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Same Time, Next Christmas
Christine Rimmer
They’re each other’s Christmas gift!Ex-soldier Matthias Bravo likes spending the holidays hunkered down in his remote Oregon cabin. Until Sabra Bond seeks refuge from a winter storm. Now they meet every year for a no-strings Yuletide romance. But Matthias is ready to change the rules..


They’re each other’s Christmas present.
But what about the other 364 days?
Ex-soldier Matthias Bravo likes spending the holidays hunkered down in his remote Oregon cabin. Until Sabra Bond seeks refuge from a winter storm. Now they meet every year for a no-strings Yuletide romance. But Matthias is changing the rules. This Bravo bachelor finally knows what he wants—Sabra forever. Is she ready to commit to love not just at Christmas but every day of the year?
CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. She tried everything from acting to teaching to telephone sales. Now she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly. She insists she never had a problem keep-ing a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine lives with her family in Oregon. Visit her at christinerimmer.com (http://www.christinerimmer.com).
Also by Christine Rimmer (#u0ac02a2d-9382-569c-b68c-6886ca3d7723)
Almost a Bravo
The Nanny’s Double Trouble
Married Till Christmas
Garrett Bravo’s Runaway Bride
The Lawman’s Convenient Bride
A Bravo for Christmas
Ms. Bravo and the Boss
James Bravo’s Shotgun Bride
Carter Bravo’s Christmas Bride
The Good Girl’s Second Chance
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Same Time, Next Christmas
Christine Rimmer


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07845-0
SAME TIME, NEXT CHRISTMAS
© 2018 Christine Rimmer
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For MSR, always.
Contents
Cover (#ud504d51a-2339-524b-acc7-359ce7b97832)
Back Cover Text (#u692e7d48-a4d0-5c63-964a-dd1706d8373f)
About the Author (#u6f7283de-07e0-5fd0-b897-71a53cd8fea6)
Booklist (#uc4343b58-6f8b-5cdd-8fa0-8199a08881cf)
Title Page (#u884db401-1d39-550f-a58b-aadece387e29)
Copyright (#uf6ad9fa9-a0e8-5726-82f6-b8edb66284e8)
Dedication (#ued278f6f-6c58-5fcd-a3cb-cf8217bfe7cf)
Chapter One (#uf9fea49d-c9eb-5444-90c1-671cdfa9bdb3)
Chapter Two (#uc60db924-1f71-5e1b-9de3-6e0906e35ff8)
Chapter Three (#ufcf48d46-c008-5662-b366-999e11677d9c)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u0ac02a2d-9382-569c-b68c-6886ca3d7723)
December 23, four years ago...
Even with the rain coming down so hard he could barely make out the twisting gravel road ahead of him, Matthias Bravo spotted the light shining through the trees.
The Jeep lurched around another twist in the road. For a few seconds before the trees obscured his view, Matt could see his getaway cabin in the clearing up ahead. Yep. The light was coming from the two windows that flanked the front door.
Some idiot had broken in.
Swearing under his breath, Matt steered his Jeep to the almost nonexistent side of the road and switched off the engine and lights.
The rain poured down harder, pounding the roof, roaring so loud he couldn’t hear himself think. Out the windshield, the trees with their moss-covered trunks were a blur through the rippling curtain made of water.
Should he have just stayed home in Valentine Bay for Christmas?
Probably. His injured leg throbbed and he was increasingly certain he’d caught that weird bug his brothers had warned him about. He had a mother of a headache and even though he’d turned the heater off several miles back, he was sweating.
“Buck up, buddy.” He slapped his own cheek just to remind himself that torrential rain, a sliced-up leg, a headache and a fever were not the worst things he’d ever lived through.
And at the moment, he had a mission. The SOB in his cabin needed taking down—or at the very least, roughing up a tad and kicking out on his ass.
Matt kept his rifle in a hidden safe at the back of the Jeep. Unfortunately, the safe was accessed through the rear door.
“No time like the present to do what needs doing.”
Yeah. He was talking to himself. Kind of a bad sign.
Was he having a resurgence of the PTSD he’d been managing so well for over a year now?
No. Uh-uh. Zero symptoms of a recurrence. No more guilt than usual. He wasn’t drunk and hadn’t been in a long time. No sleep problems, depression or increased anxiety.
Simply a break-in he needed to handle.
And going in without a weapon? How stupid would that be?
He put on his field jacket, pulled up the hood, shoved open his door and jumped out, biting back a groan when his hurt leg took his weight.
The good news: it wasn’t that far to the rear door. In no time, he was back inside the vehicle, sweating profusely, dripping rain all over the seat, with the rifle in one hand and a box of shells in the other.
Two minutes later, rifle loaded and ready for action, he was limping through the downpour toward the cabin. Keeping to the cover of the trees, he worked his way around the clearing, doing a full three-sixty, checking for vehicles and anyone lurking outside, finding nothing that shouldn’t be there.
Recon accomplished, he approached the building from the side. Dropping to the wet ground, he crawled to the steps, staying low as he climbed them. His leg hurt like hell, shards of pain stabbing him with every move he made. It was bleeding again right through the thick makeshift bandage he’d tied on the wound.
Too bad. For now, he needed to block the pain and focus.
As he rolled up onto the covered porch, he swiped back his dripping hood and crawled over beneath the front window.
With slow care, he eased up just enough to peer over the sill.
He got an eyeful.
A good-looking brunette—midtwenties, he would guess—sat on the hearth, warming herself at a blazing fire. She wore only a bra and panties. Articles of clothing lay spread out around her, steaming as they dried.
Was she alone? He didn’t see anyone else in there. The cabin was essentially one big room, with bath and sleeping loft. From his crouch at the window, he could see the bathroom, its door wide open. Nobody in there. And he had a straight visual shot right through to the back door. Nada. Just the pretty, half-naked brunette.
She looked totally harmless.
Still, he should check the situation out from every possible angle before making his move.
Was he maybe being a little bit paranoid? Yeah, possibly.
But better safe than sorry.
He dragged himself over beneath the other front window. The view from there was pretty much the same. The woman looked so innocent, leaning back on her hands now, long, smooth legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. She raised a slim hand and forked her fingers through her thick, dark hair.
Grimly, he pulled up his hood and crawled down the steps into the deluge again. Circling the cabin once more, close-in this time, he ducked to peer into each window as he passed.
Every view revealed the leggy brunette, alone, drying off by the fire.
By the time he limped back to the front of the building and crept up onto the porch again, he was all but certain the woman was on her own.
Still, she could be dangerous. Maybe. And dangerous or not, she had broken in and helped herself to his firewood. Not to mention he still couldn’t completely discount the possibility that there was someone upstairs.
He’d just have to get the jump on her, hope she really was alone and that no damn fool hid in the loft, ready to make trouble.
Sliding to the side, Matt came upright flush against the front door. Slowly and silently, he turned the knob. The knob had no lock, but he needed to see if the dead bolt was still engaged. It was. He took the keys from his pocket. At the speed of a lazy snail, in order not to alert the trespasser within, he unlocked the dead bolt.
