Her Christmas SEAL (When SEALs Come Home Book 7) (3 page)

I had her, and we both knew it. Sure enough, she tossed a quick glance over her shoulder at Santa Lucky. The old guy was staring in our direction, clearly contemplating an intervention. He wasn’t letting any money walk off his lot, and we both knew it.

I leaned down and brushed my mouth over her ear. “You know what happens to naughty girls.”

She jumped, her elbow “accidentally” digging into my rib cage. “If you get me fired, I’ll kill you.”

Duly noted. I might be doing her a favor to get her out of here and the Christmas carols blasting over the PA system. “You really like working here?”

She shrugged and headed toward Ye Olde Christmas Tree Shacke. I followed. Her skirt wasn’t any longer in the back. It twitched with each irritated bounce. Fan-fucking-tastic. Up until now, I’d really just wanted to see her. I hadn’t thought further ahead than that, but it looked like I’d be buying a tree unless Holly was going Lizzie Borden on me with the chainsaw she snagged from a shelf in the Shacke.

“There aren’t many job options,” she said warily. “And I happen to like Christmas.”

I had no idea what to say, so I grabbed the chainsaw from her and struck out on the nearest path. I walked fast, and I had at least a foot on Holly. She’d always been a tiny thing. She hustled along behind me, babbling crap about liability and farm rules. Apparently I wasn’t allowed to handle the chainsaw. Since I wasn’t letting her cart heavy stuff around when I was right here, we were kinda at an impasse.

The path wasn’t bad the first few hundred yards, beaten down by the hordes hungry for one hundred percent genuine, fresh-cut Christmas trees. Even got a few flakes of snow falling from the sky, although I wouldn’t have put it past the Santa dude to have a snowmaker hidden somewhere. Probably good for business. After the first five minutes, the crowd thinned out, and after ten it disappeared altogether. It was just me, Holly, and about a thousand pine trees. A thought struck me.

“Why were you up on the mountain cutting branches when you have about a million trees here?”

She shot me a look. I couldn’t tell if she thought I was an idiot or just giving her grief. After a moment, she went ahead and answered. “I was tipping. It pays well.”

I’d never tipped, but I understood the principle. You went out in the forest, cut off the tips of pine branches, and then sold the green stuff to the good folks who made Christmas wreaths and that decorative garland stuff. It was kind of like making Popsicle sticks for the arts and crafts crowd. As far as
pays well
went, I was skeptical. Tree tips weren’t made out of gold, and Lucky had a reputation for being cheap.

I asked the obvious question. “You got money worries?”

Her hands shot to her hips. “You can’t ask me that!”

Where I came from, we didn’t see the point in pussyfooting around the issue. Unless she had a thing for pine trees and fresh air, there was only one reason to be hauling ass around the mountain, cutting branches. She needed the money.

“Can too,” I pointed out, thinking things through. “Mr. Dick not play fair in the divorce settlements?”

Because I’d be happy to fix that for her. Several possible solutions came to mind, and none of them involved me writing her a check. Not that she wasn’t welcome to raid my bank account, but I let myself fantasize for a moment about beating the crap out of her deadbeat ex-husband.

Her mouth opened. Closed like she’d bit back the words she’d intended to say. She made one cute, cranky elf. Fuck, but I wanted to kiss the frown right off her face. I also really, really liked the red-and-white-striped stockings. My eyes kept going back to those.

“You’re not freezing?”

Because if she was, I could think of a whole lotta ways to warm her up.

HOLLY

“I’m not cold.”

Not a snowball’s chance in hell I froze. Not when Mr. Big Bad Grumpy Firefighter was around. Jacks sauntered down the path like he knew exactly where he was headed. Things were clearly simpler in the Universe of Jacks.

He made that noise again, the one that was the verbal equivalent of
nope, I don’t believe you
in ginormous neon letters. Too bad. I didn’t care what he thought. Now that I was divorced, the only guy I had to make happy was my boss, and Lucky wasn’t unreasonable except when it came to employee uniforms.

