A Kiss, A Kid And A Mistletoe Bride

“Oliver’s right, Gabby.” Joe tightened his mouth. “I’m very appropriate. Especially—”

“Uncle,” she said, her eyes gleaming with laughter and something else that made Joe want to step closer and see for himself what shifted in the depths of those changeable eyes.

But he didn’t.

Getting too close to Gabrielle O’Shea would be one of the stupidest moves in a lifetime filled with mistakes.

“I give up, Joe. Let me pay for this dratted tree and get home. Dad’s probably wondering what sinkhole opened up and swallowed me.”

Joe stood the tree against a pole.

Pine needles in his hair and all over his clothes, Oliver stomped up beside him.

“Stay with Gabby, Oliver, while I lug this tree over to Moon.”

Mutiny glowered back at him.

“It’s polite, son. To provide ladies with an escort.” Feeling like a fool, Joe didn’t dare look at Gabby. She’d be laughing her head off at him. Him. Giving etiquette lessons to a kid. What on earth was the world coming to?

When he turned around, though, she wasn’t laughing. Her face had gone all blurry and kissable, and he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to make her look at him the way she was.

If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her for sure. Would have stepped right up to her, wrapped his arms around her narrow waist and given in to the itch to see what that shiny blouse felt like under his hands.

No question about it. He wanted to kiss her more than he’d wanted anything for himself in a long while.

Instead, ignoring the warning alarms in his brain, the voice screeching Stupid! Stupid! he gave in to the lesser temptation and slicked back the curl of hair that had been tantalizing him for the last fifteen minutes.

Against the back of his hand, her hair was slippery like the silk of her blouse. Against his palm, the slim column of her neck was night-and-mist cool. For a long moment she stood there, not moving, just breathing, hazel eyes turning a rich, deep green, jewels shining in the darkness as she stared at him. He curled his palm around her nape and dipped his head.

Well, he’d never laid claim to sainthood.

Against the end of his finger, her pulse fluttered and sang to him, a siren call.

And beside him, clinging like a limpet, his son leaned, small and cranky and utterly dependent on him.

The strains of “O Holy Night” drifted to him. Heated by her body and nearness, the scent of Gabby, so close, so close, rose to him. Surrounded by scent and sound, he forgot everything except the woman in front of him.

Forgot the silenced alarms in his brain.

Forgot responsibility.

Forgot everything.

Oliver pulled at the edge of Joe’s pocket. “I want to go, Daddy. I’m tired.”

Joe stepped back and let his hand fall to his side. He wasn’t about to tell sweet Gabby he was sorry, because he wasn’t, not at all. If it wasn’t for Oliver, well, mistake or not, he’d have Gabby O’Shea wrapped up against him tighter than plastic wrap.

But Oliver was in his life with needs and fears Joe was only beginning to glimpse.

His son had taken up permanent residence in the cold, lonely recesses of Joe’s heart.

No one else had ever found the key to that cramped room. But Oliver had, that first time three weeks ago when Joe had taken his small hand in his and walked with Oliver out of the apartment where he’d been left.

Not hesitating, Oliver had picked up a raggedy blanket, latched onto Joe’s hand and said only, “I told Suzie you’d come. I told her I had a daddy who would find me.” He’d smiled at Joe, a funky, trusting, gap-toothed smile. “I knowed you would. You did.”

That had been that.

Next to that power, even Gabby in Christmas mist and glittery lights could be resisted.

He hoped. And maybe only because she backed away at the same time he did, both of them knowing better than to yield to that sizzle.

So when his son’s gruff voice came again, Joe knew the choice was easy. Whatever he wanted wasn’t a drop in the bucket compared with what Oliver needed.

It couldn’t be.

He wouldn’t let anybody, not even himself, cause this tiny scrap of humanity one more second’s worth of pain.

“Okay, squirt. You’re right. It’s late. But first we have to drop off Gabby’s tree with Moon. Then we’ll hit the highway. We’ll decide what to do about the party later.”

Oliver’s sigh was heavy enough to crush rocks. “I want to go home. Now. And I don’t want to go to a party.”

Joe was torn. What was he supposed to do? Yell at the kid for being mouthy? Is that what a good parent would do? It didn’t feel right, though, not with Oliver looking up at him like a damned scared puppy who’d just peed on the rug. Hell. Strangled, Joe tugged at his shirt collar.