That accomplished, he put the keys away and turned the knob with agonizing slowness until the door was open barely a crack. Stepping back, he kicked the door wide. It slammed against the inside wall as he leveled the barrel of his rifle on the saucer-eyed girl.
“Freeze!” he shouted. “Do it now!”
Sabra Bond gaped at the armed man who filled the wide-open doorway.
He was a very big guy, dressed for action in camo pants, heavy boots and a hooded canvas coat. And she wore nothing but old cotton panties and a sports bra.
No doubt about it. Her life was a mess—and getting worse by the second.
Sheepishly, she put her hands up.
The man glared down the barrel of that rifle at her. “What do you think you’re doing in my cabin?”
“I, um, I was on my way back to Portland from my father’s farm,” she babbled. “I parked at the fish hatchery and started hiking along the creek toward the falls. The rain came. It got so bad that I—”
“Stop.” He swung the business end of his rifle upward toward the loft. “Anyone upstairs? Do not lie to me.”
“No one.” He leveled the weapon on her again. “Just me!” she squeaked. “I swear it.” She waited for him to lower the gun. No such luck. The barrel remained pointed right at her. And, for some incomprehensible reason, she couldn’t quit explaining herself. “I was hiking and thinking, you know? The time got away from me. I’d gone miles before the rain started. It kept getting worse, which led me to the unpleasant discovery that my waterproof jacket is only water resistant. Then I found your cabin...”
“And you broke in,” he snarled.
Had she ever felt more naked? Highly unlikely. “I was just going to stand on the porch and wait for the rain to stop. But it only came down harder and I kept getting colder.”
“So you broke in,” he accused again, one side of his full mouth curling in a sneer.
Okay, he had a point. She had broken in. “I jimmied a window and climbed through,” she admitted with a heavy sigh.
Still drawing a bead on her, water dripping from his coat, he stepped beyond the threshold and kicked the door shut. Then he pointed the gun at her pack. “Empty that. Just turn it over and dump everything out.”
Eager to prove how totally unthreatening she was, Sabra grabbed the pack, unzipped it, took it by the bottom seam and gave it a good shake. A first-aid kit, an empty water bottle, a UC Santa Cruz Slugs hat and sweatshirt, and a bottle of sunscreen dropped out.
“Pockets and compartments, too,” he commanded.
She unhooked the front flap and shook it some more. Her phone, a tube of lip balm, a comb and a couple of hair elastics tumbled to the floor. “That’s it.” She dropped the empty pack. “That’s all of it.” When he continued to glare at her, she added, “Dude. It was only a day hike.”
“No gun.” He paced from one side of the cabin to the other. She realized he was scoping out the upstairs, getting a good look at whatever might be up there.
Apparently satisfied at last that she really was alone, he pointed the gun her way all over again and squinted at her as though trying to peer into her brain and see what mayhem she might be contemplating.
Hands still raised, she shook her head. “I’m alone. No gun, no knives, no nothing. Just me in my underwear and a bunch of soggy clothes—and listen. I’m sorry I broke in. It was a bad choice on my part.” And not the only one I’ve made lately. “How ’bout if I just get dressed and go?”
He studied her some more, all squinty-eyed and suspicious. Then, at last, he seemed to accept the fact that she was harmless. He lowered the rifle. “Sorry,” he grumbled. “I’m overcautious sometimes.”
“Apology accepted,” she replied without a single trace of the anger and outrage the big man deserved—because no longer having to stare down the dark barrel of that gun?
Just about the greatest thing that had ever happened to her.
As she experienced the beautiful sensation of pure relief, he emptied the shells from his rifle, stuffed them in a pocket and turned to hang the weapon on the rack above the door. The moment he turned his back to her, she grabbed her Slugs sweatshirt and yanked it on over her head.
When he faced her again, he demanded, “You got anyone you can call to come get you?” She was flipping her still-damp hair out from under the neck of the sweatshirt as he added, “Someone with four-wheel drive. They’ll probably need chains or snow tires, too.” When she just stared in disbelief, he said, “That frog strangler out there? Supposed to turn to snow. Soon.”
A snowstorm? Seriously? “It is?”
He gave a snort of pure derision. “Oughtta check the weather report before you go wandering off into the woods.”
Okay, not cool. First, he points a gun at her and then he insults her common sense. The guy was really beginning to annoy her. Sabra had lived not fifteen miles from this cabin of his for most of her life. Sometimes you couldn’t count on the weather report and he ought to know that. “I did check the weather. This morning, before I left on my way to Portland. Light rain possible, it said.”
“It’s Oregon. The weather can change.”
His condescending response didn’t call for an answer, so she didn’t give him one. Instead, she grabbed her still-soggy pants and put them on, too, wishing she’d had sense enough to keep driving right past the sign for the fish hatchery. A hike along the creek to the falls had seemed like a good idea at the time, a way to lift her spirits a little, to clear her troubled mind before going on back to Portland to face finding a new apartment during the remaining two weeks and two days of her vacation from work—a vacation that was supposed to have been her honeymoon.
The big guy grunted. “And you didn’t answer my question. Got anyone you can call?”
“Well, let me see...” Her mom had been dead for six years now. Her dad was three hours away in Eugene until New Year’s. Five days ago, on the day before she was supposed to have gotten married, she and her ex-fiancé had called it quits for reasons too upsetting to even think about at the moment. And she just wasn’t ready to ask any of her Portland friends to drive eighty miles through a blizzard on the day before Christmas Eve to save her from a stranger with a bad attitude in an isolated cabin in the middle of the forest. “No. I don’t have anyone to call.”
The big guy did some swearing. Finally, he muttered, “Let me get my tree in here and I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”
Get outta town. Mr. Grouchy Pants had a tree? She was almost as surprised as when he’d kicked open the door. “Uh, you mean you have a Christmas tree?”
His scowl deepened. “It’s Christmas, isn’t it?”
She put up both hands again. “It’s just, well, you don’t seem like the Christmas-tree type.”
“I like Christmas.” He narrowed his blue eyes at her. “I like it alone.”
“Gotcha. And thank you—for the offer of a ride, I mean. If you can get me to my car at the fish hatchery, I can take it from there just fine. As for the tree, I’ll help you bring it in.”
“You stay here. I don’t need you.”
“Good to know.” She tugged on her socks and boots and not-quite-waterproof jacket as he pulled a tree stand out from under the sink, filled it with water and put it down near the door—and now that she wasn’t terrified half out of her wits, she noticed that he was limping.
His right pants leg was torn up, hanging in tatters to the knee. Beneath the tatters, she could see a bit of bloody bandage—a very bloody bandage, actually, bright red and wet. It looked like he was bleeding into his boot.
He straightened from positioning the tree stand and took the three steps to the door.
She got up. “Do you know that you’re bleeding?” He didn’t bother to answer. She followed him outside. “Listen. Slow down. Let me help you.”
“Stay on the porch.” He growled the command as he flipped up the hood of his jacket and stepped out into the driving rain again. “I’ll bring my Jeep to the steps.”
