Merry Christmas, Baby Read online

  He caught her hand in his and pressed his lips to her fingers. “Nick asked me on the way out here if I was having an early midlife crisis. All I knew was something was missing in my life. And I know now I’ve found what I was missing. You.”

  “Oh, Jared.” She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry or shout for joy, but instead she merely sighed and leaned her head against his chest.

  “Teddy…”

  “Yeah?”

  “You think maybe we could go back to bed now?”

  She laughed. Spoken like a true man. Her man.

  HE’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

  Rhonda Nelson

  A Uniformly Hot! Holiday Novella

  To Vicki and Jen, my novella mates, for making

  this anthology such a joy to write. Merry Christmas!

  1

  MAJOR SILAS DAVENPORT knew the instant he pulled into the pebbled driveway of his parents’ beachside retirement cottage that something wasn’t right.

  For starters, they weren’t there.

  No cars in the driveway, no Christmas lights twinkling from the window, no tacky inflatable Santa Claus on the small landscaped yard. Hell, not even a wreath on the front door. His mother was one of those people who typically had her Christmas shopping done by mid-July, so the idea that they were merely out shopping wasn’t likely. Dinner then? he wondered. Somehow he didn’t think so. There were two newspapers on the front step and the mailbox had been rubber-banded shut, presumably to keep the mail from tumbling out.

  His spidey senses started tingling.

  He sighed heavily and let himself out of the car, thankful that he recognized the fake rock by the sidewalk that held the hide-a-key. It had been at their old house—the one he’d grown up in—as well.

  Well, hell. So much for his surprise, Silas thought, deflated.

  He’d just spent the better part of twenty-four hours in transit. The idea of his family’s happy shock when he arrived unexpectedly on their doorstep for Christmas had kept him bolstered. His cheeks puffed as he exhaled mightily.

  Instead, he was going to walk into an empty house, no warm greeting or hot meal, no smiling faces, no joyous reunion, no Christmas music playing in the background, no mulled cider warming on the stove.

  In retrospect, rather than trying to surprise his family, he probably should have gone ahead and told them that he’d been granted leave. Silas imagined that every soldier in Uncle Sam’s Army had applied for leave over the holidays and he’d been no exception. But actually getting it was rare, so he hadn’t expected he’d have the opportunity to come home. He’d been prepared to spend another miserable Christmas in Iraq, surrounded by men he loved and admired, but who weren’t actually his family.

  This was the first time in two years he’d been state-side for the holiday and he’d been looking forward to his mother’s orange rolls and his dad’s homemade wine. To listening to his mother lament his little sister’s newest boyfriend—she was currently backpacking across Europe with him, much to their horror—and catching up on all the family gossip. Who was pregnant? Who was engaged? Who was divorcing? The typical grist running through the family gossip mill. It was those little things that made him feel as though he still belonged with his people, was still a member of the tribe, so to speak.

  Silas pulled his duffel bag from the backseat of the rental car, then quickly found the key and let himself into the house. It was quiet, as he’d expected, but a pair of women’s shoes sat by the front door, as though they’d just been toed off, and he caught the faint sound of music and splashing water.

  He frowned, intrigued. “Mom?” he called. “Dad?”

  Nothing.

  Silas set his bag aside, noting the faint scent of oranges and yeast, and started toward what was actually the key selling point to any beachfront property—the back porch. The house’s layout was simple enough. A central set of shotgun rooms—living room, dining room, kitchen—with two master suites on either side of the kitchen, but accessed through short halls off the dining room. Another bedroom, his, was upstairs and had the best view of all. Between the crash of the surf and the scent of his mother’s homemade Danishes rising over the kitchen, it was a little piece of heaven—one that he’d been particularly looking forward to.

  For whatever reason, he got the grim premonition that he could forget about the orange rolls and usual holiday treats. The fudge, the breakfast casseroles, the ham. The house was chilly, which meant that whenever his parents had left they hadn’t anticipated being back for a while and had turned the thermostat down. Secondly, things were too tidy, not lived-in and, though he hadn’t seen Cletus—his parents’ most recent rescued cat—yet, fresh food was in the bowl.