Gabby curled her fingers around Joe’s arm. “No problem, Joe. You and Oliver decide after you get back to the hotel whether you want to stop at the house tomorrow night. Right now, Oliver’s tired and probably hungry.” Not crowding his son, she added casually, “Maybe having some of Moon’s cocoa and doughnuts would be a good idea.”

Her skirt pulled tight across the delicate curves of her fanny as she stooped to Oliver’s level, her manner easy and relaxed. Joe admired the way she gave Oliver space.

He admired her tidy curves, too, and decided a man could be forgiven for appreciating a work of nature. Looking didn’t hurt anyone. Be a shame not to admire Gabby’s behind. After all, she’d checked out his.

She caught his faint grin and yanked her skirt free where it had tightened against her.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” he drawled. “And the view is swell.”

Being a woman of good sense, she ignored him. “Oliver, I understand you’re particular about your cocoa. Anybody would be, but Moon makes a killer cup of chocolate. The older guys like it. But maybe it’s an acquired taste.” She stood up, shrugged. “You’d make Moon feel good if you gave his cocoa the Oliver taste test.”

His son hesitated, reluctant to give in. Stubborn little squirt. “Maybe I’ll take a sip. If it’ll make Moon feel better.”

Bless her. Oliver was probably hungry. Joe kept forgetting how fast a six-year-old ran out of gas.

“I was thinking—” Gabby wrinkled up her face “—that you look like a guy with discriminating taste buds.”

Intrigued, Oliver quit scuffing the ground.

“Doughnuts might not be your thing. Want to try some trail mix?” Gabby pulled out a plastic bag with chips of dried fruit and nuts. Opening the closure, she pulled out a couple of raisins and offered the bag to Joe.

“Trail mix sounds good. Raisins, huh?” Joe hated raisins, hated dried fruit. Prissy stuff. But he took a handful and handed the bag to Oliver, who, imitating him, grabbed a fistful and shoveled it into his mouth.

“Lots of raisins.” A sly smile tugged at Gabby’s mouth, curving her full bottom lip up. “You like raisins, don’t you, Joe?”

“Yum. My favorite—” Dubiously he looked at the wrinkled speck he held between two fingers.

“Fruit, Joe. Filled with nutrition.” Her eyes sparkled up at him.

“Yeah. I know.” He ate a raisin and figured he’d learned another lesson. Carry food. He reckoned his jackets would start looking like chipmunk cheeks before the kid grew up.

No wonder kids needed two parents. His respect for single parents shot up five hundred notches. How did they do it, day after day? How could he be this kid’s only adult? Day after day.

Impossible.

He scowled.

“Hope your face doesn’t freeze like that, Joe.” Gabby poked him in the stomach.

“I was just thinking.”

“Oh?” The sweetness in her voice almost undid him.

“Nothing.” Grimly, he picked up the tree and walked to the shed, Gabby slightly ahead of him. Clamped at his side, Oliver chomped happily on trail mix.

The kid deserved better than a selfish thirty-year-old loner who didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to do now that he’d become a parent literally overnight.

You couldn’t return a child like a piece of merchandise.

A kid was for life.

The kid hadn’t asked for Joe, either, not really. Oliver had wished on a star for a dad, and a whimsical fate had thrown him Joe.

So, the kid was stuck with him as a dad. Joe was all the kid had. Where was the fairness in that? The justice?

Coming to the end of the aisle of trees, Joe tipped his head up to the velvet blackness of night in Bayou Bend. Nothing in the star-spangled darkness answered him. Sighing, he glanced back down at his son.

And in that moment, as he watched Oliver manfully chew on trail mix while checking out Joe’s reaction, wonder settled over Joe. Nobody had ever looked at him like that, like he’d hung the moon and stars, like their whole world was filled with him.

He might be all the kid had, he might not be worth a tinker’s damn as a father, but, by heaven, he had one thing working for him.

He wanted to do right by this boy more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. That ought to count for something.

Taking a deep breath, Joe grinned at Oliver. “Come on. Hitch a ride on an old hoss.” Holding the tree with one hand, he swung Oliver up onto his shoulders and settled him. “Been a long day, huh, partner?” He patted Oliver’s foot.

Oliver rested his chin on top of Joe’s head as they approached the shed. “Yeah.” Oliver’s chin ground into Joe’s head with each munch of trail mix. “I like it up here.” He folded both arms on top of Joe’s head and wrapped his legs around Joe’s neck.

