Same Time, Next Christmas

Once she’d changed the dressing, she got him some sweats and clean underwear from the duffel bags she’d brought in from the car. She even allowed him to hobble into the bathroom on his own steam.

He brushed his teeth, cleaned himself up a little and changed into the stuff she’d brought downstairs for him. When he emerged into the main room, she said he looked a little green and ordered him to lie down.

“I have a request,” she said as she tucked the old afghan in around him.

“My Jeep? My bank account number? The deed to this cabin? Whatever you want from me, it’s yours.”

She laughed. The sound was low and a little bit husky. Every time she bent close, he could smell her. She’d used the Ivory soap in the bathroom, yeah, but beneath that, her body itself smelled clean and sweet, like fresh-baked bread or maybe sugar cookies. Sugar cookies and woman.

A knockout combination.

Really, she had it all going on. He’d never realized before that he might have a type. Hi, I’m Matt Bravo and I like my women hot, smart, competent and bossy. As soon as he was capable of washing up in the bathroom without needing a nap afterward, it was going to get really difficult not to put a move on her.

Now, though? He was weak as a baby and fading fast, making her one-hundred-percent safe from his bad intentions.

“Keep your bank account,” she said with a grin. “It’s your tree I’m after.”

He imagined reaching up, running a finger down the velvety skin of her neck, maybe tugging on that thick braid down her back—and what was this he was feeling? Like he had a crush on her or something.

Matt didn’t do crushes. He’d been in love once and it had all gone to hell like everything else in his life at that time. Nowadays, he went out occasionally with women who wanted the same thing he did—satisfying sex. And no sleeping over.

Although, in all honesty, if he was going to crush on a woman, it would have to be this one.

“Matthias? You okay?”

He picked up the conversation where he’d dropped it. “I noticed you found the decorations and brought them down.”

She grinned. “It’s Christmas Eve. You’re in no condition to decorate that tree and it’s not going to decorate itself. Is it all right with you if I do it?”

She was way too much fun to tease. “You sure you don’t want the Jeep? It’s a Rubicon. Super fancy. You can go off-road in it, take a seventy-degree downhill grade on rugged terrain without even stopping to consider the risks—because there are none.”

A sound escaped her, a snappy little “Ffft.” She gave him a light slap on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Stop messing with me. Say yes.”

He stared up into those beautiful brown eyes. “Yes.”

“Well, all right.” She retucked a bit of his blanket. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He reached back and punched his pillow a little, all for show. “Have fun.”

“I will.”

“And try to keep the noise down. I need my sleep.” He turned his head toward the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

But not two minutes later, he rolled his head back the other way so he could watch her work.

Methodical and exacting, that was her tree-decorating style. She found the lights, plugging in each string first, replacing the few bulbs that had gone out. There weren’t many bad bulbs because Matt took care of his gear. Also, the lights weren’t that old.

This was his third Christmas at the cabin. His great-uncle Percy Valentine had given the place to him when Matt was discharged from the service. A few wooded acres and a one-room cabin, Matthias, Uncle Percy had said. I’m thinking it will be a quiet place just for you, a place where you can find yourself again.

Matt wasn’t all that sure he’d found himself yet, but he liked having his own place not far from home to go when he needed it. He had a large family and they kept after him to start showing up for Christmas, which had always been a big deal for all of them.

His mom had loved Christmas and she used to do it up right. She and his dad had died when Matt was sixteen, but his older brother Daniel had stepped up, taken custody of all of them and continued all the family Christmas traditions.

He loved them, every one of them. He would do just about anything for them. But for Christmas, he liked the cabin better. He liked going off into a world of his own now and then, needed it even. Especially for the holidays. There was something about this time of the year that made the ghosts of his past most likely to haunt him.

Through half-closed eyes, he watched as Sabra strung the lights. She tucked them in among the thick branches just so, making sure there were no bare spaces, the same way he would have done. When she neared the top, she found the folding footstool in the closet under the stairs and used it to string those lights all the way up.

She had the lights on and was starting to hang ornaments when his eyes got too heavy to keep open even partway. Feeling peaceful and damn close to happy, he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke again, Sabra was curled in a ball in the old brown armchair across from the sofa, asleep. She’d found a book, no doubt from the bookcase on the side wall. It lay open across her drawn-up thighs, her dark head drooping over it.

The tree was finished. She’d done a great job of it. He just lay there on the sofa and admired it for a few minutes, tall and proud, shining so bright. She’d even put his presents from the family under it.