  Were that not enough to clue him in, he’d identified the sound of splashing water coming from the screened-in front porch—the hot tub, specifically—and the music? Ray LaMontagne’s “Trouble,” accompanied, quite badly, by a woman singing along in a terribly off-key voice.

  “Trouble…”

  Silas grinned. He’d give her points for being heartfelt, even if he could skewer her performance for technical accuracy.

  He carefully opened the back door, spied the clothes on the floor—sweater, jeans, red lacy panties and matching bra—and felt his previously low spirits rise accordingly.

  So the mystery woman was naked. In his parents’ hot tub.

  If she was pretty, too, then maybe his Christmas wasn’t going to suck so much after all.

  He had a nanosecond to notice curly black hair, a pair of startled cornflower-blue eyes and lush raspberry-red lips…before her mouth opened in a bloodcurdling scream.

  DELPHIE MOREAU’S FIRST instinct was to jump out of the hot tub and run for her life, but she was naked and evidently—she’d have to truly think about this later—saving face was more important than saving her life. Clearly something was wrong when a woman would rather die than die of embarrassment. She clasped her hands over her bare breasts and wailed for all she was worth.

  Seeming startled, the extraordinarily good-looking potential murderer held up his hands in a peaceful gesture and, instead of attacking her, laughed softly. It was a low, intimate chuckle that made her middle go squishy and warm.

  “I’m Silas Davenport,” he said above her screams. “This is my parents’ house.”

  Ah, Delphie thought, her eyes rounding, the terror dying swiftly in her throat. She paused to look at him and felt a chagrined blush flash across her cheeks. That explained the military garb and the strong resemblance to Charlie Davenport. This man was a taller, much more muscled version of her retired neighbor. Where Charlie’s black hair had turned white, his son’s was still inky and still very thick. If she hadn’t been so startled she was sure that she would have recognized him from the photos in the living room.

  So this was the legendary Silas. In the flesh. And what very nice flesh, indeed. Evidently his mother hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d extolled the physical virtues of her son. Delphie had imagined that every mother thought her son was handsome and—though he’d certainly looked nice in the pictures she’d seen—occasionally photos could lie.

  Clearly the ones she’d seen hadn’t.

  Furthermore, if everything else his mother had told her was true, then she was half in love with him already.

  He grinned at her and wore an expression that brought her sanity into question.

  Delphie slunk lower into the water, hoping that the bubbly surface would cover her bare body. She hadn’t shaved her legs this morning, she thought dimly. As if it would matter. Sheesh. She was losing her mind. Her face was already flushed from the heat of the water and the two glasses of wine she’d consumed, but impossibly, embarrassment made her cheeks burn even hotter, making her acutely aware of her vulnerable state.

  Silas rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Er…who are you?” he asked.

  Well, yes, he’d want to know that, wouldn’t he? Aside from being half-drunk and completely naked, what the hell was wro
ng with her? She dredged her soul for an ounce of dignity and lifted her chin.

  “I’m Delphie Moreau, your parents’ neighbor from across the street.”

  A flash of recognition lit his dark gaze and he inclined his head. “Mom’s mentioned you. You’re the decorator, right?”

  “Interior designer,” she clarified. Her skill set was a little more advanced. She didn’t just pick out accessories, fabrics and paint swatches. She designed beautiful living spaces based on functionality and a client’s needs. She was licensed, knew building code and specs and was handier with a tape measure than a lot of construction workers she knew.

  His gaze drifted over her bare shoulders. “Use the hot tub a lot, do you?”

  Despite the heat, she felt goose bumps skitter over her skin and her nipples pearl. “Only when I’m keeping an eye on things for them.” A thought suddenly struck her foggy mind and she gasped. “You’re not home for Christmas, are you?”

  Another smile. Mercy. “I am, actually.”

