Chapter 9

Not just long, but weird.

There was Tish, settled on an upside down, ramshackle old crate in the kitchen, her back leaning against the faded wallpaper, still managing to cut a sexy figure.

Didn’t matter she was surrounded by old, pretty much abandoned stuff. Wherever she was, she made it look like home.

Or maybe this was home…

He winced abruptly. Where the hell had that ridiculous thought come from?

Nowhere. It was just the sudden rush of heat up from the registers of the crazy old house, blowing thick, matted streamers of dust perpendicular into the air around its pitted edges.

The warmth was seductive. Cozy. Made him feel like they belonged here. Together.

His gaze flickered upward, and he saw, with a jolt, the old, white tack, pressed into the framing of the door.

It was still there? His mind flew back. He’d put up tacks above all the doors to hold the little ball of mistletoe he’d brought for a Christmas Eve kiss-a-thon, that night. Something to hook the gold loop around.

Because Tish was totally enthralled with the idea of surprise, clandestine Christmas kisses, under mistletoe. Hadn’t experienced that, ever, in her life.

And he was going to surprise her with it as part of his gift.

Then Tish had caught him putting up the tack, teased. Leaned into him for a kiss under one, and he’d held back. Just to draw out the pleasure, force a bit of sexy restraint on them. “Later, Tish. The mistletoe has to be up first, you know?”

But he’d pressed himself against her too, reveled in their mutual groans. “We’ll do each room, babe. Just watch us. Soon.”

She’d grinned, seductive and warm and sexy. And all his.

Yeah. This was home. Or at least, had been, once upon a time.

But the drop was looming. Thinking like this was madness. The minutes were ticking by, no resolution in hand.

He fisted his hand, tension tightening through it, even as Tish chatted on, about life with Christoff, how’d it been.

He’d have to leave. Hell. He’d have to completely, just leave her here.

Nothing could interfere.

But how to make sure she stayed safe? The best thing would have been for him to stay. Let her do whatever crazy crap she was doing, keep an eye on things, make sure she stayed safe.

And to do that, he needed to stay way past the drop deadline. Too many nasty things went down in the wee hours of the morning, and that crowd across the street was just getting started.

No one in this area cared enough to call the police.

The old house blew up another burst of hazy warmth - this time it reached far enough to rustle the tattered curtains over the thin-paned windows looking out onto the mess of a backyard.

He deliberately pushed the damned if I do, damned if I don’t situation away. There was no answer for the moment. No answer. Hell.

He honed in on Tish's voice through the crazy, grabbed at it.

"It was a scream. I totally thought they were guests, and they weren't. They were freakin' house staff. Christof—really, he wasn't a bad egg—was mortified at first, but he lost some of that starch pretty quick. He got with the program after a bit. Wouldn't stop ribbing me for ages on that faux pas."

"And you really asked them what they wanted for dinner, and offered them their choice of suite to sleep in?"

She used the toe of her boot to play with the paper bag on the worn tile floor, nodded animatedly. "Totally. I was trying to be a gracious hostess. How was I to know they weren't rich buddies?” She smiled, and something deep in him warmed, somewhere the heat from the furnace couldn't reach.

The woman had a whole library of smiles and she'd always captivated him. A different smile for a different emotion.

His Tish.

She filled the moment. His head. Whatever space there was, she filled it.

But something tightened in him.

She wasn't his Tish anymore. Not since he'd opted out. Not his Tish, and he didn't deserve her.

But neither had that jackass, Christoff. Who'd known that would go so horribly wrong?

He grabbed the wine bottle, peered to see if there was any left, shook it to see the remnants of blood-red liquid slosh in a curve around the bottom. "Okay, okay. I get it. You ended up fitting in, and you two actually got along, until you realized he was always going to have some hanky-panky on the side. That about it?"

"Yeah."

He poured, got half a glass, downed it. “The rich. Do you miss it?"

Surprised at her blank stare, he sensed the odd need to explain.

"Come on, Tish, you know what I mean. You didn't have to worry about where you'd sleep, what you'd eat. Hell, you knew what you were going to eat." He scooped the jar of chocolate spread up off the floor, turned it in his hand with a flourish. "Carlo Rossi chocolate spread. A pretty penny, if I’m not mistaken. So, essentially, whatever you wanted. You had the best of everything, the worst of nothing. You had a decent guy... I mean, by your own admission. He had different standards, but under those standards he treated you good. You've made a point of saying he wasn't a creep, just different, and I give you credit for that. It's more than I could do under the circumstances. So I get why you left, but...do you miss it?"

She stared at the floor, seemed to take in every bit of dirt, every mismatched tile, every anomaly. She stared at it for so long, he wondered if she was somewhere else. "Tish?"

She started at her name but didn't meet his gaze. Just shook her head and spoke, eyes fixed, on the floor.