She waited—because, hey. If he didn’t want her help, he wasn’t going to get it. Still, she felt marginally guilty for just standing there with a porch roof over her head as she watched him limp off into the downpour.
He vanished around the first turn in the road. It was getting dark. She wrapped her arms across her middle and refused to worry about that bloody bandage on his leg and the way he walked with a limp—not to mention he’d looked kind of flushed, hadn’t he? Like maybe he had a fever in addition to whatever was going on with that leg...
Faintly, she heard a vehicle start up. A moment later, a camo-green Jeep Rubicon rolled into sight. It eased to a stop a few feet from the steps and the big guy got out. She pulled up her hood and ran down to join him as he began untying the tree lashed to the rack on the roof.
He didn’t argue when she took the top end. “I’ll lead,” was all he said.
Oh, no kidding—and not only because he was so damn bossy. It was a thick noble fir with a wide circle of bottom branches that wouldn’t make it through the door any other way.
He assumed the forward position and she trotted after him, back up the steps and into the warmth of the cabin. At the tree stand, he got hold of the trunk in the middle, raising it to an upright position.
She crouched down to guide it into place and tighten the screws, sitting back on her heels when the job was done. “Okay. You can let it go.” He eyed her warily from above, his giant arm engulfed by the thick branches as he gripped the trunk. His face was still flushed and there were beads of moisture at his hairline—sweat, not rain, she would take a bet on that. “It’s in and it’s stable, I promise you,” she said.
With a shrug, he let go.
The tree stood tall. It was glorious, blue-green and well shaped, the branches emerging in perfectly balanced tiers, just right for displaying strings of lights and a treasure trove of ornaments. Best of all, it smelled of her sweetest memories, of Christmases past, when her mom was still alive. Ruth Bond had loved Christmas. Every December, she would fill their house at Berry Bog Farm with all the best Christmas smells—evergreen, peppermint, cinnamon, vanilla...
“Not bad,” he muttered.
She put away her memories. They only made her sad, anyway. “It’s a beauty, all right.”
He aimed another scowl at her. “Good, then. Get your gear and let’s go.” Was he swaying on his feet?
She rose to her height. “I don’t know what’s wrong with your leg, but you don’t look well. You’d better sit down and let me see what I can do for you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Get real. You are not fine and you are getting worse.”
He only grew more mulish. “We’re leaving.”
“I’m not getting in that Jeep with you behind the wheel.” She braced her hands on her hips. He just went on glaring, swaying gently on his feet like a giant tree in a high wind. She quelled her aggravation at his pigheadedness and got busy convincing him he should trust her to handle whatever was wrong with him. “I was raised on a farm not far from here. My mom was a nurse. She taught me how to treat any number of nasty injuries. Just let me take a look at your leg.”
“I’ll deal with that later.”
“You are wobbling on your feet and your face is red. You’re sweating. I believe you have a fever.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
“It’s not safe for you to be—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Just get your stuff, okay?”
“No. Not okay.” She made a show of taking off her jacket and hanging it by the door. “I’m not leaving this cabin until we’ve dealt with whatever’s going on with your leg.”
There was a long string of silent seconds—a battle of wills. He swayed and scowled. She did nothing except stand there and wait for the big lug to give in and be reasonable.
In the end, reason won. “All right,” he said. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up next to hers. And then, at last, he limped to the Navajo-print sofa in the center of the room and sat down. He bent to his injured leg—and paused to glance up at her. “When I take off this dressing, it’s probably going to be messy. We’ll need towels. There’s a stack of old ones in the bathroom, upper left in the wooden cabinet.”
She went in there and got them.
When she handed them over, he said, “And a first-aid backpack, same cabinet, lower right.” He set the stack of towels on the sofa beside him.
“I’ve got a first-aid kit.” It was still on the floor by the hearth where she’d dumped it when he’d ordered her to shake out her pack. She started for it.
“I saw your kit,” he said. She paused to glance back at him as he bent to rip his pants leg wider, revealing an impressively muscular, bloodstained, hairy leg. “Mine’s bigger.”
She almost laughed as she turned for the bathroom again. “Well, of course it is.”
His kit had everything in it but an operating table.
She brought it into the main room and set it down on the plank floor at the end of the sofa. He’d already pushed the pine coffee table to the side, spread towels on the floor in front of him and rolled his tattered pants leg to midthigh, tying the torn ends together to keep them out of the way.
She watched as he unlaced his boot. A bead of sweat dripped down his face and plopped to his thigh. “Here.” She knelt. “I’ll ease it off for you.”
“I’ve got it.” With a grunt, he removed the boot. A few drops of blood fell to the towels. His sock was soggy with it, the blood soaking into the terrycloth when he put his foot back down.
“Interesting field dressing.” She indicated the article of clothing tied around his lower leg.
One thick shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “Another T-shirt bites the dust.”
“Is it stuck to the wound?”
“Naw. Wound’s too wet.” He untied the knots that held the T-shirt in place.
When he took the bloody rag away, she got a good look at the job ahead of her. The wound was an eight-inch crescent-shaped gash on the outside of his calf. It was deep. With the makeshift bandage gone, the flap of sliced flesh flopped down. At least it didn’t appear to go all the way through to the bone. Blood dripped from it sluggishly.
“Let me see...” Cautiously, so as not to spook him, she placed her index and middle fingers on his knee and gave a gentle push. He accepted her guidance, dipping the knee inward so she could get a closer look at the injury. “Butterfly bandages won’t hold that together,” she said. “Neither will glue. It’s going to need stitches.”
For the first time since he’d kicked open the door, one side of his mouth hitched up in a hint of a smile. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.” His blue eyes held hers. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“Absolutely.”
“You really know what to do?”
“Yes. I’ve sewn up a number of injured farm animals and once my dad got gored by a mean bull when my mom wasn’t home. I stitched him right up.”
He studied her face for a good five seconds. Then he offered a hand. “Matthias Bravo.”
She took it. “Sabra Bond.”
Chapter Two (#u0ac02a2d-9382-569c-b68c-6886ca3d7723)
Sabra washed up at the kitchen-area sink, turning and leaning against the counter as she dried her hands. “Got a plastic tub?”
“Under the sink.” He seemed so calm now, so accepting. “Look. I’m sorry if I scared you, okay?” His eyes were different, kinder.
She nodded. “I broke in.”
“I overreacted.”
She gazed at him steadily. “We’re good.”
A slow breath escaped him. “Thanks.”
For an odd, extended moment, they simply stared at each other. “Okay, then,” she said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”
Grabbing the tub from under the sink, she filled it with warm water and carried it over to him. As he washed his blood-caked foot and lower leg, she laid out the tools and supplies she would need. His first-aid pack really did have everything, including injectable lidocaine.
“Lucky man,” she said. “You get to be numb for this.”
“Life is good,” he answered lazily, leaning against the cushions, letting his big head fall back and staring kind of vacantly at the crisscrossing beams overhead.
Wearing nitrile gloves from his fancy kit, she mopped up blood from around the injury and then injected the painkiller. Next, she irrigated the wound just the way her mom had taught her to do.
As she worked, he took his own temperature. “Hundred and two,” he muttered unhappily.