But he was thirsty and his water glass was empty. He sat up and reached for the cane that he’d propped at the end of the sofa.

That small movement woke her. “Wha...?” She blinked at him owlishly. “Hey. You’re awake.” She rubbed the back of her neck.

He pushed back the afghan and brought his legs to the floor. “The tree is gorgeous.”

She smiled, a secret, pleased little smile. “Thanks. How’re you feeling?”

“Better.” He pushed himself upright and she didn’t even try to stop him.

“You look better. Your color’s good. Want some soup?”

“If I can sit at the table to eat it.”

“You think you’re up for that?”

“I know I am.”

Matthias was better. Lots better.

So much better that, after dinner that night, when he wanted to go out on the porch, she agreed without even a word of protest.

“You’ll need a warmer coat,” he said, and sent her upstairs to get one of his.

The coat dwarfed her smaller frame. On her, it came to midthigh and the arms covered her hands. She loved it. It would keep her toasty warm even out in the frozen night air—and it smelled like him, of cedar and something kind of minty.

On the porch, there were two rustic-looking log chairs. Sabra pushed the chairs closer together and they sat down.

The snow had finally stopped. They’d gotten several feet of the stuff, which meant they would definitely be stuck here for at least the next few days.

Sabra didn’t mind. She felt far away from her real life, off in this silent, frozen world with a man who’d been a stranger to her only the day before.

He said, “My mom used to love the snow. It doesn’t snow that often in Valentine Bay, but when it did she would get us all out into the yard to make snowmen. There was never that much of it, so our snowmen were wimpy ones. They melted fast.”

“You’re from Valentine Bay, then?” Valentine Bay was on the coast, a little south of Warrenton, which was at the mouth of the Columbia River.

He turned to look at her, brow furrowing. “Didn’t I tell you I’m from Valentine Bay?”

“You’ve told me now—and you said your mom used to love the snow?”

“That’s right. She died eleven years ago. My dad, too. In a tsunami in Thailand, of all the crazy ways to go.”

“You’ve lost both of them? That had to be hard.” She wanted to reach out and hug him. But that would be weird, wouldn’t it? She felt like she knew him. But she didn’t, not really. She needed to try to remember to respect the guy’s space.

“It was a long time ago. My oldest brother Daniel took over and raised us the rest of the way. He and his wife Lillie just continued right on, everything essentially the way it used be, including the usual Christmas traditions. Even now, they all spend Christmas day at the house where we grew up. They open their presents together, share breakfast and cook a big Christmas dinner.”

“But you want to spend your Christmas alone.”

“That’s right.”

A minute ago, she’d been warning herself to respect the man’s space. Too bad. Right now, she couldn’t resist trying to find out more. “Last night, you were talking in your sleep.”

He gave her a long look. It wasn’t an encouraging one. “Notice the way I’m not asking what I said?”

“Don’t want to talk about Mark and Nelson and Finn?”

He didn’t. And he made that perfectly clear—by changing the subject. “You said you grew up on a farm?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Near here, you said?”

“Yeah. Near Svensen.”

“That’s in Astoria.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“But you were headed for Portland when you suddenly decided on a hike to the falls?”

“I live in Portland now. I manage the front of the house at a restaurant in the Pearl.” The Pearl District was the right place to open an upscale, farm-to-table restaurant. Delia Mae’s was one of those.

“Got tired of farming?” His breath came out as fog.

She gathered his giant coat a little closer around her against the cold. “Not really. I’m a farmer by birth, vocation and education. I’ve got a bachelor’s degree in environmental studies with an emphasis in agroecology.”

“From UC Santa Cruz, am I right?”

“The Slugs hat and sweatshirt?”

“Dead giveaway.” He smiled, slow and sexy, his white, even teeth gleaming in the porch light’s glow. She stared at him, thinking that he really was a hot-looking guy, with those killer blue eyes, a shadow of beard scruff on his sculpted jaw and that thick, unruly dark blond hair.

And what were they talking about?

Farming. Right. “Our farm has been in the Bond family for generations. My dad and mom were a true love match, mutually dedicated to each other, the farm and to me, their only child. All my growing-up years, the plan was for me to work right along with them, and to take the reins when the time came. But then, when I was nineteen and in my first year at Santa Cruz, my mom died while driving home from a quick shopping trip into downtown Astoria on a gray day in February. Her pickup lost traction on the icy road. The truck spun out and crashed into the guardrail.”