"It's funny, when you're with the ‘rich’, as you put it, you think it's going to solve all the problems you've come up against in the past, correct all the little messes in your life. The big messes too. You really think it’s going to be the panacea for all that ails you."

There was something about her, pontificating on life in that old, run-down kitchen. But hell. She'd lived the life, she had the right. Tish Taylor, the girl voted most likely in their senior year to marry a rich dude—she'd always had that aura of being meant for better things—expounding on the rich life while sitting on a stained crate they'd had to pull a couple of rusty nails out of before she could set her sexy ass on it.

"You'd think, being rich, there'd finally be time to do stuff you love. But we always had a party to throw, or something to get ready for on someone's yacht or at a villa." She shook her head. "All of my life—well, since I was five—one of my most loved traditions was Gram's cookies at Christmas time. Remember?"

He nodded, but she didn't seem to notice. "Always had to have them. When I got older, I helped Gram make them. It was a thing. And when she got too old, I made them for her, sometimes rushing like a maniac in the middle of schoolwork or my job, but I always got them made. Pined for the time to do it unhurriedly and enjoy it. "

He watched her, held his breath.

"Well, two years with Christoff, two Christmases. And I never once got a chance to make Gram's cookies." She looked up at him then, her eyes bright. Not upset, but a quiet clarity suffusing her being.

Oh, she was wise, his Tish. So unbelievably wise. His heart beat harder, swelled. Got bigger, and he felt it likely to bust.

She was staring at him as if he got it all. And he did.

"Your Gramma’s cookies…" He shrugged as if all the scholars in the known universe, all the cookie boards and panels and judges, all of the everyones everywhere would attest to the simple, unvarnished fact. His voice come out husky, low. “…they truly were the best."

And if her eyes could get brighter, they did. Then they softened—glory be—at him.

"Oh! And talking about Gram's cookies—guess what I made the other day and brought here tonight?"

He knew what she wanted to hear, what would charm her. Tease and surprise her. He flicked the old joke at her. "Rutabaga pie?"

He really wasn't surprised when the tea towel with the wine stain ended up around his neck. But she was laughing.

Peeling it from his neck, he continued their time-worn game. "Turnip tarts, maybe?"

She countered by swooping up an old hunk of newspaper from the papers that were laying on the floor and started to ball it up furiously.

He held up his palms up in front of his face, shielding himself. "I give up! I give up!"

She froze, her arm drawn back in a pitcher's swing, ready to let the missile fly. "What did I bring?"

He grinned, locked his gaze on hers. Lowered his tone. "Gram's cookies."

And once again, her smile was more than a smile. Sweet. Incredibly familiar.

It slammed him in the gut. Overcome with emotion, he hid it behind a grumble and a question, an impatient tilt of his chin. "Where are they?"

She scrambled to get up, and he waved her back. "I'll get them."

"I left them in the larder thing over there. Red cloth bag, with Christmas motifs on it."

"Oh," he snorted. "Motifs. Yeah, that’ll help me. Now for sure I won't get them mixed up with anything else."

Her eyes widened, playful. "They're in a red bag. Does that make it easier?"

"Now you're just being offensive." He strode away in mock disdain, enjoying her laughter fading behind him.

Ahh. The walk-in pantry. He reached in and stopped, stood at the entrance for a second, as the jolt of memory hit him.

And something in him got hot despite the frigid air, somewhere the registers didn't reach.

The spot they were going to make love in, once they actually bought the old place.

They'd joked there was an area in there, just wide enough, before the shelves veered off on different levels on both sides, where her lithe figure would fit right against the wall, and he'd take her there the day the sale closed. They'd teased about the best places to fix straps for hand restraints so he could fasten her and have his way with her. 'In nothing but an apron,' she'd teased, and it had made him hot. His woman, ready and accessible. He'd gotten off on that picture.

And now?

Gramma's damn cookies were in the friggin’ larder.

His pants got tight suddenly, but that was a strain he knew he wouldn't get to release. Hell. He'd just deal.

He walked in and looked around. Remnants of the past tenant's food stores were gone, but there were empty boxes, here and there. Some dirty rags, a couple of old cleaning tins.

But there was the package she'd told him about. Red, adorned with gold snowflakes, fat white snowmen with cartoon smiles, skinny, smiling reindeer.

Motifs.

And up on the wall, just to the left, the pencil marks, high up, where the wall apparently hadn't been painted since 3 years ago...the two faint pencil X's where they were going to fasten the straps.

A punch of air knocked out of him. There was Tish, in his mind's eye, naked. Out of that puffy coat. Breasts bare, glorious legs naked and long. Hands up in the air, her luscious body spread for him to...

"Motifs, I said. That means pretty little pictures that...what are you gaping at?"

She'd snuck up on him. And now her scent, the quintessential, pure Tish, overrode everything. Has his head spinning. "Nothing. Just..."

But she'd pushed past him to get the cookies. And her wail of dismay pierced the sexy dream and it disappeared.

"What's wrong?"