She tipped her head at the acetaminophen and the tall glass of water she’d set out for him. “Take the pills and drink the water.”
He obeyed. When he set the empty glass back down, he admitted, “This bug’s been going around. Two of my brothers had it. Laid them out pretty good. At least it didn’t last long. I was feeling punk this morning. I told myself it was nothing to worry about...”
“Focus on the good news,” she advised.
“Right.” He gave her a wry look. “I’m sick, but if I’m lucky, I won’t be sick for long.”
She carried the tub to the bathroom, dumped it, rinsed it and left it there. When she returned to him, she repositioned the coffee table, sat on the end of it and covered her thighs with a towel. “Let’s see that leg.” She tapped her knees with her palms, and he stretched the injured leg across them.
“Can you turn your leg so the wound is up and keep it in that position?”
“No problem.” He rolled his foot inward, turning his outer calf up.
She put on a fresh pair of gloves and got to work.
It took a lot of stitches to do the job. He seemed content to just sprawl there, staring at the ceiling as she sewed him up.
But, now she had him at her mercy, there were a few questions she wanted to ask. “Did somebody come after you with an ax?” He lifted his head and mustered a steely stare. She grinned in response. It was so strange. Not long ago, he’d scared the crap out of her. Yet now he didn’t frighten her in the least. She actually felt completely comfortable kidding him a little. “Do not make me hurt you.”
He snorted. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I’ll never tell a soul.”
“It was raining when I cut down that tree. I forgot to bring gloves and my hands were soaking wet. Plus, I was feeling pretty bad from this damn bug I seem to have caught.”
She tied off a stitch. “So then, what you’re telling me is you almost chopped off your own leg?”
He let his head fall back again. “I come from a long line of woodsmen on my mother’s side,” he said wearily. “No self-respecting member of my family ever got hurt while cutting down an eight-foot tree.”
“Until you.”
“Go ahead, Sabra Bond, rub it in.”
“Where’d you get that tree?” She tied off another stitch. “I didn’t see a tag on it. Have you been poaching, Matthias?”
“You can call me Matt.” He said it in a lovely, low rumble that made her think of a purring cat—a very large one. The kind that could easily turn dangerous. “Everyone calls me Matt.”
“I kind of like Matthias.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll ask again. Did you steal that gorgeous tree from the people of Oregon?”
He grunted. “I’ll have you know I’m a game warden, a Fish and Wildlife state trooper. I catch the poachers—so no, I didn’t steal that tree. I took it from property that belongs to my family.”
“Ah. All right, then. I guess I won’t have to turn you in.”
“You can’t imagine my relief.”
“I have another question.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Didn’t it occur to you to head for a hospital or an urgent care after you took that ax to your leg?”
He didn’t answer immediately. She was considering how much to goad him when he muttered, “Pride and denial are powerful things.”
By the time she’d smoothed antibiotic ointment over the stitched-up wound and covered it with a bandage, he was sweating more heavily than ever. She helped him off with his other boot. “Come on,” she coaxed. “Stretch out on the sofa, why don’t you?”
“Just for a few minutes,” he mumbled, but remained sitting up. He started emptying his pockets, dragging out his phone, keys and wallet, dropping them next to the lamp on the little table at the end of the sofa. From another pocket, he took the shells from his rifle. He put them on the little table, too, and then leaned back against the cushions again.
She asked, “Do you have another sock to keep that bare foot warm?”
“You don’t have to—”
“Just tell me where it is.”
He swiped sweat from his brow. “In the dresser upstairs, top drawer, left.”
Sabra ran up there and came down with a pillow from the bed and a clean pair of socks. She propped the pillow against one arm of the sofa and knelt to put on the socks for him. By then, he wasn’t even bothering to argue that she didn’t need to help him. He looked exhausted, his skin a little gray beneath the flush of fever.
She plumped the pillow she’d taken from the bed upstairs. “Lie down, Matthias.” He gave in and stretched out, so tall that his feet hung off the end. “Here you go.” She settled an afghan over him and tucked it in around him. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” And she hustled over to the sink to run cold water on a cloth.
“Feels good,” he said, when she gently rubbed the wet cloth across his forehead and over his cheeks. “So nice and cool. Thank you...” Under the blanket, his injured leg jerked. He winced and stifled a groan. The lidocaine was probably wearing off. But the acetaminophen should be cutting the pain a little—and lowering his fever.
“Just rest,” she said softly.
“All right. For few minutes, maybe. Not long. I’ll be fine and I’ll take you where you need to go.”
She made a sound of agreement low in her throat, though she knew he wasn’t going anywhere for at least a day or two.
Within ten minutes, he was asleep.
Quietly, so as not to wake him, she cleaned up after the impromptu medical procedure. She even rinsed out his bloody boot and put it near the hearth to dry.
Two hours later, at a little after eight in the evening, Matthias was still on the couch. He kept fading in and out of a fevered sleep. There wasn’t much Sabra could do for him but bathe his sweaty face to cool him off a little and retuck the blanket around him whenever he kicked it off.
She put another log on the fire and went through the cupboards and the small fridge in the kitchen area. He had plenty of food, the nonperishable kind. Beans. Rice. Flour. Pasta. Cans of condensed milk, of vegetables and fruit. She opened some chili and ate it straight from the can, washing it down with a glass of cold water.
Matthias slept on, stirring fitfully, muttering to himself. Now and then he called out the names of men, “Mark, no!” and “Nelson, don’t do it!” and “Finn, where are you?” as if in warning or despair. He also muttered a woman’s name, “Christy,” more than once and vowed in a low, ragged rumble, “Never again.”
He woke around nine. “Sabra?” he asked, his voice dry. Hoarse.
“Right here.”
“Water?”
She brought him a tall glassful. “Don’t get up. Let me help.” She slipped her free hand under his big, sweaty head and held the glass to his mouth as he drained it.
With a whispered “Thank you” and a weary sigh, he settled against the pillow again.
She moistened another cloth in the icy water from the sink and bathed his face for him. “You know what, Matthias?”
“Ungh?”
“I’m going to go ahead and unload your Jeep for you.”
He made another low sound in his throat. She decided to take that sound for agreement.
“Well, great.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll just get after that, then. Go back to sleep.” Scooping his keys off the side table, she put on her jacket and quietly tiptoed out to the porch.
The gorgeous sight that greeted her stole her breath and stopped her in her tracks.
Just as Matthias had predicted, the rain had turned to snow. She gazed at a world gone glittering white.
In the golden light that spilled out the cabin windows, the fat flakes fell thick and heavy. They’d piled up on the ground and decorated the branches of the western hemlock and Sitka spruce trees. There was a good three inches already.
“So beautiful,” she whispered aloud and all of her worries just fell away, both at the mess that currently added up to her life and the challenges she’d faced in the past few hours.
How could she be anything but happy in this moment? Christmas was falling from the sky.
She knew what was coming. She would be staying in this cabin for at least a few days with the man who’d introduced himself by pointing his rifle at her. Should she be more upset about that?
Probably.