Matthias didn’t even hesitate. He reached out between their two chairs, clasped her shoulder with his large, strong hand and gave a nice, firm squeeze. They shared a glance, a long one that made her feel completely understood.

His reassuring touch made it all the easier to confess, “I have a hard time now, at the farm. It’s been six years since my mom died, but my dad has never really recovered from the loss. I guess, to be honest, neither have I. After college, I just wanted something completely different.”

“And now you run a restaurant.”

“The chef would disagree. But yeah. I manage the waitstaff, the hiring, supervising and scheduling, all that.”

He shifted in the hard chair, wincing a little.

“Your leg is bothering you,” she said. “We should go in.”

“I like it out here.” He seemed to be studying her face.

“What?”

“I like you, Sabra.” From the snow-covered trees, an owl hooted. “I like you very much, as a matter of fact.”

A little thrill shivered through her. She relished it. And then she thought about James. She’d almost married him less than a week ago. It was turning out to be much too easy to forget him.

“What’d I say?” Matthias looked worried.

“Something nice. Too bad I’m not looking for anything remotely resembling romance.”

“It’s not a problem,” he said in that matter-of-fact way of his. “Neither am I.”

She felt a flash of disappointment, and quickly banished it. “Excellent. No romance. No...fooling around. None of that. We have a deal.”

He nodded. “Agreed. And I sense a story here. You should tell it to me.”

“Though you won’t tell me yours?”

“I’m sure yours is more interesting than mine.” Again, he shifted. His leg hurt. He just refused to admit it.

“I’m braver than you, Matthias.”

He didn’t even try to argue the point. “I have no doubt that you are.”

“I’ll put it right out there, tell you all about my failures in love.”

He looked at her sideways. “You’re after something. What?”

She laughed. “I’m not telling you anything until you come back inside.”

In the cabin, they hung their coats by the door. Matt took off his boots and settled on the sofa with his bad leg stretched out.

“You want some hot chocolate or something?” she offered.

Was she stalling? He wanted that story. He gestured at the armchair. “Sit. Start talking.”

She laughed that husky laugh of hers. The sound made a lightness inside him. She was something special, all right. And this was suddenly turning out to be his favorite Christmas ever.

She took off her own boots, filled his water glass for him and put another log on the fire.

Finally, she dropped into the brown chair across the coffee table from him. “Okay. It’s like this. I’ve been engaged twice. The first time was at Santa Cruz. I fell hard for a bass-playing philosophy major named Stan.”

“I already hate him.”

“Why?”

“Was he your first lover?” As soon as he asked, he wished he hadn’t. A question like that could be considered to be crossing a certain line.

But she didn’t seem turned off by it. “How did you know?”

“Just a guess—and I’m not sure yet why I hate him. Because I like you, I think, and I know it didn’t last with him. I’m guessing that was all his fault.”

“I don’t want to be unfair to Stan.”

Matt laughed. It came out sounding rusty. He wasn’t a big laugher, as a rule. “Go ahead. Be unfair to Stan. There’s only you and me here. And I’m on your side.”

“All right, fine.” She gave a single, definitive nod. “Please feel free to hate him. He claimed to love me madly. He asked me to marry him.”

“Let me guess. You said yes.”

“Hey. I was twenty-one. Even though losing my mom had rocked the foundations of my world, I still had hopes and dreams back then.”

“Did you move in together?”

“We did. We had this cute apartment not far from the ocean and we were planning an earthcentric wedding on a mountaintop.”

“But the wedding never happened.”

“No, it did not. Because one morning, I woke up alone. Stan had left me a note.”

“Don’t tell me the note was on his pillow.”

Stifling a giggle, she nodded.

“Okay, Sabra. Hit me with it. What did the note say?”

“That he couldn’t do it, couldn’t marry me. Marriage was just too bougie, he wrote.”

“Bougie? He wrote that exact word?” At her nod, he said, “And you wondered why I hate Stan.”

“He also wrote that I was a good person, but I didn’t really crank his chain. He had to follow his bliss to Austin and become a rock star.”

“What a complete douchebasket.”

“Yeah, I guess he was, kind of.”

“Kind of? People shouldn’t make promises they don’t mean to keep.”

Sabra sat forward in the big brown armchair.

Was he speaking from painful experience? She really wanted to know. But he didn’t want to talk about himself—not as of now, anyway. And those deep blue eyes had turned wary, as though he guessed she was tempted to ask him a question he wouldn’t answer.