Hell, nobody was born knowing how to be a parent. There were plenty of books on the subject. Joe could learn. He’d make mistakes, but he could keep from making the same mistake twice. With a little luck.

And a lot of work.

He could do this daddy business.

“I’ll find Moon, Joe. If you don’t mind, just lean the tree against the shed and you two go have that cup of cocoa.” Gabby reached up and wiggled Oliver’s toe. “Nice meeting you, Oliver. Let me know what you think of Moon’s cocoa, hear?” She pivoted and whisked behind the corner of the shed so fast Joe didn’t have a chance to stop her.

He thought the night seemed darker and colder without the glow of Gabby’s face.

“Let’s go, Daddy.” Leaning forward, Oliver peered into Joe’s face. “We don’t need anybody else, do we?”

“Duck, son. The shed door’s low.” He didn’t see Gabby again. By the time he and Oliver drank cocoa, checked out the baskets of ornaments and made their way to the van, Gabby was nowhere in sight.

“Gabby leave yet?” Joe slammed the van door shut.

“Right after I tied down her trunk. She was in a hurry. Worried about her dad, I guess.”

“Milo looked fine when I saw him. But that was from a distance.” Joe lifted Oliver into the passenger side and motioned for him to fasten the seat belt. “What’s the problem?”

“Damned if I know. Milo’s complaining about Gabrielle coming home, swearing she’s making a fuss over nothing, that’s all I know. He’s worked up a head of steam about Gabrielle threatening to sell her Arizona condo and come back to Bayou Bend on a permanent basis.” Moon leaned over confidentially. “You ask me—and I notice you didn’t—that’s the problem.”

“I don’t get it. What do you mean?” Sticking the key into the ignition switch, Joe paused. “She’s back for good?”

“That’s what’s making Milo crazy. He’s ranting and raving that she would be making a mistake, that he doesn’t need any help—”

“Does he?” Joe straightened out Oliver’s twisted seat belt and snapped it into the slot.

“I don’t know.” Moon rolled his shoulders. “He was in the hospital for three weeks back around Halloween, but you know Milo.”

“No, actually, I don’t. Not well, anyway.”

“Huh.” Moon raised his eyebrows. “Funny. I thought you knew the old man. Don’t know where I got that idea.”

“Neither do I.” Joe kept his face empty of expression. What Moon might know or might guess wasn’t important. Joe wasn’t about to fill him in on any details.

He’d told Moon the truth. He didn’t know Milo well.

Not in the usual meaning, at least.

Moon nodded. “Anyway, if Milo’s got a health problem, he sure wouldn’t broadcast it. He’d make a joke out of it, but he’d keep any problem to himself. Milo’s good at keeping secrets.”

Joe didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to read between the lines. Moon knew something, after all, about that night years ago, but, like Milo, he could keep a secret. “Thanks for your help, Moon.” Joe reached out to shake Moon’s ham-size hand.

Moon’s face split into a grin. “Sure. Any old time.” His squeeze of Joe’s hand was hard enough to discourage circulation for a few minutes. As Joe started to pull the driver’s door shut, Moon rested his hand on it, stopping Joe’s movement. All the folksy drawl disappeared from Moon’s rumble of a voice as he gave Joe a keen look and said, “Merry Christmas to you and your boy.” He slammed the van door shut. “And, Joe...”

“Yeah?”

“Welcome home.”

Looking at Moon’s large, sincere face, where understanding lay beneath the good-old-boy mask, Joe felt his throat close up.

He’d felt the same way years ago when Gabby welcomed him to Bayou Bend, a place he’d never called home.

A place he couldn’t wait to run from as fast as he could.

A place he’d returned to because of Oliver.

And if it killed him, he was going to make this town home for his son.

Staying away from Gabrielle O’Shea would be part of that price, no matter how drawn he was to her sweetness.

In the hotel later, Joe watched shadows dance across the wall. Shifting, changing, like his life, the shadows passed one after another, each blurring into the other until the original pattern was no longer visible.

Beside him, snoring gently, small bubbles popping with each breath, his son slept. Peacefully. Securely.

Safely.

For the first time since he’d heard about his son, a son he didn’t even know he had, Joe slept soundly, too.

In his dreams, pine scent and Christmas carols mingled, and he followed the glow of Gabby’s smile, like a star leading him through the darkness.

Chapter Three

“Here Taste.” Milo handed Gabrielle a wooden spoon dripping with broth and rice. “What do you think?”