But after they’d gotten past those terrifying first minutes when she’d feared he might shoot her, things had definitely started looking up. He was a good patient, and he seemed kindhearted beneath that gruff exterior.
And this situation? It felt less like an ordeal and more like an adventure. As if she’d fallen out of her own thoroughly depressing life—and into a weird and wonderful Christmassy escapade.
Stuck in a one-room cabin with a big, buff injured stranger for Christmas?
She’d take that over her real life any day of the week.
As it turned out, she didn’t need the car key. Matthias had left the Jeep unlocked.
And there were treasures in there—three large boxes of groceries. Fresh stuff, greens and tomatoes. Apples. Bananas. Eggs, milk and cheese. A gorgeous rib roast, a fat chicken and some really pretty pork chops.
It was a good thing she’d decided to bring it all in, too. By morning everything would have been frozen.
She carried the food in first, then his laptop, a box of brightly wrapped Christmas gifts probably from his family and another boxful of books, as well.
After the boxes, she brought in three duffel bags containing men’s clothes and fresh linens. Detouring to the bathroom, she stacked the linens in the cabinet. She carried the bags of clothes up to the loft, leaving them near the top of the stairs for him to deal with when he felt better.
Her sick, surly stranger definitely needed some chicken soup. She hacked up the chicken. She put the pieces on to simmer in a pot of water with onions and garlic, a little celery and some spices from the cute little spice rack mounted on the side of a cabinet.
The night wore on. She fished the cooked chicken from the pot. Once it was cool enough to handle, she got rid of the bones, chopped the meat and returned it to the pot, along with some potatoes and carrots.
On the sofa, Matthias tossed and turned, sometimes muttering to the guys named Nelson and Mark, even crying out once or twice. She soothed him when he startled awake and stroked his sweaty face with a cold cloth.
When the soup was ready, she fed it to him. He ate a whole bowlful, looking up at her through only slightly dazed blue eyes as she spooned it into his mouth. Once he’d taken the last spoonful, he said, “I’ve changed my mind. You can stay.”
“Good. Because no one’s leaving this cabin for at least a couple of days. It’s seriously snowing.”
“Didn’t I warn you?”
“Yes, you did. And it’s piling up fast, too. You’re gonna be stuck with me through Christmas, anyway.”
“It’s all right. I can deal with you.” He sat up suddenly. Before she could order him to lie back down, he said, “I really need to take a whiz—get me the cane from that basket by the door, would you?”
“You need more than a cane right now. You can lean on me.”
His expression turned mulish. “You’re amazing and I’m really glad you broke into my cabin. But as for staggering to the head, I can do it on my own. Get me the damn cane.”
“If you tear any of your stitches falling on your ass—”
“I won’t. The cane.”
She gave in. He wasn’t going to. The cane was handmade of some hard, dark wood, with a rough-hewn bear head carved into the handle. She carried it back to him. “Still here and happy to help,” she suggested.
“I can manage.” He winced as he swung his feet to the floor and then he looked up at her, waiting.
She got the message loud and clear. Pausing only to push the coffee table well out of his way, she stepped aside.
He braced one hand on the cane and the other on the sofa arm and dragged himself upright. It took him a while and he leaned heavily on the cane, but he made it to the bathroom and back on his own.
Once he was prone on the couch again, he allowed her to tuck the afghan in around him. She gave him more painkillers. Fifteen minutes later, he was sound asleep.
By then, it was past three in the morning. She checked her phone and found text messages—from her dad and also from Iris and Peyton, her best friends in Portland. They all three knew that it had ended with her fiancé, James. She hadn’t shared the gory details with her dad, but she’d told her BFFs everything. The texts asked how she was doing, if she was managing all right?
They—her friends and her dad—believed she was spending the holiday on her own at the farm. However, with no one there but her, the farmhouse had seemed to echo with loneliness, so she’d told Nils and Marjorie Wilson, who worked and lived on the property, that she was leaving. She’d thrown her stuff in her Subaru and headed back to Portland, stopping off at the fish hatchery on the spur of the moment.
And ending up stranded in a cabin in the woods with a stranger named Matthias.
Really, it was all too much to get into via text. She was safe and warm with plenty of food—and having a much better time than she’d had alone at the farmhouse. There was nothing anyone could do for her right now. They would only freak out if she tried to explain where she was and how she’d gotten there.
Sabra wished them each a merry Christmas. She mentioned that it was snowing heavily and implied to her girlfriends that she was still at the farm and might be out of touch for a few days due to the storm. To her dad, she wrote that she’d gone back to Portland—it wasn’t a lie, exactly. She had gone. She just hadn’t gotten there yet.
Though cell service in the forest was spotty at best, a minor miracle occurred and all three texts went through instantly—after which she second-guessed herself. Because she probably ought to tell someone that she was alone with a stranger in the middle of the woods.
But who? And to what real purpose? What would she even say?
Okay, I’m not exactly where I said I was. I’m actually snowed in at an isolated cabin surrounded by the Clatsop State Forest with some guy named Matthias Bravo, who’s passed out on the sofa due to illness and injury...
No. Uh-uh. She’d made the right decision in the first place. Why worry them when there was nothing they could do?
She powered off the phone to save the battery and wandered upstairs, where she turned on the lamps on either side of the bed and went looking for the Christmas decorations Matthias had to have somewhere.
Score! There were several plastic tubs of them stuck in a nook under the eaves. She carried them downstairs and stacked them next to that gorgeous tree.
By then, she was yawning. All of a sudden, the energy had drained right out of her. She went back to the loft and fell across the bed fully clothed.
Sabra woke to gray daylight coming in the one tiny window over the bed—and to the heavenly smell of fresh coffee.
With a grunt, she pushed herself to her feet and followed her nose down to the main floor and the coffee maker on the counter. A clean mug waited beside it. Matthias must have set it out for her, which almost made her smile.
And Sabra Bond never smiled before at least one cup of morning coffee.
Once the mug was full, she turned and leaned against the counter to enjoy that first, all-important sip.
Matthias was sitting up on the sofa, his bad leg stretched out across the cushions, holding a mug of his own, watching her. “Rough night, huh?”
She gave him her sternest frown. “You should not have been up and you are not allowed to speak to me until I finish at least one full cup of coffee.”
He shrugged. But she could tell that he was trying not to grin.
She took another big gulp. “Your face is still flushed. That means you still have a fever.”
He sipped his coffee and did not say a word. Which was good. Great. Exactly what she’d asked for.
She knocked back another mouthful. “At least you’re not sweating anymore. Have you taken more acetaminophen since last night?”
He regarded her with mock gravity and slowly shook his head in the negative.
She set down her mug, grabbed a glass, filled it with water and carried it over to him. “There you go. Take your pills. I’ll need to check your bandage and then I’ll cook us some breakfast.”
He tipped his golden head down and looked at her from under thick, burnished eyebrows. His mouth kept twitching. Apparently, he was finding her extremely amusing.
“What?” she demanded.
He only shook his head again.
She marched back to the counter, leaned against it once more and enjoyed the rest of her coffee in blessed silence.
“You don’t happen to have an extra toothbrush, by any chance?” she asked once she’d drained the last drop from the mug. He just gave her more silent smirking. “Oh, stop it. You may speak.”
