Merry Christmas, Baby(28)
Author: Vicki Lewis Thompson

No, she decided as he gave her rump a squeeze that made her cling even more tightly to him.

It was him.

He was big and hard and wonderful and when he held her, she felt unbelievably desired and protected, wanted and safe. As a woman who’d always felt more than capable of taking care of herself, it was a bizarre feeling, one that was strangely welcome, incredibly potent.

Aside from being damned good-looking and funny as hell, Silas Davenport had that other something special, that indefinable quality that gave him an edge over every other guy.

And she was cooking dinner for him tomorrow night and he was going to the wedding with her. The only thing that could make this day better was an orgasm, and she was dangerously close to getting that, too.

But not on the first date.

Breathing heavily, she reluctantly ended the kiss.

“Wow,” he said, the admiration in his tone making her blush with pleasure. “I’d take you without the hunting dog,” he teased.

Delphie chuckled. “Thanks,” she said drolly. “I’ll be sure to pass that along to my father.”

He grinned down at her, his dark eyes twinkling with humor. “What time do you want me?”

She blinked up at him, momentarily panicked. She actually wanted him right now, but didn’t think she was in the best condition to be making that decision. Was it inevitable? Oh, yes. She’d known that over dinner. But tonight?

His head dropped back and he laughed. “I mean for dinner,” he told her.

Ah. Of course. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut as more color burst upon her cheeks. “Five work for you?”

“I’m available all day,” he said, shooting a forlorn look across the street to the empty house.

A blatant ploy. “I’m sure you’ll find something to do,” she drawled.

From the look on his face, he thought he already had—her.

And the kicker? He was right.

In that instant she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that at some point before he left for Iraq again they were going to fall into bed together.

She wanted. She ached. She yearned.

And for reasons which escaped her, she felt bizarrely secure with him, for lack of a better description. It was as though a part of her that was always wound tight and on guard could relax with him, simply let go, and that feeling was so inexplicably wonderful she didn’t know what to make of it.

Furthermore, the way her libido was humming, they’d be damned lucky if they made it to a bed. In fact, if this had been their third date—her usual absolute minimum before intimacy—he more than likely could have taken her right here on her front porch.

The thought was as disconcerting as it was thrilling, and should have set off an alarm strong enough to wake the dead.

Delphie merely smiled.

She was too excited to be spooked and too turned on to be cautious. Sometimes the best plan was no plan at all.

4

AT FIVE O’CLOCK ON THE dot, Silas rang Delphie’s door bell. He’d been bored out of his skull all day. He’d taken care of some things around the house for his parents—a lightbulb had blown out in the carport and he’d fixed a loose step on the back porch—and had made a trip to the grocery store. He still needed to pick up a few Christmas presents for his parents and his sister, but had decided to pace himself, lest he run out of anything to do and embarrass himself by trying to hang out with Delphie all day.

Though he wouldn’t have ever considered himself the sentimental Christmas type, Silas had discovered that he was missing more about the holiday than just his parents. He’d broodingly considered the absence of the Christmas tree and decorations and, after a few minutes of debate where he questioned his sanity, he dragged the decorations out of the attic and started putting them around the house.

The tree, the Nativity, the candle-holding Mrs. Claus who played “Jingle Bells,” the battered wreath for the front door. He’d found the Christmas CDs and had plugged them into the DVD player and, in absence of the knowledge of how to make mulled cider, had lit a cinnamon candle he’d found in the kitchen. Once finished, he’d proudly inspected his handiwork and most definitely felt more of the holiday spirit taking hold.

Because he’d seen another person walking their cat on a leash down the beach, he’d picked one up and given it a try with Cletus.

To his delight, it had worked.

Initially the cat had looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, but after a few false starts Cletus had decided that he enjoyed being outside, even if he was tethered to a pesky human. Whether Silas’s parents would thank him for this remained to be seen.