Gabrielle thought her dad’s face was too gray and too exhausted-looking, that’s what she thought. She kept her opinion to herself and took the spoon. Tasted. A complex mix of flavors burst on her tongue, and she sighed with pleasure. Her dad’s version of jambalaya might not be authentic New Orleans, but it was a feast for the senses. “I think it’s perfect, Pa. Best you’ve ever made.”

“Good.” Milo snatched the spoon from her and stirred the huge pot of rice, tomatoes, chicken, broth and sausage. Pale green celery dotted the red and white. Next to the stove, piles of translucent shrimp shimmered in a heap on a bright green ceramic platter. “But it needs a touch more red pepper.”

“Maybe,” she agreed. “But don’t make it too spicy, Pa.”

Not looking at her, he sprinkled pepper flakes carefully over the simmering mixture. “The boy. Oliver.”

“Oliver.” Gabby nodded. She didn’t know whether to hope that Joe and his son would ring the doorbell or hope they wouldn’t.

Every time she thought of Joe, her tummy fluttered, her pulse raced and she felt—agitated.

All this internal turmoil must mean she’d be disappointed if they canceled.

Or maybe it meant she didn’t want to face the knowing glint in Joe Carpenter’s brown eyes again.

What did she want?

She sensed that it was crucial that she figure out for herself what she’d wanted for herself in returning to Bayou Bend.

She looked around the homey kitchen with its worn wood cabinets and old linoleum floor. Milo’s banged-up copperbottomed pots hung from stainless steel hooks fixed into ceiling beams. On the counter over the double sink, the deep pink buds of a Christmas cactus hinted of the promise of the season, a reminder that darkness would end in light.

Spicy scents of past and present mingled with memories in a mixture as rich as Milo’s jambalaya, scents evoking joy and laughter and warmth from earlier years.

Like the cactus, happiness was a prickly-leaved plant waiting to bloom.

That was why she’d come home. To find that joy she’d lost, the joy she believed in her heart Milo needed.

What did she want?

And where did Joe Carpenter and his son fit into the new life she was shaping?

She wanted the best Christmas she could make, and being around Joe made her sparkle and feel alive. Made her look forward to the next hour or day, when she hadn’t looked forward to anything since her mother’s death.

Being around Joe made her feel like the Christmas cactus, all tight pink buds waiting to burst forth.

If he decided to take a pass on an impulsively issued invitation, she couldn’t blame him.

But as her attention focused on the cactus buds, the truth slapped her in the face.

She wanted him and Oliver to ring her doorbell. She wanted them in this old house, sharing the tradition of arranging ornaments to hide the bare spots on the tree. She wanted to see them spoon out heaping bowls of jambalaya and hear them sing carols around the ancient upright piano.

She wanted all the corny, traditional trappings of the holiday, all the gaudy color and glitter and sound. She longed to surround herself with heaps of packages wrapped in shiny red-and-gold paper and elaborately tied bows.

For whatever reason, she wanted Joe and Oliver to be part of that richness, not left by themselves to celebrate Christmas in a hotel on the highway.

“Hope these damn shrimp taste as good as they look.” Milo held a glistening shrimp up to the light and examined it critically before adding so casually that Gabrielle was immediately alerted, “Didn’t know you know Joe Carpenter?”

She knew what he was doing. Joe Carpenter wasn’t the real issue. Her dad wanted to talk. Like a cat stalking a bird, he’d sneak up on what he really wanted to talk about and, sooner or later, pounce.

That’s when the feathers would fly.

She could wait.

Because Milo wasn’t happy with her. She was pretty sure he was ready to launch into a lecture about her return to Bayou Bend, and she was in no hurry to tangle over this particular subject with a stubborn Irishman.

Double dose of hardheaded, is what she called him.

“So how do you happen to know Carpenter?” He plopped a shrimp back onto the heap.

“It’s a small town, Pa. Why wouldn’t I know him?”

“Bayou Bend’s small, all right. Folks know everybody’s business more than they should. Seems funny, though, you knowing Joe. He’s older than you, and he left town before you were in high school.”

“No, he left his senior year. I was in tenth grade. I used to see him around town. That’s all.” She wasn’t about to tell her dad about that long-ago night. Harmless as it had been, it felt private. Special.

“That’s right. You were only a sophomore. I’d forgotten.” His frown disappeared. “So you saw him at Tibo’s and invited him? That’s all?”

Puzzled, Gabrielle glanced at her dad. “Sure. Why? Is inviting him a problem?”