“You’re such a charmer in the morning.”
She grunted. “Toothbrush?”
“Under the bathroom sink. Small plastic tub. There should be a couple of them still in the wrappers and some of those sample-sized tubes of toothpaste.”
“Thank you—need more coffee before I go in there? Because I am completely serious. For today at least, you’re not getting up unless you really need to.”
He set his mug on the coffee table and reached for the bottle of painkillers. “No more coffee right now. I’ll have another cup with breakfast.”
The fire was all but out. She added a little kindling and another log. As soon as the flames licked up, she faced him. “Do not get up from that couch while I’m in there.”
He was stretched out on his back again, adjusting the afghan, but he dropped it to make a show of putting his hands up in surrender. “I will not move from this spot until you give me permission.”
She grabbed her pack. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
In the bathroom, she didn’t even glance at the mirror. Not at first. The coffee had gone right to her bladder, so she took care of that. It wasn’t until she stood at the sink to wash her hands that she saw what Matthias had been trying not to laugh about.
She had three deep sleep wrinkles on the left side of her face and her hair was smashed flat on that side, with another ratty-looking section of it standing straight up from the top of her head.
A little grooming was definitely in order. She took off her clothes and gave herself a quick sponge bath, after which she brushed her teeth, put her clothes back on and combed her hair, weaving it into a single braid down her back.
By then, she almost looked human.
Snow had piled up on the sill outside the tiny bathroom window. She went on tiptoe to peer through the clear part of the glass.
A blanket of unbroken white extended, smooth and sparkly, to the tree line. The trees themselves were more white than green. And it was still coming down.
Everything out that window looked brand-new. And she felt...gleeful.
She had someone to spend her Christmas with. And a gorgeous tree to decorate.
So what if that someone was a stranger and the tree wasn’t hers? This totally unexpected interlude in the forest was just fine with her. She felt energized, very close to happy. And ready for anything.
For the first time in a long time, she looked forward with real anticipation to whatever was going to happen next.
Chapter Three (#u0ac02a2d-9382-569c-b68c-6886ca3d7723)
Matt was feeling almost human again. Yeah, his leg ached a little. But he’d taken his temperature before he made the coffee. It was down two degrees. His headache was gone.
Sabra came out of the bathroom looking a lot more pulled together than when she’d gone in. Though really, she’d been damn cute with her hair sticking up every which way, giving him the evil eye, ordering him to keep his mouth shut until she’d had her coffee.
“How about some oatmeal?” she asked as she refilled his coffee mug. “Think you could keep that down?”
He had zero desire to eat mush. “Did I dream it or did you haul everything in from the Jeep last night?”
“No dream. I brought the food and your other things inside.”
“And you made soup.”
“Yes, I did.”
“It was delicious. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done and I would like eggs, bacon and toast. Please.”
She handed him the mug and then stood above him, holding the coffee carafe, her head tipped to the side as she studied him. “I’m not going to be happy with you if it all comes right back up.” She put on her don’t-mess-with-me look, just to let him know who was boss.
Damn. The woman had attitude. And she took care of business. She was tough and resourceful and pretty much unflappable—with a dry sense of humor.
Not to mention she looked amazing in panties and a sports bra.
Matt liked her. A lot. He was a little blown away at how much. As a rule, he was cautious around new people. But for her, he would definitely make an exception. He said what he was thinking. “I could have done a lot worse than to get snowed in with you.”
For that, he got a small nod and a hint of a smile. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I just want you to be careful not to overdo it.”
“Eggs,” he said longingly. “Toast. Bacon.”
She made a disapproving face, but then she cooked him the breakfast he asked for. He did his part and kept the food down. After the meal, she changed his bandage. His leg wasn’t pretty, but there was no sign of infection.
Once she’d changed the dressing, she got him some sweats and clean underwear from the duffel bags she’d brought in from the car. She even allowed him to hobble into the bathroom on his own steam.
He brushed his teeth, cleaned himself up a little and changed into the stuff she’d brought downstairs for him. When he emerged into the main room, she said he looked a little green and ordered him to lie down.
“I have a request,” she said as she tucked the old afghan in around him.
“My Jeep? My bank account number? The deed to this cabin? Whatever you want from me, it’s yours.”
She laughed. The sound was low and a little bit husky. Every time she bent close, he could smell her. She’d used the Ivory soap in the bathroom, yeah, but beneath that, her body itself smelled clean and sweet, like fresh-baked bread or maybe sugar cookies. Sugar cookies and woman.
A knockout combination.
Really, she had it all going on. He’d never realized before that he might have a type. Hi, I’m Matt Bravo and I like my women hot, smart, competent and bossy. As soon as he was capable of washing up in the bathroom without needing a nap afterward, it was going to get really difficult not to put a move on her.
Now, though? He was weak as a baby and fading fast, making her one-hundred-percent safe from his bad intentions.
“Keep your bank account,” she said with a grin. “It’s your tree I’m after.”
He imagined reaching up, running a finger down the velvety skin of her neck, maybe tugging on that thick braid down her back—and what was this he was feeling? Like he had a crush on her or something.
Matt didn’t do crushes. He’d been in love once and it had all gone to hell like everything else in his life at that time. Nowadays, he went out occasionally with women who wanted the same thing he did—satisfying sex. And no sleeping over.
Although, in all honesty, if he was going to crush on a woman, it would have to be this one.
“Matthias? You okay?”
He picked up the conversation where he’d dropped it. “I noticed you found the decorations and brought them down.”
She grinned. “It’s Christmas Eve. You’re in no condition to decorate that tree and it’s not going to decorate itself. Is it all right with you if I do it?”
She was way too much fun to tease. “You sure you don’t want the Jeep? It’s a Rubicon. Super fancy. You can go off-road in it, take a seventy-degree downhill grade on rugged terrain without even stopping to consider the risks—because there are none.”
A sound escaped her, a snappy little “Ffft.” She gave him a light slap on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Stop messing with me. Say yes.”
He stared up into those beautiful brown eyes. “Yes.”
“Well, all right.” She retucked a bit of his blanket. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He reached back and punched his pillow a little, all for show. “Have fun.”
“I will.”
“And try to keep the noise down. I need my sleep.” He turned his head toward the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.
But not two minutes later, he rolled his head back the other way so he could watch her work.
Methodical and exacting, that was her tree-decorating style. She found the lights, plugging in each string first, replacing the few bulbs that had gone out. There weren’t many bad bulbs because Matt took care of his gear. Also, the lights weren’t that old.
This was his third Christmas at the cabin. His great-uncle Percy Valentine had given the place to him when Matt was discharged from the service. A few wooded acres and a one-room cabin, Matthias, Uncle Percy had said. I’m thinking it will be a quiet place just for you, a place where you can find yourself again.
Matt wasn’t all that sure he’d found himself yet, but he liked having his own place not far from home to go when he needed it. He had a large family and they kept after him to start showing up for Christmas, which had always been a big deal for all of them.
