Christmas in His Bed Read online

  Tatum shook her head, laughing weakly. “Red cookbook.” She pointed.

  “You’re a hoot,” Lucy said, squeezing her shoulder gently.

  Celeste turned off the overhead lights. “Better?”

  Tatum nodded. “Can you see?” she asked, peering through bloodshot eyes.

  “Yep,” Celeste said, already pulling out bowls.

  “This sounds yummy,” Lucy said as she read the recipe.

  She sat, sipping her green concoction, strangely soothed by Lucy and Celeste’s presence. At some point, she took a pain reliever. She felt almost civilized after the cake was in the oven and they made her take a shower.

  But she emerged to find them standing, staring curiously at all the pictures, newspaper clippings, trinkets and one almost shredded pom-pom scattered around her room. In fact, her room looked like a bomb had exploded. She didn’t remember much. She’d come home so angry, so confused. Apparently she’d taken it out on her room.

  Stubbing her foot on the shoe box full of travel liquor at the bottom of the hall closet had seemed like an answer to her anger. Worse than anger was pain.

  “You were a cute cheerleader,” Celeste said, holding up a newspaper clipping.

  Tatum sat on her bed. “I don’t remember doing this.”

  “You drank a lot,” Lucy offered, stooping to pick up the bits of paper and photos scattered all over the room.

  “I had been planning on cleaning out the room,” she muttered.

  “I’ll get a box,” Lucy said. “No point in putting this stuff back up.” She returned with the empty shoe box.

  “I didn’t drink all of it?” she gasped.

  “No. You’d be dead.” Celeste’s smile was concerned. “I put it in the kitchen cabinet.”

  “We can throw it away?” Lucy offered.

  “Don’t worry,” Tatum assured her. “I’ve so learned my lesson.”

  “Is this Spencer?” Celeste asked, offering the photo to Tatum.

  She took it. “Yes.” She stared at the image, her eyes burning with hot tears. She didn’t need to look at it to know what it was. It was a picture she’d had pegged up above her bed. It was old and they were young. She was sitting on a chair and he was sitting on the floor between her legs. Her hand was at an awkward angle, because he was holding it. But what made it so special was the naturalness of Spencer pressing a kiss, almost absentmindedly, to her hand. Second nature. Like breathing.

  He’d felt the same way, she’d known it—never doubted it. Until he’d...he’d crushed her heart. But now she knew the truth. He hadn’t been some thoughtless hormonal teenage boy. No, he had to have the noblest of motivations. He was trying to save her. To protect her. Because he’d loved her.

  Losing you was like cutting out my heart...

  And just like that she was sobbing.

  “Oh, Tatum.” Lucy sounded heartbroken.

  “Don’t make yourself sick.” Celeste ran from the room, reappearing with a cool, wet cloth. “Here.”

  Tatum pressed the cloth to her face, mortified.

  “You can talk about it,” Lucy prompted. “We won’t say anything.”

  “I don’t know if I—I can talk about it,” she forced out.

  “Then we don’t have to,” Lucy said.

  Tatum nodded, her brain swimming. It took her a while to ask, “Could you forgive a person for lying to you about something?”

  “Depends on what it was,” Celeste said. “Some things are unforgivable.”

  Tatum nodded.

  “I’d disagree,” Lucy said. “If we’re talking about a person you love, almost anything is forgivable.”

  Tatum glanced at the picture. “What if the person you loved most, the person who knew all of your secrets, used your weakness to drive you away?”

  “Can you, maybe, give us a little more to go on?” Celeste asked.

  Tatum did. From him telling her he didn’t love her anymore to that horrible scene in the cafeteria when he said those words—the words that echoed in her ears for months after she’d moved to California. “There’s something wrong with you, Tatum...” He’d kept going, saying her mother’s words while his arm draped along some other girl’s shoulders. “You need to let go. Move on. I don’t love you anymore.” She’d stood there, staring at him, wanting to scream.

  “Why?” Lucy asked, her cheeks red. “Why was he so determined to make you leave?”

  That was the part she had a hard time confessing. She knew her mother hadn’t treated her well, that Spencer was right. But she’d spent so many years fooling herself. Her mother was ill, alone. She had to stay—to love her. No one else would. It was only after Spencer had broken her heart, after her father had shown up determined to take her with him and her mother into a treatment facility, that she relented. Leaving had been a relief.

  “My mom...” She drew in a deep breath. “Spencer was trying to get me away from my mom.”

  They waited.

  “Because she was mean to me.”

  “Mean to you?” Celeste repeated, her eyes going round.

  “Oh, Tatum.” Lucy hugged her. “People talked but I never thought... Why didn’t you say anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “So he was a complete ass,” Celeste murmured, “because he loved you.”

  “And when he found out he’d left scars, he wanted to make it better.” Lucy was on the verge of tears. “Because he still loves you. Why else would he feel the need to tell you the truth now?”

  Tatum froze, going numb. No. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. He wanted her. “Maybe he just needed to clear his conscience?” But she wasn’t sure she believed that. If Spencer wasn’t the heartless bastard she’d thought, who was he? Too many years had gone by for him to be her Spencer. No, not her Spencer.

