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She shook her head, her eyes trained on Lena, as she used her phone to photograph Holly’s beautifully frosted and precisely decorated house. “No. We’ve got to stage our photo.”
He had no idea what she meant but when it was finally their turn, she gestured at their entire village. “Can you pick that up?”
“Sure.” He slid the cardboard base to the edge of the table and then gently supported it with his palms.
Carissa directed him toward the Christmas tree, and while he held the ginger-village in front of the tree, she called Lena over to photograph it.
While Lena wove her way between the other guests, Carissa leaned closer to him. “Everyone else is just letting Lena take random snapshots, with whatever happens to be in the background. But this”—she gestured toward the Christmas tree—“is a way more festive backdrop. It’s going to make all the difference.”
Lena snapped their village from a bunch of different angles, Carissa directing the shots she wanted. Finally, when his arms were about to fall off from the awkward position, she said, “Yep, that’s the one!”
“No, one more! Get over there next to Lachie.” Lena waved her hand, indicating where she wanted Carissa. When she was satisfied with her friend’s positioning, she held up her camera phone. “Oh. Oh!” Her mouth dropped open in feigned surprise and with her free hand she pointed up.
He almost tipped the whole gingerbread village over when he saw what they were standing under: mistletoe. But instead of Carissa saying ‘absolutely not’ and glaring at her best friend the way he expected, Carissa rolled with the surprise.
When she slipped her arms around his waist and went up on her tiptoes, the front of her pressing against the side of him it felt better than he had the right to enjoy. For half a second he told himself he shouldn’t want anything more from her than friendship. That anything more would just end up in heartbreak, when he left or she went home. He bent as close as he could to her and still keep hold of the gingerbread village. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to, just because of some silly tradition.”
He was half certain she was going to give him a peck on the cheek, and then she said, “Oh, I want this whether Lena orchestrated it or not.” In that instant, whatever remnant of caution he might’ve still had completely vanished. He wanted more from her than friendship. He had, since the first moment he’d grabbed her hand in his plane. The only thing holding him back now was the fact that this was no kind of first kiss, in front of an audience. What he wanted to do to her, no one else should see.
He was going to give her his cheek but at the last second he turned his head. If he could’ve shoved their village at someone else to hold, anyone, he would’ve done it, just so he could grab her and pull her to him. As it was, he carefully balanced their creation, and as her lips brushed across his, it was all he could do not to groan with the pleasure of it. The soft slide of her lips against his sparked a riot of fireworks exploding everywhere she touched.
“Are your T-shirts accurate, Mr. Big Nick Energy?” Her eyes dropped to his shirt and then lower as she pulled away.
“You know they are, Ladybug. That was only the tiniest taste of what I want to tree-t you to.”
And then she did something he didn’t think he’d ever tire of: she laughed.
9
SOMEONE SPECIAL
As soon as Carissa could move her legs again, she’d wobbled over to collapse on the couch. That’s how much the kiss and Lachlan’s whispered answer had affected her.
Which was embarrassing.
Even more embarrassing was the fact that she was still there, even as the party was breaking up, the ladies from the women’s club saying they wanted to get home before dark. Lachlan had deposited their gingerbread village in the kitchen somewhere and gone around the room, looking at everyone else’s creations and exclaiming over them, and now he was helping clear off all the tables while Heath and Lena walked the last of their guests out. Everyone except Mariah. She was lingering, asking questions about Pickle, who she apparently knew from Lachlan bringing his cat into the vet clinic where Mariah worked.
“So Pickle and Copper get along?”
“They sure do. Copper is really gentle, and when Pickle attacks his tail, he looks extremely concerned but he never does anything.” Lachlan was open and friendly and warm—the way he always was.
“But you don’t let Pickle roam the house?”
“Well, I’ve had some… incidents with her and houseplants, and I just thought, with the Christmas tree…” He looked over in Carissa’s direction, like he was checking in on her, but Mariah quickly followed up with another question. She seemed to have an endless supply of curiosity about Pickle—what food Lachlan fed her and what kinds of toys were her favourite and what kind of carrier he used when he was travelling with her. Each question seemed to require Mariah to stand even closer to Lachlan and touch his shoulder. Despite the fact there had been several other men from the RSL in attendance—men whose gingerbread creations had been abominations, marking them as clearly unattached— Carissa was pretty sure Mariah was angling to get Lachlan under the mistletoe herself. She was surprised at just how much she hated that idea. Which was ridiculous.
It wasn’t like she had any claim on Lachlan, but she’d convinced herself she wouldn’t mind a quick little fling with him. She’d even allowed herself to wonder what might happen if she was going to be staying in Bindarra Creek, to help Lena….
And that kiss…
“Can I help you out to your car? How about I carry your gingerbread house, and you get the doors?”
“You are so sweet, Lachie!” As Mariah’s giggle faded into the night and the front door closed behind them, Carissa felt a pang. She didn’t want him outside walking Mariah to her car.
Lachlan had flirted with her. They’d held hands at Beth’s Truck Stop and on the plane, though that probably didn’t count. They’d kissed, and he’d said it was just a taste of what he wanted to treat her to. That kiss had been so good she was flat out on the couch. But maybe she was reading more into their kiss and his flirtation than she should. What if it was nothing special to him?
He was the one who’d said a kiss in public under the mistletoe was just the product of a silly tradition, not any true feelings. And now that she thought about it, she was certain the kiss was far more chaste than it had felt to her. To her, the moment she’d kissed him under the mistletoe had been a study in paradoxes—she’d felt weak and alive, she’d felt hot and not nearly hot enough, she’d been overstimulated and not even close to stimulated enough. She must’ve been imagining that the room around them had gone silent and the air expectant. The charge between her and Lachlan had all been an illusion, a product of her brain going haywire thanks to sensory overload. It hadn’t actually been real.
The house settled into quiet, everyone outside except her and she closed her eyes and tried not to feel let down that she’d let herself be so charmed by what was clearly meaningless flirtation.