  Oh, no, Delphie thought, wincing. Charlie and Helen were going to be so disappointed. Her gaze slid hesitantly to Silas. Eek! How to tell him?

  He waited a beat, then blew out a breath and his eyes widened significantly. “But evidently my parents are not.”

  She bit her bottom lip and shook her head regretfully. “They left two days ago on a cruise to the Bahamas. With your sister in Europe and you in Iraq they didn’t want to face the holiday here alone. They couldn’t have possibly known you were coming, otherwise they—”

  He shook his head, a silent indicator that she didn’t have to finish. “I had the grand idea of surprising them,” he admitted with a rueful grimace. “Definitely poor planning on my part. I just never expected them to be gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” she told him. She knew from Helen that Silas hadn’t been home for the past couple of years. She couldn’t even begin to imagine his disappointment—or theirs, for that matter, when they found out that they’d missed him. They’d be crushed.

  “Maybe you could call them,” Delphie suggested, grasping at any idea to avoid this outcome. “If there’s a way for them to come home, then I know they would.”

  He pulled a doubtful face. “If they’ve been gone two days, then they’re in open sea,” he said. “It would just make them miserable, knowing that I’m here and that they’re unable to get to me.”

  He was right, she knew. Still…

  His gaze swept the scene again, lingering on her clothes on the floor, the open wine bottle on the table next to the hot tub and the empty glass. “Sorry for interrupting your party,” he said, a smile tugging at his especially sexy mouth. “A special occasion?”

  “Not particularly,” she said, once again aware of the fact that she was completely naked with a stranger in the room.

  Actually, were she to label it, she’d have to say it was a pity party. Her younger stepsister, Lena, was getting married on Christmas Eve. Delphie was happy for her, of course. What kind of person would she be if she weren’t? What kind of person begrudges another person happiness?

  Unfortunately, while Delphie was genuinely pleased that Lena had found the man of her dreams—when she hadn’t even been looking—she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for herself.

  Because she had been looking. Actively, for over a year now. She’d found Mr. Maybe, Mr. Wrong, Mr. Right Now, Mr. Asshole and Mr. Possibly-Homosexual-In-Denial, but she’d yet to find her own better half. How unfair was that? Lena was still in college, hadn’t figured out exactly what her mark was going to be, much less made it. Hell, she’d met Theo at a drive-thru, for pity’s sake. Theo had gotten her French fries and she’d gotten his onion rings. They’d swapped accordingly and fallen in love.

  Fried romance.

  Delphie, on the other hand, had been out of college for four years, her business was in full swing, quite lucrative and fulfilling. Now she just wanted someone to share her life with. Was that too much to ask?

  Thankfully her mother knew that Lena’s impending wedding and all the festivities surrounding it were making Delphie even more aware of her own single status and unhappiness, and had limited what she’d asked Delphie to do.

  She imagined she’d feel a lot less pathetic if she at least had a date for the wedding, but sadly that wasn’t the case, either. Guys tended to get a little squirrelly when a girl invited them to a wedding. You either needed to know someone really well or not at all, otherwise it was a hard sell.

  “So are you staying here then?” he asked, derailing her miserable line of thought.

  “Er…no. I’m picking up the mail, taking care of the cat and generally keeping an eye on the place.” She grinned. “Your parents offered the hot tub and the beach as recompense and I happily accepted.” She inwardly frowned.

  Of course, now that he was here he could do it.

  And she’d lose the flimsy excuse of semi-house-sitting to avoid the wedding festivities.

  Not good.

  No guy of her own, no date for the wedding and no excuse to stay away from the premarital hoopla.

  And she was still naked in front of a perfect stranger.

  She knew better than to ask if things could get worse, but couldn’t keep from wondering all the same. It seemed to be that kind of day.

  And it was that exact moment that she realized she’d forgotten something really important—something critical, even. She felt her face crumple into a wince.

  A towel.

  2

  THOUGH THIS WAS NOT exactly the welcome home he’d imagined, he could do a lot worse than finding a beautiful naked woman in a hot tub, Silas thought. In fact, as far as homecomings went, this was a pretty damned good one.