Jacks didn’t say anything, although he also showed no signs of stopping.

“If you don’t pick a tree soon, we’re going to end up in Canada,” I pointed out.

“Got a few more states in the way, babe,” he said drily.

I shrugged. It was the principle of the thing. I had to draw the line somewhere, before he walked me ten miles into the wilderness. I liked the snow and the trees just fine, but dealing with night, cold, and voracious mountain lions was above my pay grade. Still, I was almost surprised when he stopped. Jacks usually preferred to set the pace. Maybe he was getting mellow in his old age.

He came to a halt, and I almost plowed into his back. I had to put a hand out to stop myself. My palm hit hard, muscled back. He’d probably look and feel even better naked, and my imagination went into overdrive as I drank in the glorious heat of him seeping through his clothes. My inner hussy insisted we declare him our own personal space heater and wrap ourselves around him. Knowing Jacks, he wouldn’t mind. He’d be perfectly fine with holding me—or with having sex. As his dating record made clear, it was all the parts that came before and after—the
relationship
parts—that he didn’t do.

“That one.” He jerked a thumb toward an enormous pine tree. I was pretty certain he’d given the tree a one-second look before settling on it. Still, it was a tree, it was for sale, and it was just within the realm of possibility that I could drag all eight feet of it back to the cash register.
Sold.

“You got it.” I held out a hand. My chainsaw. My job.

All I got for my trouble was a grin. A big panty-melting, wicked grin. “I’ve got this,” he said. “I know how to run a saw.”

God. His
mouth
. I might be very (very) happily divorced, but my hormones were still in fine working order, and his lips provided plenty of stimulation. Jacks had firm lips, the kind that could kiss a girl rough or sweet, depending on her mood. He’d never kissed me, not really, because who kissed his frenemy?

Snagging the safety glasses from my pocket, he dropped them in place, yanked the chain, and the motor ground to life.

“You do know I cut down really big trees for a living, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer his question, just motioned for me to stand back. Cutting down trees wasn’t all he did. He also jumped out of planes, landed in the middle of a raging forest fire, and pretty much did anything he could to stop the flames from advancing. Kind of like playing chicken with Mother Nature.

I’d once heard one of the Donovan brothers describe the job as digging in a really big, really hostile sandbox. Apparently they hacked six-inch ditches into the ground, and that somehow stopped the fire. I had no idea how it worked, but I was plenty clear on one thing. Being a Christmas elf was far less complicated.

“You got kids?” He yelled the question over the chainsaw’s roar. Great. Not only had he taken over my job, but now he wanted me to scream my personal details loud enough to be heard in the next state over? Of course, maybe it was his idea of small talk. God knew, Jacks wasn’t easy to figure out.

“You need to know that in order to cut a tree with me?”

He shrugged and made the first cut with the same confident ease he did everything. The blade chipped into the wood, and the air filled with the sweet tang of pine sap. I inhaled deeply because no candle, no air freshener, had ever come close to the real deal. This was liquid Christmas, and I loved it. I leaned in closer, and he gave me a look.

Poor baby. Was I in his space? It wasn’t like the chips from his itty-bitty tree could hurt me unless I stuck my face right up close, and I wasn’t that kind of stupid. It was cute though, the way he insisted on keeping me safe.

Not that I needed it.
I’ve got this
. Totally got this.

He made the second cut on the other side of the tree trunk, angling the blade in. The tree started to fall over, and he finished the cut. Of course, the man was a natural.

“You didn’t yell
timber
.” I smacked him on the ass just a little harder than was strictly friendly.

Which was a huge tactical mistake on my part. Jacks had an amazing butt. His faded jeans sported those yummy white stress lines that pointed to various parts of his anatomy like a to-do list for my mouth. When he wasn’t talking, he was gorgeous. Too big and rough around the edges for pretty, but something better.

