Merry Christmas, Baby(26)
Author: Vicki Lewis Thompson

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?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

Silas leaned a hip against the counter top, content to study her. She had that kind of face, the sort that drew the eye and didn’t want to release it. “How long have you been there?”

“Almost two years.”

He inclined his head. “And is there an angry husband or significant other who’s going to want to rearrange my face for finding you nak*d in my parents’ hot tub?”

She blushed again, an action he found strangely refreshing. “Er…no.”

He brightened. Maybe his Christmas was going to be merry after all, Silas thought, more than a little pleased with the change in his circumstances. Granted his parents weren’t in town and this wasn’t the homecoming he’d been expecting, but… He pushed off from the counter. “In that case, how about dinner?”

Her startled gaze swung to his. “Dinner?”

“Dinner, supper, the evening meal,” he said, listing the various alternatives. “Whatever you want to call it. The fridge is bare and I’ve spent the last ten hours on a plane eating complimentary peanuts and stale pretzels.” He grinned. “I’m hungry. Have you eaten?”

“No,” she said. “I find that alcohol is a lot more effective if I drink it on an empty stomach.”

That settled it, Silas decided. She was without a doubt the most interesting person he’d met in a long, long time.

Quite possibly ever.

“So you’ll join me?” he pressed. He gave her a smile—the one that he pulled out when he really wanted to get his way—and waited expectantly for her answer.

“YES,” DELPHIE SAID after a moment’s hesitation. Why not? He’d practically seen her nak*d. What was dinner after that? Furthermore, this was Charlie and Helen’s son, a man who’d been serving their country—risking his life—since he’d gotten out of college. How could she say no? What sort of neighbor or patriot would that make her? Delphie wondered, knowing good and damned well that the reason she was saying yes didn’t have anything to do with Silas’s parents or being a good patriot.

She was a woman and he was unbelievably handsome.

He was also a potential wedding date, which had occurred to her while she’d been in the bathroom hastily donning her clothes. Yes, she was being opportunistic, and yes, she should be thinking more about her dear neighbors who were going to miss seeing their son at Christmas. But the shallow, vain part of her couldn’t help but think he’d look damned fine on her arm at the wedding. In fact, she wouldn’t appear pathetic at all if he went with her.

Glass half full, silver lining and all that.

Silas nodded, seeming pleased with her decision. “Excellent,” he said. “Any suggestions?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“My mother’s orange rolls, actually,” he confessed with a laughing sigh, “but I don’t think I’m going to find those on the menu anywhere in town.”

“Ooh, I know of the rolls you speak,” Delphie said, following him through the house. “Your mother brought some over to me when I first moved in.” He locked the door and pulled it shut. “Do you mind if we stop at my place so I can pick up my purse?” she asked.

“Not at all.”

“And you’re not opposed to driving? I’ve only had two glasses of wine, but for some reason it feels like I upended the entire bottle.” It was utterly baffling. She hadn’t noticed just how unsteady on her feet she was until she’d nearly done a face-plant against the door frame on her way into the house.

He chuckled. “That’s because you were in the hot tub. It’ll do it every time.”

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Really?”

He nodded. “Really.”

Delphie hummed under her breath and pulled a shrug. “Note to self—always drink in the hot tub. More bang for your buck.”

She snagged her bag from beside the door and then walked next to him back to his car. He was even taller than she’d thought, Delphie noted, feeling particularly short beside him. Which, at five-foot-two, wasn’t out of the ordinary, really. But for whatever reason, he seemed bigger than other men his height. It wasn’t necessarily that there was more of him, but that his very presence seemed to need more room. Interesting.

Thrilling.

Ten minutes later they were snacking on hush puppies, sipping iced tea and waiting on their shrimp and grits. She liked the way his mouth moved when he talked, deep and unhurried, his voice a tantalizing drawl.

“So,” he said, staring at her from across the table, his gaze twinkling with intrigued humor. “Do you often drink on an empty stomach?”

Ah. She’d known that little comment was going to come back to bite her on the butt. He waited patiently and seemed genuinely interested in her answer. His close-cropped dark hair had a slight wave and hugged his scalp and his eyes were so brown they created the impression of being black. It was quite arresting. High cheekbones created exaggerated hollows and planes on his face and his nose was appropriately proportioned and straight.

Ultimately, though, it was his mouth that did it for her. A bit full for a man, but masculine all the same, and there was a sensual quality to it that made her feel too itchy in her own skin. It crooked a little higher on one side, an endearing imperfection that somehow made it all the more sexy, all the more charming.

“Drowning a sorrow?” he pressed. “Recent breakup? On the outs with a friend? Someone outbid you on eBay?”

She laughed softly and looked away. “Worse,” she said. “My little sister is getting married on Christmas Eve.”

His keen eyes sparkled with a little too much understanding. “Ah,” he said, lifting his chin. “Feeling left behind then? Like the ugly older sister your father can’t unload even with two goats, a dairy cow and a good hunting dog?”

Her eyes widened and she laughed. “Not as bad as all that, thanks,” she said. “Just a little melancholy. I’m happy for her,” she told him. She squeezed lemon into her tea, then gave it a swirl with her spoon. “But I have to admit I’m not looking forward to the pitying glances from the various aunts and friends, as though I’m a failure compared with Lena’s romantic success.”

“So it’s not that you’re envious, you’re just competitive?”

“A little of both actually,” she admitted, impressed with his intuitive assessment. “But being alone during the holidays is hard enough without throwing a wedding into the mix.” She chuckled and pushed a hand through her hair. “It compounds the pathetic factor.”

He chuckled and shook his head as though the feminine brain was a mystery. “What is it about women and weddings?” he wondered aloud. “Your sister is signing on as chief launderer, cook, possible incubator and unpaid treasure hunter and you’re going all gooey-eyed about it. Listen, it’s a bad deal,” he said with a deadpan expression, leaning forward as though he were imparting some serious advice. “In a week you’re going to feel sorry for her and be patting yourself on the back for your narrow escape.”

“Unpaid t-treasure hunter?” Delphie chuckled. Admittedly she got the other references, but this one was lost on her.

“Oh, you know,” he said. “Honey, where are my keys? Baby, have you seen my vintage Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt?” He shook his head in feigned bafflement. “I’ve seen brilliant men who can spot bombs beneath a layer of sand get married, and suddenly can’t find their asses with both hands anymore. It’s amazing, really.”