Mistletoe Daddy

He had been working overtime at the ranch all week, nursing sick cattle. The night before New Year’s Eve, he’d barely turned in for the night when his mother called. His father had only been gone for a few months and she was having a rough time emotionally. She asked if he could come and sit with her for a while.

He’d ended up staying with her long into the night, keeping her company as she grieved through her first set of holidays without her husband, Jenson. She’d talked for a long time, sharing her memories of Christmases past.

Nick had quietly held her, but it was tough for him to listen to her stories, an extra proverbial punch in the gut, because he hadn’t been there when his father passed away. He’d been too busy caring for the ranch, resenting Slade and Jax for leaving him with all the work while they took extra trips to San Antonio to be with their ailing dad.

It was a regret he carried in his heart always, so the opportunity to be available to care for his mother when she needed him seemed the very least he could do to try to make things right.

When he’d woken on the morning of New Year’s Eve, he’d been bone weary, but ranch work stopped for no man and Nick had worked from before dawn until well after the sun went down.

He was supposed to be slicking up to take Brittany to Serendipity’s annual New Year’s Eve bash in town. He’d only slouched onto his couch for a second to take a load off his feet and catch his breath. He hadn’t even been aware of closing his eyes until three hours later, when he’d awoken with a start from a deep, dreamless sleep. Somehow he’d gone from sitting up to stretched out full-length, facedown on the couch, with one long leg dangling off the end.

He remembered with alarming clarity the full moon streaming through the front window of his small cabin. It had taken him a few seconds just to figure out where he was, and another beat more before the jolt of realization hit him.

He was late to the party.

Way late.

Like missed-the-kiss-at-midnight kind of late.

He’d dressed in his Sunday go-to-meeting clothes as quick as he could and hightailed it to the party, but he knew even then he was too late to make things right. He felt terrible about letting Brittany down—again—but not nearly as bad as he felt when she verbally tanned his hide right in front of the entire town.

Part of the problem was that her tongue-lashing tested his pride and ego—she might have been angry with him, and rightly so, but she didn’t have to air their dirty laundry in public for everyone to see. Still, once he’d simmered down, the harder blow came when he’d realized she was right.

He had let her down. Had neglected her. Had broken trust with her. Enough that the single women in Serendipity as a whole tended to avoid him, and every woman he’d asked for a date since that time had turned him down flat.

A man could get a complex. How was he supposed to prove that he’d learned his lesson and that he could do better if no one would give him a chance?

And that was the real reason he was committed to seeing Vivian’s project through to completion, however silly he thought the idea of a salon and spa was on a personal level. To prove to the ladies in town—and, perhaps equally important, to himself—that folks could depend on him. That he was trustworthy, and not a total flake.

“How can I help?” Vivian asked, snapping him from his reverie.

“Bring me the push broom, please,” he answered without turning to look at her. “It’s in the back corner.”

The next moment he heard a thunk, and then a crumble and then a crash.

What—?

He whirled to find Vivian sprawled in an inglorious heap in the middle of a pile of old drywall, shrapnel from a damaged ceiling panel snowing down on top of her. Apparently, she’d caught her foot on one of the boards, lost her balance and knocked the broom handle into the ceiling, all in the space of a few seconds.

He tethered his hammer and strode across the room, his pulse rushing through him. Why on earth had she been standing on top of the drywall? Did she not see the danger there? Couldn’t she have taken a less precarious path?

He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized she was fine, though probably a little embarrassed about her trip and fall. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes on him, daring him to say something.

Or worse, to laugh, which he was very close to doing, if only because she made an oddly adorable picture all sprawled out on the floor with her legs sticking out like a toddler having a tantrum. When she puckered her lips and blew dust and her bangs off of her forehead, he nearly lost it. Mirth bubbled in his chest.

He reached out both arms in a silent offer to assist her to her feet. He didn’t trust himself to speak yet, afraid a chuckle would emerge.

She made an indistinguishable squeak and ignored his outstretched hands, choosing instead to roll to her knees and push to a standing position by herself, only using her palms for support.

Not such a great idea on broken drywall, which immediately cracked through.

She was vertical for about one second before she yelped and nearly crashed back to the floor.

Nick leaped forward, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his embrace, her head tucked under his chin and her feet dangling well off the ground as he swung her far away from the hazard. It was a good thing his reflexes had been honed by years of working with horses and cattle, or else Vivian would have landed straight onto her cute little nose.

“Put. Me. Down.” Her words were muffled in the cotton of his shirt, but even so, he could tell she was irritated.

With him, apparently.

And here he’d just rescued her. He would have thought she would be grateful.

Women.

She wriggled against him and he opened his arms, relaxing his grip so suddenly that she didn’t have time to respond—which served her right for her ingratitude.

He didn’t set her down that hard, so he expected her to waver slightly and then right herself, but instead it appeared she was going down again. Her arms flailed in large circles and she squeaked in pain.

This time Nick ignored her protests and scooped her full up into his arms, cushioning her by cradling her against his chest. He stalked to the other side of the room, where he’d set up a metal folding chair he used for snack breaks. He pushed his lunch cooler off the seat with the side of his boot, not caring when it tipped upside down and the lid popped open. His water bottle rolled over his sandwiches, squishing them, but he had other, more important things to worry about.

Like what was really wrong with Vivian. There was more to this than just clumsiness.

He plunked her down into the chair as gently as he could, given the circumstances. She stiffened and glared at him.

Stubborn woman. Would she rather he just tossed her around like a sack of potatoes? He could have thrown her over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry and have been done with it. But no. He was trying to be a gentleman here, and she wasn’t helping.

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