His mom had loved Christmas and she used to do it up right. She and his dad had died when Matt was sixteen, but his older brother Daniel had stepped up, taken custody of all of them and continued all the family Christmas traditions.
He loved them, every one of them. He would do just about anything for them. But for Christmas, he liked the cabin better. He liked going off into a world of his own now and then, needed it even. Especially for the holidays. There was something about this time of the year that made the ghosts of his past most likely to haunt him.
Through half-closed eyes, he watched as Sabra strung the lights. She tucked them in among the thick branches just so, making sure there were no bare spaces, the same way he would have done. When she neared the top, she found the folding footstool in the closet under the stairs and used it to string those lights all the way up.
She had the lights on and was starting to hang ornaments when his eyes got too heavy to keep open even partway. Feeling peaceful and damn close to happy, he drifted off to sleep.
When he woke again, Sabra was curled in a ball in the old brown armchair across from the sofa, asleep. She’d found a book, no doubt from the bookcase on the side wall. It lay open across her drawn-up thighs, her dark head drooping over it.
The tree was finished. She’d done a great job of it. He just lay there on the sofa and admired it for a few minutes, tall and proud, shining so bright. She’d even put his presents from the family under it.
But he was thirsty and his water glass was empty. He sat up and reached for the cane that he’d propped at the end of the sofa.
That small movement woke her. “Wha...?” She blinked at him owlishly. “Hey. You’re awake.” She rubbed the back of her neck.
He pushed back the afghan and brought his legs to the floor. “The tree is gorgeous.”
She smiled, a secret, pleased little smile. “Thanks. How’re you feeling?”
“Better.” He pushed himself upright and she didn’t even try to stop him.
“You look better. Your color’s good. Want some soup?”
“If I can sit at the table to eat it.”
“You think you’re up for that?”
“I know I am.”
Matthias was better. Lots better.
So much better that, after dinner that night, when he wanted to go out on the porch, she agreed without even a word of protest.
“You’ll need a warmer coat,” he said, and sent her upstairs to get one of his.
The coat dwarfed her smaller frame. On her, it came to midthigh and the arms covered her hands. She loved it. It would keep her toasty warm even out in the frozen night air—and it smelled like him, of cedar and something kind of minty.
On the porch, there were two rustic-looking log chairs. Sabra pushed the chairs closer together and they sat down.
The snow had finally stopped. They’d gotten several feet of the stuff, which meant they would definitely be stuck here for at least the next few days.
Sabra didn’t mind. She felt far away from her real life, off in this silent, frozen world with a man who’d been a stranger to her only the day before.
He said, “My mom used to love the snow. It doesn’t snow that often in Valentine Bay, but when it did she would get us all out into the yard to make snowmen. There was never that much of it, so our snowmen were wimpy ones. They melted fast.”
“You’re from Valentine Bay, then?” Valentine Bay was on the coast, a little south of Warrenton, which was at the mouth of the Columbia River.
He turned to look at her, brow furrowing. “Didn’t I tell you I’m from Valentine Bay?”
“You’ve told me now—and you said your mom used to love the snow?”
“That’s right. She died eleven years ago. My dad, too. In a tsunami in Thailand, of all the crazy ways to go.”
“You’ve lost both of them? That had to be hard.” She wanted to reach out and hug him. But that would be weird, wouldn’t it? She felt like she knew him. But she didn’t, not really. She needed to try to remember to respect the guy’s space.
“It was a long time ago. My oldest brother Daniel took over and raised us the rest of the way. He and his wife Lillie just continued right on, everything essentially the way it used be, including the usual Christmas traditions. Even now, they all spend Christmas day at the house where we grew up. They open their presents together, share breakfast and cook a big Christmas dinner.”
“But you want to spend your Christmas alone.”
“That’s right.”
A minute ago, she’d been warning herself to respect the man’s space. Too bad. Right now, she couldn’t resist trying to find out more. “Last night, you were talking in your sleep.”
He gave her a long look. It wasn’t an encouraging one. “Notice the way I’m not asking what I said?”
“Don’t want to talk about Mark and Nelson and Finn?”
He didn’t. And he made that perfectly clear—by changing the subject. “You said you grew up on a farm?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Near here, you said?”
“Yeah. Near Svensen.”
“That’s in Astoria.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“But you were headed for Portland when you suddenly decided on a hike to the falls?”
“I live in Portland now. I manage the front of the house at a restaurant in the Pearl.” The Pearl District was the right place to open an upscale, farm-to-table restaurant. Delia Mae’s was one of those.
“Got tired of farming?” His breath came out as fog.
She gathered his giant coat a little closer around her against the cold. “Not really. I’m a farmer by birth, vocation and education. I’ve got a bachelor’s degree in environmental studies with an emphasis in agroecology.”
“From UC Santa Cruz, am I right?”
“The Slugs hat and sweatshirt?”
“Dead giveaway.” He smiled, slow and sexy, his white, even teeth gleaming in the porch light’s glow. She stared at him, thinking that he really was a hot-looking guy, with those killer blue eyes, a shadow of beard scruff on his sculpted jaw and that thick, unruly dark blond hair.
And what were they talking about?
Farming. Right. “Our farm has been in the Bond family for generations. My dad and mom were a true love match, mutually dedicated to each other, the farm and to me, their only child. All my growing-up years, the plan was for me to work right along with them, and to take the reins when the time came. But then, when I was nineteen and in my first year at Santa Cruz, my mom died while driving home from a quick shopping trip into downtown Astoria on a gray day in February. Her pickup lost traction on the icy road. The truck spun out and crashed into the guardrail.”
Matthias didn’t even hesitate. He reached out between their two chairs, clasped her shoulder with his large, strong hand and gave a nice, firm squeeze. They shared a glance, a long one that made her feel completely understood.
His reassuring touch made it all the easier to confess, “I have a hard time now, at the farm. It’s been six years since my mom died, but my dad has never really recovered from the loss. I guess, to be honest, neither have I. After college, I just wanted something completely different.”
“And now you run a restaurant.”
“The chef would disagree. But yeah. I manage the waitstaff, the hiring, supervising and scheduling, all that.”
He shifted in the hard chair, wincing a little.
“Your leg is bothering you,” she said. “We should go in.”
“I like it out here.” He seemed to be studying her face.
“What?”
“I like you, Sabra.” From the snow-covered trees, an owl hooted. “I like you very much, as a matter of fact.”
A little thrill shivered through her. She relished it. And then she thought about James. She’d almost married him less than a week ago. It was turning out to be much too easy to forget him.
“What’d I say?” Matthias looked worried.
“Something nice. Too bad I’m not looking for anything remotely resembling romance.”
“It’s not a problem,” he said in that matter-of-fact way of his. “Neither am I.”
She felt a flash of disappointment, and quickly banished it. “Excellent. No romance. No...fooling around. None of that. We have a deal.”
He nodded. “Agreed. And I sense a story here. You should tell it to me.”
“Though you won’t tell me yours?”
“I’m sure yours is more interesting than mine.” Again, he shifted. His leg hurt. He just refused to admit it.
“I’m braver than you, Matthias.”
He didn’t even try to argue the point. “I have no doubt that you are.”
