Last Chance Christmas (6 page)

“You need a Christmas tree.” Her eye went to the perfect place for it in front of the windows overlooking the front yard. Close enough to the fireplace for atmosphere, but leaving plenty of room between for presents.

“I’ve got a lot of potential candidates on this lot. It’s almost thirty acres.” He shifted his hold on her again as he angled her through a wide door. He used his elbow to turn on wall lamps that bracketed a simple platform bed with a thick gray down comforter and rumpled pillows in matching gray sheets.

“This is your room.” She pointed out, noticing his suitcase open in one corner. “I can’t kick you out of your room.”

“This is the only first floor bedroom. It’ll be easiest for you to be here. There’s a bathroom in back and the doors are wide.” He deposited her on the bed and toed over the room’s one rug for her to set her feet on.

“I can’t do that—”

“Let’s add this to the list of things we’ll argue about in the morning.” He pivoted and headed toward the door. “I’ll be back with your crutches and any bags I find in your car.”

She sat alone in the middle of J.C.’s bed. A bed he’d probably slept in just the night before. A bed with sheets that—she’d bet—retained a hint of his scent. Was this all part of his plan to show her how much chemistry they shared?

She eyed his pillow with suspicion, begrudgingly admiring a well-played hand.

“You need some help?” He reappeared with purse balanced on top of her suitcase and set both of them within easy reach of the bedside. He’d carried her crutches under one arm and he leaned them against the nightstand. “Do you sleep in that boot or do you want it off?”

“I can get it.” She waved him away, unwilling to take up any more of his time or further impose.

“No offense, Shea, but you look like you’re going to fall asleep sitting up.” He knelt in front of her and lifted her surgery boot onto his lap. “I can at least dry it off if you don’t sleep in this.”

“I don’t.” She leaned forward to work on the laces, but he was already making quick work of them. “I’m not an invalid.”

“No. But you had surgery three weeks ago and it takes your body longer to recover than you realize.” He stretched the canvas wide, ensuring she had lots of room to slide her foot out. “Besides, your father would kick my ass if he knew I let you break your neck under my roof.”

That made her laugh. “Hardly. I don’t think my neck has been that big of a concern for him since I turned my back on that hockey prep school scholarship to go to New York.”

J.C. didn’t seem to hear her, however, his attention focused on her foot now that he’d freed it of the protective shoe.

“Your bandages are half off.” He pointed to the slumping elastic that had slid down to her ankle. “Can I rewrap it for you?”

Lifting her leg to assess the damage, she could see what he meant. “I probably did too much today. And since when do you know first aid?”

She reached for her bag to find some bandages.

“Since I broke half the bones in my body.” He said it in all seriousness as he handed her the duffel she wanted. “Do you have gauze in there or should I go grab some?”

She yanked a bag full of supplies out of a side pocket and set it on the bed, leaving him to do what he wanted while she slid off her poncho, a garment she wore that was easy to get in and out of. She hoped the rest of her clothes would be equally simple to remove since she’d assumed she would have her mom around to help.

Because no matter what J.C. thought about their chemistry, she would not let him help her out of her clothes.

“You okay?” He steadied her foot on his lap, eyes lasering in on hers.

“Sure. Why?” She felt a rush of heat through her veins.

“You shivered.” He sifted through the rumpled comforter at the end of the bed and found a fuzzy white blanket. “Use this if you’re cold.”

Draping the blanket around her shoulders, she burrowed into the fabric, not wanting to admit the real cause of her shiver.

“Thank you.” She watched in silence as he cut away the old bandages.

“If you want a tape job, ask a hockey player,” he reminded her, tearing off a section of gauze and wrapping it around the oozing wound.

“Just keep in mind my foot is not a stick blade. I want to be able to still wiggle my toes when you’re done.”

“Can do.” He used his teeth on the tape, a visual that took her right back to the stands where she used to watch him play.

She’d watch him on the bench, taping his hockey stick before a game or before a shootout, his quick hands maneuvering around the blade even while he was carrying on a conversation with teammates or discussing game strategy with coaches. He’d always been a smart player in addition to his natural athleticism, adapting his play according to the competition while always staying true to what he did best on the ice.

Her father had always admired that, raving that J.C. could “think” the game, not just play it. So Walt Walker admired him as a player. Just not as a boyfriend for her. Shea had never figured out if that was because her dad thought J.C. wasn’t right for her, or if Dad were more concerned she’d succeed in dissuading J.C. from the career he deserved. No doubt her father had played a role in J.C.’s decision to go to Minnesota instead of New York with her, like they’d planned.

But J.C. hadn’t been a kid at the time. He’d made it clear the final decision had been his.

“Why hasn’t Dad been opening the outdoor rink the last few years?” She asked, wondering why her mother hadn’t mentioned it to her. Besides, talking about hockey was a good way to distract herself from the pleasant sensations drifting up her leg whenever J.C.’s fingers brushed over her bare skin.

“You’d have to ask him.” J.C. covered the gauze and tape with elastic bandages, wrapping her foot gently. “But a lot of people have missed it. I hope you consider sticking around to make that happen this year.”

“Seems strange my uncles haven’t taken it on if Dad didn’t want to do it.” She hadn’t realized how much of an outcast she’d become, travelling the globe for her job, oblivious to the shifts in the Walker family.

She knew, however, that depressive episodes came with chronic traumatic encephalopathy, the degenerative brain disease that plagued some professional athletes long after they left the game. Her uncle had been diagnosed with it a year ago, and her dad had played longer—suffering more concussions—than Will had. She worried about what that meant for his future. For her mother’s future.