“Keep talking,” he commanded. “What happened after Stan?”

“After Stan, I decided that my judgment about men was out of whack and I swore to myself I wouldn’t get serious with a guy until I was at least thirty.”

Now he was looking at her sideways, a skeptical sort of look. “Thirty, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“And as of today, you are...?”

“Twenty-five,” she gave out grudgingly.

“And why am I thinking you’ve broken your own rule and gotten serious since Stan?”

“Don’t gloat, Matthias. It’s not attractive—and you know, I kind of can’t believe I’m telling you all this. I think I’ve said enough.”

“No. Uh-uh. You have to tell me the rest.”

“Why?”

“Uh.” His wide brow wrinkled up. “Because I’m an invalid and you are helping me through this difficult time.”

She couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. “I really think you’re going to survive whether I tell you about James or not.”

“So. The next guy’s name is James?”

She groaned. “The next guy? Like there’ve been a hundred of them?”

He sat very still. She could practically see the wheels turning inside his big head. “Wait. I think that came out wrong.”

“No, it didn’t. Not at all. I’m just messing with you.”

“You’re probably thinking I’m a jerk just like Stan.” He looked so worried about that. She wanted to grab him and hug him and tell him everything was fine—and that was at least the second time tonight she’d considered putting her hands on him for other than purely medical reasons.

It had to stop.

“No,” she said. “I honestly don’t think you’re a jerk—and look, Matthias, I’ve been meaning to ask you...”

Matthias felt like a jerk, whether or not Sabra considered him one. He’d been having a great time with her, like they’d known each other forever.

Until he went and put his foot in it. As a rule, he was careful around women. He wasn’t ready for anything serious, so he watched himself, made sure he didn’t give off the wrong signals.

But Sabra. Well, already she was kind of getting under his skin. There was so damn much to admire about her—and she was fun. And hot.

But they’d agreed that the man/woman thing wasn’t happening. He was friend-zoned and he could live with that. Anything more, well...

It would be too easy to fall for her. And he didn’t want to fall for anyone. Not yet. Maybe never. The last year or so, he’d finally started to feel like his life was back on track. True, getting something going with a woman could turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.

But it might send him spinning off the rails.

He just wasn’t ready to find out which.

“Do you maybe have some sweats I could wear?” she asked. “Something soft to sleep in would be great...”

She was going to bed now? It wasn’t much past nine.

No doubt about it. He’d definitely screwed up.

“Uh, sure,” he said, and tried not to let his disappointment show. “Take anything you want from whatever’s upstairs.”

“I was thinking I might even have a bath, if that’s all right with you?”

“Now?”

“Well, I mean, no time like the present, right?”

“Absolutely. Go ahead.”

She got up. “Can I get you anything before I—”

“No. Really. I’m good.”

She took off up the stairs. Not five minutes later, she came running back down with an armful of his clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.

He sat there and stared at the tree and tried not to imagine what she was doing behind that shut door. Really, he must be getting better fast—he had the erection to prove it.

Friend-zoned, you idiot. And that’s how you want it.

He needed to take his mind off his exceptionally clear mental image of Sabra, naked in the tub, her almost-black hair piled up on her head, random strands curling in the steam rising from the water, clinging to the silky skin of her neck as she raised one of those gorgeous long legs of hers and braced her foot on the side of the tub.

Lazily, humming a holiday tune under her breath, she would begin to work up a lather. Soap bubbles would dribble slowly along her inner thigh...

Matt swore, a graphic string of bad words.

And then he grabbed his cane and shot to his feet, only swaying a little as his bad leg took his weight—yeah, he’d promised her he would stay on the sofa unless he had a good reason to get up.

Well, clearing his mind of certain way-too-tempting images was a good enough reason for him.

He limped over to the bookcase. She’d set the box of books he’d brought from home right there in the corner on the floor.

Might as well shelve them. He got to work, his leg complaining a little when he bent down to grab the next volume. But it wasn’t that painful and it kept his mind from wandering to places it had no business going.

He was three-quarters of the way through the box when the bathroom door opened.

“Matthias. What the— You promised you’d stay off your feet.”

Yep. He could already smell the steaminess from across the room—soap and wet and heat and woman.

“Matthias?”

Slowly, so as not to make a fool of himself lurching on his bad leg and proving how right she was that he shouldn’t be on his feet, he turned to her.

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