  Delphie Moreau had the most expressive face he’d ever seen.

  It intrigued him.

  For instance, over the past few seconds he could tell that she’d gone from being mildly worried to unquestionably miserable. Though he wasn’t at all certain that he could help her in any way, he was suddenly hit with the irresistible urge to try.

  A novelty, to be sure.

  Seeing that unhappy expression on such a lovely face made something shift uncomfortably in his chest. Nonplussed, he shrugged the sensation off and tried to remember everything his mother had ever said about her. Honestly, he’d only half-listened when his mom had started in about Delphie. It was quite obvious that she’d had matchmaking on her mind, and Silas had assumed anyone that his mother chose for him wouldn’t meet his approval.

  He was cursing that wrong-headed conclusion at the moment, though, because given the way his blood had instantly heated and the rapidity with which it was pooling in his groin, Delphie was definitely an exception to that rule.

  She was, quite literally, a wet dream.

  She had a sweet, heart-shaped face with a sharp little chin, big blue eyes that were large and heavily lashed and a mouth that put him in mind of hot, frantic sex. What little he could see of her petite body was lush and creamy and decidedly feminine. With those shiny black curls piled atop her head and the smooth porcelain of her skin, she reminded him of one of the pretty dolls his mother kept in her curio cabinet.

  Her ripe lips formed a hesitant smile. “Could I ask a favor?”

  He nodded once, ready to retrieve the moon if she asked for it. “Certainly.”

  Impossibly, her cheeks pinkened further and she shrunk deeper into the water. Her voice, when she spoke, was small. “Would you mind getting me a towel?”

  Silas felt a grin creep over his lips. “No problem.”

  He backtracked into the house, snagged the requested item out of the linen closet and then returned to the porch and handed it to her. He kept his eyes firmly on her face to keep from trying to sneak a peek at her bare breasts and congratulated himself on his success.

  It was a hollow victory.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. She waited expectantly.

  With a belated start, he gestured awkwardly toward the kitchen. “I’ll, uh… I’ll
just go inside then.” Smooth, Silas.

  She dimpled gratefully. “I’d appreciate it.”

  Keenly aware of her every move—he heard the hot tub go off, the tell-tale splash as she left the water— Silas suddenly found himself quite thirsty. He sent a fervent thank-you in his father’s direction when he found a lone beer in the refrigerator and made a mental note to buy more.

  He’d just popped the top and was in the process of taking a hearty pull when Delphie ducked back into the kitchen. Looking mortified, but more confident, she’d wrapped the towel around what was quite clearly a very petite, very lush frame and held her clothes clutched to her chest. “I’ll just go dress in the bathroom.”

  More torture.

  It would have been better if he hadn’t seen her undergarments, the red see-through lace, itty bitty scraps of fabric he could imagine shaping her lovely, milky white curves.

  Two minutes later—after he’d had time to inspect the contents in the fridge and conclude that while Paula Deen could probably make a gourmet meal out of pickle relish, cream cheese and English muffins, it was beyond the scope of his talent—Delphie returned.

  “Well,” she said, seemingly at a loss. Her gaze darted around the kitchen, as if reluctant to meet his. “This has been interesting.”

  He chuckled and passed a hand over his face. “It’s certainly added an exciting element to the homecoming story I’m going to tell when I get back,” he said. He quirked a brow. “Do you mind if I tell the guys you were wearing a red bow on top of your head?”

  Her laugh was quick and throaty, very pleasant. She pulled a small shrug. “Why stop there? Tell them I had a gift tag around my neck and a no-return policy.”

  She was quick, too. An admirable quality. “Excellent.”

  “No batteries required, either.” She chuckled and arched a playful brow. “I’m sounding better and better, aren’t I?”

  “An easy sell, for sure,” he said, his gaze skimming over her once again. A particularly sharp bolt of heat nailed his groin. “So you’re across the street?”