“What can I get for you out of your bag?” J.C. had finished his tape job and moved toward her suitcase. “Night clothes?”

She hadn’t considered the practical necessities of getting ready for bed. She bit her lip, mentally running through a short list of personal hygiene chores and how to abbreviate them.

“How about I leave you one of my shirts instead?” Crossing to the other side of the room he pulled a big tee from his bag and tossed it on the bed. “That will be easy to get into.”

Except everything took five times as long with her injuries.

He wandered toward the bed again. “Although if you want help undressing—”

“No. Thanks anyway.”

He grinned. “If you change your mind, I’ll be out on the couch so I’ll hear you if you need anything.” He flipped the light on in the bathroom. “I’m leaving a new toothbrush and some stuff out on the counter for you.”

She could hear him banging cabinet doors and cleaning up. When he emerged, he carried a glass of water that he left on her nightstand along with a remote for the lights and television.

“Thank you.” She was done giving him a hard time tonight when he’d actually been very thoughtful of her. “You didn’t have to do any of this for me, but I appreciate it.”

A wary look crossed his face, but she couldn’t imagine why. Maybe he was simply surprised that she would thank him. Back when they’d dated, he’d probably seen her brattier side—a side in constant confrontation with her father who’d had bigger dreams for her than a career in fashion.

“It’s good to see you.” He paused by the door, one hand on the knob. “Sleep well.”

He left her then, giving her space to get ready for bed since she’d refused his offer of help. In light of that, it took her a while to figure out why she felt so damned uneasy as she tried to fall asleep. But much later, breathing in the scent of him still contained in his sheets, she had to admit the truth behind the restless feeling in her veins. She’d wanted that kiss he’d teased her about back in the car.

She’d wanted it a whole lot.

How was she supposed to make peace with their past when her body wanted to relive it?

‡

W
ith the key
to Shea’s house burning a hole in his pocket and his conscience, J.C. didn’t get much sleep. Guilt ate away at him, knowing she would have stayed at her parents’ place if he’d given her a choice. How many times in the past had she accused him of deciding what was best for her without consulting her? By dawn, he’d been out of the house to get his morning workout in, building up the length of his runs and his time in the gym. His instructions from the neurology doc and his trainers were explicit and it wasn’t like this was his first concussion. He knew the drill. Respected his limits.

Knowing Shea was back at his home and sleeping in his bed had him far more off-balance than any blow to the head.

He had no baseline for this; he reminded himself as he stepped out of an upstairs shower and searched for clean clothes. He had no sense of the protocol for dealing with a woman from his past, who still got under his skin like no one else ever had. He’d loved his wife, no question. But the spark between him and Shea was different. And unlike a decade ago where he’d been under a lot of pressure to let her find her own path and achieve her own dreams, he could damn well make a case for her to be with him.

The age difference that had mattered back then had zero relevance now. So while he cooked up some breakfast in the big country kitchen he’d designed himself, he debated his next move. He wanted her to stay for Christmas. Wanted to explore all that spark and chemistry she’d tried to say didn’t exist. But more than that, he wanted to make peace with her, just like she’d suggested.

He hadn’t been kidding when he told her it felt like fate that she’d arrived in town during a rare extended visit for him. As a professional athlete, he’d admit to being mildly superstitious when it came to game rituals. Maybe some of that superstition carried over to his situation with her. Seeing her again—finally following where all that attraction led—seemed like destiny.

So by the time he heard her crutches striking the floor in the next room in that distinctive rhythm, he had a plan. He was going to keep her in Cloud Spin, preferably at his place, for as long as he could. If that meant he leveraged Christmas and the need to make peace with the past, he wouldn’t hesitate. With any luck, the project to open the outdoor rink had piqued her interest enough to keep her here for the holidays.

“Something smells amazing.” She sounded surprised as she edged through the door from the bedroom into the breakfast room and toward the island where he worked at the cooktop. “Don’t tell me you can cook
and
scores goals in the NHL.” Her eyes were on the table where he’d laid out plates and a carafe of coffee. “I’m not entirely sure which one of those accomplishments I hold in higher regard. Judging by the smell, it might be the cooking.”

She looked more like he remembered her this morning, with her face scrubbed clean and her long red hair caught in a tie near her shoulder so the ends trailed down one arm. She wore one of his old hockey sweaters and a pair of sweats, the kind of thing she used to wear at the rink when she still played. She might have mixed feelings about the sport, but her game had an intensity to match guys he’d competed with professionally. Her determination and drive matched her father’s, a quirk of genetics that had put the two of them at odds for years on end.

“I can’t take credit for that, actually.” He slid eggs on a plate that he’d made and then opened the oven to remove a pan of rolls. “I picked up some sweet breads from the bakery this morning and I heated them up.”

Drawn to the pan, she leaned over the tray to inhale as he set it down on a trivet on the table.

“They all look so good.” She pointed to a round stack at one end. “Are those crepes?”

“I got some of everything since I wasn’t sure what you’d like.” He held out a chair for her, trying to resist an urge to bury his face in her hair as she lowered herself to the seat. Once he had her settled, he turned to the fridge and dug out raspberries, honey, and sliced apples. “It’s the holidays, right? We’re entitled.”

“Wow.” She peered up at him, gray eyes alight with something that looked like genuine happiness. A lightness of spirit he hadn’t seen in her at all the night before. “Did I mention I can be won with food? We’re going to make peace in no time.”

He took the seat across a corner from her and poured them both water from a pitcher.

“Awesome. I like being on the fast track to my goals.” He dished up eggs, crepes, and fruit onto his plate while she fixed her coffee. “But that brings to mind a whole host of other items on today’s agenda after making peace.”