“No.” Milo poked at the shrimp, cleared his throat. “Just—oh, Joe Carpenter’s had a hard life, least that’s what I’ve heard. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt, that’s all.”

Gabrielle avoided addressing the implied question. “It was a friendly invitation to new neighbors, nothing more. Is there a problem?”

“Nope. Not at all. Joe’s welcome in my house.”

“Maybe not in other houses?”

“Probably not in a lot of houses,” Milo agreed.

Joe’s tough, don’t-give-a-damn exterior made it difficult to see him as vulnerable to the town’s opinion, but her heart ached as she imagined Joe with his son, seeking shelter from Bayou Bend’s coldness. He needed a friend.

She could be a friend.

“Here, Pa. Your scalpel.” Gabrielle handed him the deveining knife. Poking her father lightly on the shoulder, she studied him surreptitiously.

Usually thin, he’d lost even more weight since she’d last visited.

“Thanks, honey.” He ran the knife down the back spine of the shrimp, discarding the vein on a paper.

“Want help?”

“Nope.”

Thinking of the conversation the day before at the tree lot, Gabrielle added, “Didn’t know you’d had Joe Carpenter to dinner.”

“Not recently.” Milo pitched the shrimp into the colander, picked up another. “And it wasn’t exactly a dinner party, for your information, missy.”

“You’re making me curious, Pa.”

“Well, we know what curiosity did to the cat.”

Gabrielle opened the refrigerator and found the mushrooms and red onions she’d sliced earlier. Digging around the overloaded interior, she plucked out bags of lettuces and endive. “I can’t help being interested.”

“Be interested. That’s fine.” He ignored her whuff of exasperation.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Gabby tilted her head.

“Not my place to. If you’re so interested, ask Joe. It’s his business. If he wants you to know, he can tell you. I already told you Joe and his son were welcome here.” Holding up the knife and using it as a pointer, he stopped her midsyllable. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that, Gabrielle, so don’t go poking around trying to make me tell you, hear?”

“We’ll see.” From under lowered lashes, she glanced at her dad.

He groaned. “I know what that means. You’re going to pester me until you winkle out what you want to know, aren’t you?”

“Probably. After all, I learned from the master. I didn’t grow up a lawyer’s daughter without picking up a few tricks.”

He shook his head, grinning back at her. “My sins are coming back to haunt me. And speaking of coming back—”

Interrupting him, a tiger-striped cat thudded onto the counter.

“Down, Cletis!” Flapping her hand, Gabrielle made frantic shoo-shoo motions at him. “Take your greedy self off this counter this instant. If you know what’s good for you.”

Cocking a hind leg and licking it, Cletis mewed inquisitively, “Mrrrr?”

“Yes, you, mister. I mean it. Down. Now.”

Working his head under a paper bag lying on the counter, he made himself as invisible as twenty pounds of fur-covered creature could.

“Sorry, buster, I can see you.” Gabrielle hoisted the cat off the counter and took out a saucer from the cabinet.

His attempt to hide from her was no more successful than hers had been as she knelt at Joe Carpenter’s well-shod feet yesterday. An errant sympathy for Cletis moved her to swipe a piece of sausage from the jambalaya.

Chopping up bits of sausage, she used her hip and leg to keep him on the floor even as he chirped and twined himself around her legs. “Here, beast.” She placed the saucer on the floor and stooped to scratch him between the ears. “You are one spoiled fat boy.”

Cletis slurped and gnawed enthusiastically.

Milo was suspiciously quiet.

Kneading the cat’s head, Gabrielle glanced up at her dad. “You’ve been letting him on the counter, haven’t you, Pa?”

“Once in a while.”

Cletis nibbled her thumb as she started to stand up. “Hah. Every night is my guess.” She could understand. The cat was company for her dad. “Lord, he’s gained weight while you’ve lost at least ten pounds. You’re feeding him and not making meals for yourself, just nibbling from the refrigerator and counter, not sitting down for a real dinner, right? It’s a good thing I came home to take care of you.”

Milo thwacked the spoon on the edge of the pot. “That’s what I want to talk to you about, missy.”

“And what’s that?” Gabrielle rested her arms gently around her dad’s bony shoulders. As she’d thought, the discussion about Joe was a red herring. Push had finally come to shove.

“This damn fool notion you have. That you have to look after me. What makes you think I need any help? I have most of my hair, my hearing and, with bifocals, I see pretty damn well.” He slapped the spoon on the counter.