  Her head throbbed. It didn’t matter. She had a hangover—that was why she was emotional. Spencer, the past, none of it mattered. It couldn’t. With him, she was...vulnerable. Vulnerable and needy. She didn’t want to be either.

  “What are you going to do?” Celeste asked.

  She shrugged.

  “What do you want?” Lucy asked. “That’s where you need to start. If he does love you, it makes more sense for you to know what you want first.”

  She nodded, sniffing the air. “Chocolate.”

  “Always a good place to start,” Lucy agreed, laughing.

  “The cake.” Celeste hopped up, running into the kitchen.

  She looked at Lucy.

  “Where was I?” Lucy asked. “Why wasn’t I there?” She shook her head. “I should have been there to back you up, to scream at him when you wouldn’t.”

  “Different lunch periods.” She shrugged. “I called my dad as soon as I got home.”

  “That was the weekend you left.” Lucy looked at her. “That horrible weekend. Spencer fell apart.”

  “I’m not going to feel sorry for him right now, okay? Not yet.” Tatum flopped back on her bed. “Why do we make things more complicated than they need to be?”

  Lucy flopped back with her. “Human nature, I think.” She looked at her. “Are you going to come tonight? To dinner and caroling?”

  Tatum closed her eyes. “I don’t think so. I need time to pull it together. Right now, the only thing I know is my heart hurts.”

  11

  SHE SKIPPED DINNER and caroling, claiming a headache. But when they stopped by, she wrapped herself in a blanket and stood on the porch to listen. She hadn’t seen Spencer, but she’d felt his absence.

  The next day Lucy came over and helped her start weeding through things. It wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. Brent had hired a professional organizer after her mother’s death. They’d done an exceptional job of clearing out ever
y piece of clothing, shoes, toiletries... Almost all signs of her mother. There were three large boxes she and Lucy tackled together. But there wasn’t much. Mostly pictures and keepsakes gathered from before her father had left them. Nothing from Tatum’s high school years, none of the letters Tatum had written when she and Brent had settled in his hometown.

  When she’d pulled all the things she wanted, they’d hauled the boxes onto the front porch.

  “I can call Dean?” Lucy offered. “He has a truck.”

  Tatum shook her head. “No, please don’t. I feel terrible for what I did. I can’t keep leading him on.”

  “You kissed him under the mistletoe.” Lucy nudged her. “I didn’t see tongue, or groping.”

  Tatum laughed. “Because there wasn’t any.”

  “Then you’re fine.”

  They sat on her front porch swing, enjoying the crisp air. Even though her yard was coated in a layer of white snow, the sun was shining down.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” she said.

  “It is,” Lucy agreed. “But I’m starving. I think I’ll order a pizza.”

  A faint thud from across the street drew her attention. Spencer was carrying a duffel bag, headed toward his truck. She watched him open the large toolbox in his truck bed, rifling through it before closing it again. He grabbed the bag, opened the truck door and tossed it inside.

  He slammed the door and looked across the street.

  She froze, panic sinking in. She wasn’t ready to deal with him, not yet.

  He lifted his hand in a wave.

  Lucy waved back.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he headed across the street. And every step he took stirred up some new, conflicting emotion. It was easier when she just wanted him. Now...she shook her head. That was all. She wanted him. Nothing else. Want might be an understatement. Her body craved him like her lungs craved air.

  He was red-nosed when he climbed the steps to her porch. But all she could see was the huge bruise along his right cheek, the taped cut on his eyelid and the gash across the bridge of his nose. She was up, reaching for his face before she realized what she was doing. “What happened?”

  He stared down at her, closing his eyes as her fingers touched the bruise. “It’s nothing,” he said gruffly.

  She blinked, pulling her hand back. He had a dangerous job. This probably wasn’t all that unusual. “Tell me this has nothing to do with Dean.” Had she caused a rift between him and his cousin?

  He snorted. “Dean didn’t do this. He wouldn’t have gotten in this many punches.”

  Relief washed over her. Not that she preferred him getting beaten up on the job.

  He saw the boxes on the porch and frowned, his whole demeanor changing. His jaw locked, his hand—resting on the porch railing—tightened around the wood. “Going somewhere?” His voice broke—she heard it.

  And when his blue eyes locked with hers it was impossible to breathe.

  He had no right to look...like that. Like he cared. Like she’d hurt him. He had no right to make her hurt for him. Words failed her, so she stared at him, confused and frustrated. And angry.

  She was vaguely aware of Lucy saying, “I think I need to go pick up the pizza,” before she left.

  Spencer’s gaze bounced from her to the boxes and back again. He seemed braced, waiting for something.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn’t know what to say. Or how to read him. After last night, everything seemed upside-down. Only one thing was certain—she wasn’t up for any more life-altering revelations.

  So why did she want to reach out for him? Maybe it was the wariness on his face or the hint of sadness in his eyes... Whatever it was, she wanted to comfort him. Dammit. She hugged herself.

  His voice was rough. “Tatum—”

  “On your way to work?” she asked, cutting him off before more things were said.

  He sighed, his eyes narrowing. “Not until tonight.” What was he looking for?