Delphie opened the door and smiled at him, making the breath seize up in his lungs and a strange ringing commence in his ears. “Hi,” she said, a shy note to her voice that he found curiously endearing. The scent of fried chicken drifted to him and he inhaled deeply, dragging a little bit of her scent in with it as well. Vanilla and lemons, an intriguing combination.

“That smells delicious,” he said, referring to her more than the meal.

“Come on in,” she told him, widening the door to allow him entrance.

He held out a bottle of wine he’d picked up earlier when he’d been out. “For you,” he said. She’d left her bottle on the back porch last night, so rather than risking a bad choice he’d simply bought the same thing.

“Thank you,” she murmured, blushing slightly once more. She started toward the kitchen. “Have you had a good day?”

He trailed along behind her, enjoying the swing of her hips. She wore a pair of black pants, a light blue sweater and a chunky necklace that drew the eye to her br**sts. Oh, hell. Who was he kidding? She could be wearing a garbage bag and his eyes would be drawn to her br**sts.

Because they were magnificent.

“I have,” he confirmed. “I went to the grocery store for a few essentials—”

“Like beer,” she interjected.

“Like beer,” he confirmed. She uncorked the wine, poured him a glass, then handed it to him. “And I put up the Christmas tree and a few decorations. I taught the cat a new trick. Exciting stuff,” he told her. “What about you?”

“I, too, had to make a run to the grocery store,” she said, shooting him a smile. She started transferring dishes to the dining room table, her movements smooth and seemingly effortless. “And I worked a bit, of course.”

“From home?”

She nodded. “Yep, which suits me just fine. After my first assessment, I can do a lot from right here.”

And right here was lovely, he had to admit. Though there was plenty of color in her house, the furniture was mostly white. White boards covered the walls and ceilings, contrasting nicely with dark wide-plank pine floors. A couple of old porch posts were stationed on either side of the dining room, separating it from the living room, and she’d opted for open kitchen cabinets which were filled with lots of old dishes. Rather than a lot of pretty houses that were simply decorated for display, hers was livable and functional, accented with repurposed materials and reclaimed woodwork. After a moment, he said as much.

“This is really nice. Did you do some of it yourself?”

She gestured for him to sit and heap his plate, then chuckled once. “I did it all myself, thank you very much.”

He felt his eyes widen. “All?”

“My dad was a carpenter,” she explained, ladling gravy over her mashed potatoes. “Retired now, of course, but I spent a lot of time with him when I was younger.”

Unbelievably impressed, he set his fork aside and stared at her. “Are you telling me that you know how to use power tools?”

She grinned and lifted a brow. “Do you want to see my nail gun?”

He shook his head and tore off another bite of chicken. “Forget the dairy cow, too,” he said in wonder. “You are a gem among women. And you’re a helluva cook,” he added thickly around a mouthful of chicken. “This is amazing.”

“Thank you,” she told him, looking pleased. “So what about you? Had you always planned on joining the military?”

Silas laughed. “You’re telling me you don’t know the answer to that question? My mother hasn’t given you everything but my pant size already?”

Her blue eyes twinkled. “Thirty, thirty-six.”

He choked on a bite of mashed potatoes. “You’re freaking kidding me,” he said, stunned. “Tell me you guessed.”

“She only mentioned it because you’re such a hard fit,” she told him.

Silas looked heavenward. Good Lord, what else had his mother told her? How he used to think that the bank tellers in drive-thru windows lived in those little boxes? How he’d once wanted a mustache like his father so much that he’d drawn it on with a Sharpie? How he’d been so nervous before his first day of school he’d puked all over his teacher’s shoes?

His gaze slid to her once more and a bark of dry laughter rumbled up his throat. He had a terrible feeling he should have been paying better attention to what his mother had been saying about him to Delphie, because he was pretty damned certain she’d been listening when the Master Manipulator—better known as Helen Davenport—had been talking about him.

DELPHIE LAUGHED AT HIS suddenly wary expression. “You don’t have to look so worried,” she said. “Your mother only ever had wonderful things to say about you.”