and occasionally flash their bras at him. “So…costumes. You should help with them.”

  “Do you need expert advice?”

  Advice about wedging him into a hideous red velour Santa suit and a scratchy fake beard? Not really. Reno couldn’t quite remember why he’d invited her to view the spectacle.

  Oh, yeah. Nate. Another chance for her to get with Nate.

  “Yes,” he said with conviction. “Yes, I do need advice.”

  And that was how he wound up with yet another date with Rachel Porter. A date that included a “jolly” pillow stomach, a big pointy hat, and a frequent directive to say ho-ho-ho a lot.

  She wouldn’t be able to resist him.

  Which was probably for the best. Because then Rachel would be twice as interested in meeting her biggest Kismet fan…if Nate could only get a grip on his damn eyebrows and get himself to the right place at the right time for a change.

  Standing in her bedroom at her parents’ house, Rachel pinned a gold-fringed Victorian ornament to her inspiration board. She added a stripe of metallic sixties-style tinsel, rearranged a scrap of gleaming snowflake-embossed paper she’d snatched while wrapping gifts for faraway relatives with her mom (she was caving in to Christmas at warp speed now), then stood back to survey the total effect.

  It looked good. Almost right.

  If she could just get the color scheme to match the tantalizing picture in her imagination…

  “I liked that Reno Wright. He was a nice young man.”

  At the sound of her mother’s voice, Rachel wheeled around.

  “You two had some amazing Pictionary chemistry,” her mom went on blithely. “Almost as good as your father and me. Hey, I recognize that!” Her gaze skated to Rachel’s inspiration board, even as she rebalanced her armful of silk garland for the crafty Christmas decorating project she’d launched in the kitchen. “What’s that? Do you have a new collection in the works?”

  Caught, Rachel fisted her pins. She had to plant both feet in her boots—her own L.A. stilettos—to keep from flinging herself across her telltale board. She should have known her mother would recognize this for what it was and call her on it.

  “Collection? Mom, I’m a celebrity stylist now, remember? I don’t do collections anymore. Those are for designers.”

  “Which you really are at heart. A designer.”

  Rachel demurred. Desp
ite her design school awards, her dreams of creating actual garments for people, and her long-ago hopes of expressing herself with fabric and tailoring, right now her ideas felt too fragile to discuss. What if they vanished?

  “You’ve got talent, honey.” As usual, her mother seemed undeterred by Rachel’s silence—and utterly convinced of her specialness. “You’ve got too much talent to be happy as a glorified shopper for those spoiled stars you work for.”

  “Work with, Mom. I’m a partner, not an employee.”

  Wearing a strange expression, her mother closed her mouth.

  “Anyway, I’m on vacation from all that, right?” Rachel spied a scrap of seam-ripped fabric atop one of the patterns she’d cut. She kicked both incriminating items under the bed. Her fledgling hopes felt way too new to reveal. “I was just heading down to the Elks Club to help the Kismet decorating committee with the Christmas parade floats. Do you want to come?”

  “Mother-daughter time?” A broad smile crossed her mother’s face. “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll get my coat.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Stepping over the snowy concrete steps into the Kismet Elks Club was like stepping back in time. Housed in a clapboard building a few blocks from the riverfront, the place still smelled like cigars (now outlawed indoors by a civic code), pancake breakfasts (with local maple syrup), and men wearing pants pulled up to their armpits (eau de Old Spice). There was even an I LIKE IKE campaign pin on the chalkboard near the door.

  Also written on the chalkboard were an array of Christmas parade-related assignments. In the center of the room amid the volunteers were bits and pieces of two floats being repaired, along with the flotsam and jetsam of costumes, giant balloons, and tinsel. A heap of old lights lay abandoned in the corner (a sight that would have broken Reno’s heart). Plates of Christmas cookies stood on a table near two popular coffee urns.

  Regulars milled around, busily working to prepare for the Christmas parade and the unveiling of the town Christmas tree.

  A man and a woman presided over the whole affair—working, it appeared, from two distinctly separate bases of operation. The woman, a fiftyish brunette wearing a pantsuit and a smile, manned a table full of paperwork, duct tape, and electrical cords. The man, about the same age but dressed in sweatpants, a Detroit Lions jersey, and a weight lifter’s belt, supervised the float rebuilding with a coffee-stained clipboard in hand.