  “Oh, well...” She stepped back, putting space between them. “Good time to get your Christmas shopping done...or something.” Since she couldn’t seem to be near him without touching him, she needed to remove herself. Her fingers were already longing to trace his stubble-covered jaw, to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, to hold him close until his posture eased. All of which were very bad ideas. “See you later,” she said, stepping around him and going inside.

  But once she was inside, she froze. She didn’t want to think or get emotional, but she didn’t want him to leave. Don’t go. She swallowed down the knot of fear and sucked in a deep breath. “Shit... Spencer—” she called out.

  He was through the door in an instant, closing the distance between them as he pressed her against the entryway wall. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her mouth to his. She wanted his kiss, his tongue, his touch—she craved him beyond reason.

  His arms were steel around her, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held on.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night, couldn’t think.” He cupped her face between his hands, pinning her with the raw hunger of his gaze. “I need you so bad it hurts.”

  She tugged his hair, ignoring all the possible ways she could interpret his words. It was easier to pull his head back to hers. He devoured her mouth, stealing her breath, making her light-headed. He carried them to her room, kissing her as though his life depended on it. She wanted him like this, fierce and hungry for her. Once she was pinned between him and her bedroom door, she reached down between them, unbuttoning his pants. His gaze bored into hers as her fingers freed him from his boxers. Her fingers wrapped around him, slowly. He was hot to the touch, smooth.

  He let go of her long enough to tug her pants off. And then he was there, lifting her, his hands bracing her hips, parting her so he could fill her in one thrust. They groaned together, the sweet friction pulling her under. She smiled, her head falling back against the wall, savoring each stroke against her inflamed flesh.

  “Don’t stop.” She pressed her ankles into his buttocks.

  “I won’t,” he said, nipping her earlobe.

  He didn’t. His face was hard, driven, as he set a deep and frantic rhythm. His barely restrained hunger made her tremble. Her nails dug into his hips, mindless in her need. When he caught her lower lip with his teeth, she came apart. Hard. Fast. Out of control. It was oh so good. “Spencer,” she gasped, shuddering at the aftershocks that rippled through her.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead to his. She relished the rough groan that tore from his throat as he stiffened.

  Seconds later she was lying on her bed, gasping, with Spencer at her side. Her mind was spinning, returning to her preorgasmic state of equal parts panic, frustration...and love. She closed her eyes, draping her arm across her forehead.

  She understood why he’d done what he did. Their connection wasn’t just physical. He had known her better than anyone else, had known she was hurting, and did what he had to, to stop it. She would have done the same.

  She loved him. So much it scared her.

  If she was smart, she’d keep her mouth shut. She didn’t want to be hurt anymore. Heartfelt confessions and desire-fueled promises were all fine and good now, when they were still wrapped in discovery and lust. But there was no way this was real. That this could last. It was too...big.

  No matter what Lucy believed, he’d never said he loved her, not in so many words. And while she was willing to accept what he’d done was because he’d once loved her—that didn’t mean he still did. No, better to keep things as they were. It would hurt less this way.

  She glanced at him and smiled.

  He was sound asleep, snoring ever so softly. And he was gorgeous. This man was the boy she’d loved completely. He’d been lean and awkward the
n, but he’d loved her with a confidence that told her it was right. And she’d been too young to know better. With him, she’d never doubted herself or felt alone.

  Until she did.

  She studied his profile, the line of his brow, the angle of his jaw, thick brows and full lips. She ran a finger along his forehead, smoothing his hair back. He sighed, turning into her in his sleep.

  Dammit.

  If Lucy wasn’t due back soon, she’d have no problem staying as she was. But Lucy was coming back, so pants were required. She felt Spencer’s hand twitch and looked down. His hand held hers.

  * * *

  HE WOKE TO Christmas carols, laughter and singing.

  It took a minute to orient himself. He was in Tatum’s bed, alone, covered in blankets.

  A shout of laughter made him grin. Tatum and Lucy, from the sounds of it.

  He kicked back the blankets, ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock. It was almost 6:00 p.m. He had an hour before he needed to be at the station. He turned on the bedside lamp and stretched. It had been a long time since he’d slept a solid five hours without waking. It made sense that he’d done it in Tatum’s bed. It was the one place he could truly relax.

  He glanced around the room, taking in the changes. The pom-pom and trophies were gone. The walls were bare. Even the curtains had been pulled down. He remembered the boxes on the front porch, the tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe. Was she really packing up? She hadn’t answered him. And it gnawed at his gut. He rubbed his hands over his face and rolled his neck. What would he do if she left?

  More important, how did he convince her to stay?

  He caught sight of the romance novel on her bedside table and picked it up. He shook his head at the cover and flipped it over to read the back. Something slipped from the pages and fell to the floor. He stooped to pick it up. A picture.

  He stared at the picture, his heart thumping. A picture of them. They were on a field trip somewhere. One of the journalist students had snapped the picture and given a copy to each of them.

  In a room intentionally stripped of all sentimentality, why was this picture out? This was something she’d held on to. Hope crashed into him. And happiness. He tucked the picture beneath the book and stood, heading into the kitchen.