“I’ll put it right out there, tell you all about my failures in love.”
He looked at her sideways. “You’re after something. What?”
She laughed. “I’m not telling you anything until you come back inside.”
In the cabin, they hung their coats by the door. Matt took off his boots and settled on the sofa with his bad leg stretched out.
“You want some hot chocolate or something?” she offered.
Was she stalling? He wanted that story. He gestured at the armchair. “Sit. Start talking.”
She laughed that husky laugh of hers. The sound made a lightness inside him. She was something special, all right. And this was suddenly turning out to be his favorite Christmas ever.
She took off her own boots, filled his water glass for him and put another log on the fire.
Finally, she dropped into the brown chair across the coffee table from him. “Okay. It’s like this. I’ve been engaged twice. The first time was at Santa Cruz. I fell hard for a bass-playing philosophy major named Stan.”
“I already hate him.”
“Why?”
“Was he your first lover?” As soon as he asked, he wished he hadn’t. A question like that could be considered to be crossing a certain line.
But she didn’t seem turned off by it. “How did you know?”
“Just a guess—and I’m not sure yet why I hate him. Because I like you, I think, and I know it didn’t last with him. I’m guessing that was all his fault.”
“I don’t want to be unfair to Stan.”
Matt laughed. It came out sounding rusty. He wasn’t a big laugher, as a rule. “Go ahead. Be unfair to Stan. There’s only you and me here. And I’m on your side.”
“All right, fine.” She gave a single, definitive nod. “Please feel free to hate him. He claimed to love me madly. He asked me to marry him.”
“Let me guess. You said yes.”
“Hey. I was twenty-one. Even though losing my mom had rocked the foundations of my world, I still had hopes and dreams back then.”
“Did you move in together?”
“We did. We had this cute apartment not far from the ocean and we were planning an earthcentric wedding on a mountaintop.”
“But the wedding never happened.”
“No, it did not. Because one morning, I woke up alone. Stan had left me a note.”
“Don’t tell me the note was on his pillow.”
Stifling a giggle, she nodded.
“Okay, Sabra. Hit me with it. What did the note say?”
“That he couldn’t do it, couldn’t marry me. Marriage was just too bougie, he wrote.”
“Bougie? He wrote that exact word?” At her nod, he said, “And you wondered why I hate Stan.”
“He also wrote that I was a good person, but I didn’t really crank his chain. He had to follow his bliss to Austin and become a rock star.”
“What a complete douchebasket.”
“Yeah, I guess he was, kind of.”
“Kind of? People shouldn’t make promises they don’t mean to keep.”
Sabra sat forward in the big brown armchair.
Was he speaking from painful experience? She really wanted to know. But he didn’t want to talk about himself—not as of now, anyway. And those deep blue eyes had turned wary, as though he guessed she was tempted to ask him a question he wouldn’t answer.
“Keep talking,” he commanded. “What happened after Stan?”
“After Stan, I decided that my judgment about men was out of whack and I swore to myself I wouldn’t get serious with a guy until I was at least thirty.”
Now he was looking at her sideways, a skeptical sort of look. “Thirty, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“And as of today, you are...?”
“Twenty-five,” she gave out grudgingly.
“And why am I thinking you’ve broken your own rule and gotten serious since Stan?”
“Don’t gloat, Matthias. It’s not attractive—and you know, I kind of can’t believe I’m telling you all this. I think I’ve said enough.”
“No. Uh-uh. You have to tell me the rest.”
“Why?”
“Uh.” His wide brow wrinkled up. “Because I’m an invalid and you are helping me through this difficult time.”
She couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. “I really think you’re going to survive whether I tell you about James or not.”
“So. The next guy’s name is James?”
She groaned. “The next guy? Like there’ve been a hundred of them?”
He sat very still. She could practically see the wheels turning inside his big head. “Wait. I think that came out wrong.”
“No, it didn’t. Not at all. I’m just messing with you.”
“You’re probably thinking I’m a jerk just like Stan.” He looked so worried about that. She wanted to grab him and hug him and tell him everything was fine—and that was at least the second time tonight she’d considered putting her hands on him for other than purely medical reasons.
It had to stop.
“No,” she said. “I honestly don’t think you’re a jerk—and look, Matthias, I’ve been meaning to ask you...”
Matthias felt like a jerk, whether or not Sabra considered him one. He’d been having a great time with her, like they’d known each other forever.
Until he went and put his foot in it. As a rule, he was careful around women. He wasn’t ready for anything serious, so he watched himself, made sure he didn’t give off the wrong signals.
But Sabra. Well, already she was kind of getting under his skin. There was so damn much to admire about her—and she was fun. And hot.
But they’d agreed that the man/woman thing wasn’t happening. He was friend-zoned and he could live with that. Anything more, well...
It would be too easy to fall for her. And he didn’t want to fall for anyone. Not yet. Maybe never. The last year or so, he’d finally started to feel like his life was back on track. True, getting something going with a woman could turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.
But it might send him spinning off the rails.
He just wasn’t ready to find out which.
“Do you maybe have some sweats I could wear?” she asked. “Something soft to sleep in would be great...”
She was going to bed now? It wasn’t much past nine.
No doubt about it. He’d definitely screwed up.
“Uh, sure,” he said, and tried not to let his disappointment show. “Take anything you want from whatever’s upstairs.”
“I was thinking I might even have a bath, if that’s all right with you?”
“Now?”
“Well, I mean, no time like the present, right?”
“Absolutely. Go ahead.”
She got up. “Can I get you anything before I—”
“No. Really. I’m good.”
She took off up the stairs. Not five minutes later, she came running back down with an armful of his clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.
He sat there and stared at the tree and tried not to imagine what she was doing behind that shut door. Really, he must be getting better fast—he had the erection to prove it.
Friend-zoned, you idiot. And that’s how you want it.
He needed to take his mind off his exceptionally clear mental image of Sabra, naked in the tub, her almost-black hair piled up on her head, random strands curling in the steam rising from the water, clinging to the silky skin of her neck as she raised one of those gorgeous long legs of hers and braced her foot on the side of the tub.
Lazily, humming a holiday tune under her breath, she would begin to work up a lather. Soap bubbles would dribble slowly along her inner thigh...
Matt swore, a graphic string of bad words.
And then he grabbed his cane and shot to his feet, only swaying a little as his bad leg took his weight—yeah, he’d promised her he would stay on the sofa unless he had a good reason to get up.
Well, clearing his mind of certain way-too-tempting images was a good enough reason for him.
He limped over to the bookcase. She’d set the box of books he’d brought from home right there in the corner on the floor.
Might as well shelve them. He got to work, his leg complaining a little when he bent down to grab the next volume. But it wasn’t that painful and it kept his mind from wandering to places it had no business going.
He was three-quarters of the way through the box when the bathroom door opened.
“Matthias. What the— You promised you’d stay off your feet.”
Yep. He could already smell the steaminess from across the room—soap and wet and heat and woman.
“Matthias?”
Slowly, so as not to make a fool of himself lurching on his bad leg and proving how right she was that he shouldn’t be on his feet, he turned to her.

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