No more men
, I reminded myself. It was just that it had been a while, kind of like week two of a no-sugar diet, or halfway through Lent. Giving up men was the prudent thing to do. My taste was crap, and I couldn’t afford to backslide—or lick Jacks—no matter how hard my hormones begged.

“You didn’t warn me you were into kink.” He set the chainsaw on the ground and nudged the tree with his boot. The pine, obliging, fell over onto the ground, kind of like I wanted to do. “And you didn’t answer the question. You got kids?”

Apparently we were playing twenty questions whether I wanted to or not. Of course, that could mean I got a chance to ask questions. I would have loved to find out what he’d been up to, how life had treated him, and Jacks wasn’t the most communicative person on the face of the planet.

In fact, he might have been the least communicative person I knew, up to and including dead guys. He’d never once, in all the years since we met, sent me a card. I’d religiously sent him a card on every holiday—both major and Hallmark-induced—and had received
nada
from him. No card, no postcard, not even a
return to sender
scrawled on my envelope.

“No kids,” I told him. Mark and I had talked about kids, but always some day in the glorious future because Mark had wanted us to have a house first. Unfortunately for our future progeny, his affair had preceded any real estate purchase, and just like that our marriage had been over. Jacks nodded, however, like he was ticking something off a mental checklist.

“And you misplaced Mr. Dick.” He set about trimming the bottom branches off the tree.

It took me a minute to process what he’d said.

God. I couldn’t believe he’d gone there. Some things were sacrosanct—or at least off-limits—when it came to conversation with casual acquaintances. Those things included religion, politics, and underlying causes of divorce.

“Do you have any idea how you sound?” I grabbed the chainsaw, because otherwise my own personal he-man would probably insist on carrying the tree, the saw, and my delicate feminine self.

He shrugged, roping the tree and proving my point. “I’m just getting things straight.”

“Then get this straight.” I got up in his face, or as close as I could get, given the tree he was pulling. “I’ve been divorced for six months now, and I’m not looking for a date, a boyfriend, or a replacement husband. I’m off the man wagon until, or if, my ovaries start reminding me my baby-making days are numbered, and even then I’m inclined to vote for the use of a turkey baster. My hormones don’t pick smart.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Got it.”

He started off down the trail, lifting the tree like it weighed nothing. I had no idea why I lost all verbal filters when I was near Jacks, but there you had it. He said something and I reacted. On the other hand, it beat dropping my panties, which appeared to be Option B.

“Santa bringing you a dildo for Christmas to make up for the man embargo?” He dropped his conversational bomb ten minutes into our return hike.

Jacks didn’t get to speculate on my dildo collection. I hauled off and smacked him in the shoulder. It wasn’t real mature of me, but he just grunted. Unfortunately, it was also just in time for my boss to see me slug our customer. Shoot. I could kiss a raise goodbye. Lucky would read me the riot act. The man was a big believer in upselling and the power of a smile—and short skirts, striped stockings, and unrelenting Christmas cheer.

Stepping away from Mr. Irritating, I returned the chainsaw and then followed Jacks over to the checkout kiosk. I was supposed to carry his tree there and then upsell him on Christmas wreaths and ornaments. Since Lucky was watching, I obediently trotted out my upsizing spiel. To my shock, Jacks nodded agreeably.

“I’d love to look at your wreaths,” he said. And then the bastard winked. Apparently, he could make positively anything sound downright filthy.

It was my own personal problem that I kind of liked it.

Equally apparent, I was never getting rid of him. I pulled my phone out of my bra and checked the time. Twenty minutes and I was a free woman. The advantage of crashing in a spare cabin on the tree farm was that my commute was painfully short. I could be home in under a minute. First though, I had to show Jacks my wreaths.

I trudged over to the small display shack, Jacks hot on my heels. I might not have my art gallery yet, but I’d had a darned good time grouping the wreaths on the wall. A girl made do with what she had.