The Christmas Key Read online

  The week went on and except on Wednesday, when he mentioned he had a PTSD support group meeting, he joined in all the family fun—driving around town to see the Christmas lights, caroling with church members, and just . . . talking . . . together.

  They talked and talked and talked. The conversations light and easy. Nothing deep. Nothing unhappy. Just getting-to-know-you-better chitchat, all about music and art, books and food. The stuff you would say on a date.

  Yes, she saw Mark every day, but they were never alone, and whenever Naomi tried to maneuver him away from the family for a private conversation, he’d steer her back to the group.

  He wasn’t avoiding her. He sat next to her on the couch. Helped her do the dishes. Put his hand to the small of her back and guided her over thresholds when he held the door open for her.

  Not avoiding her. No. Rather, it was as if he was afraid to be alone with her.

  Why?

  Was he worried about losing his self-control?

  Or about Naomi losing hers?

  She’d finally made contact with Robert. He called her on Monday morning to say he’d been out doing fieldwork in the Colorado Rockies and hadn’t gotten her text messages. They talked for a bit, but he’d seemed distracted, and when they hung up, neither one said, “I love you.”

  Naomi wasn’t surprised. They’d been drifting apart for some time.

  And she was feeling things for Shepherd that were quickly letting her know that while she loved Robert as a person, she was no longer in love with him.

  Realistically, there wasn’t a future with Shepherd, but she couldn’t keep going on cruise control in her relationship with Robert. She had to break up with him.

  After Christmas.

  Get past Christmas and she’d deal with Robert.

  Until then, she’d keep a smile on her face and a song in her heart. It was the only thing she knew to do.

  Shepherd couldn’t stop thinking about Naomi.

  Or stay away from her.

  Everything about her drew him—her hearty smile, her brilliant blue eyes, the soothing tone of her voice, her comforting homey scent.

  His time in Twilight was limited, and all he wanted was to be near her. Soak up her sweetness. Wallow in her good cheer. He was desperate to make memories to sustain him in the gloomy days ahead.

  Because those days were coming.

  He felt it like a heavy wind pushing at the back of his neck. Isolation. Loneliness. It was his future. Even if the Luthers found it in their hearts to forgive him, he didn’t belong here. This sweet place was as surreal as a storybook fairy tale.

  And he was a man who’d never really had a home.

  He wanted to tell her who he was, but every time he tried, the confession would have spoiled a beautiful moment. He told himself that Nate and the gang were right. Just keep his mouth shut until after Christmas. Let the family have a happy holiday.

  Don’t be selfish. Shoulder the guilt. Live with it.

  The hard part about hanging around Naomi was twofold. One, he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to breathe. And two, he yearned to confess his sins. Beg her forgiveness. Get her absolution. It was all he thought about when he tossed and turned in his bed at night with Jesus looking down at him from the picture on the wall.

  Well, that and what Naomi looked like naked.

  She would be shocked if she knew just how many times he imagined her without clothes on. He sort of shocked himself. He was really creative. Naomi naked underneath a waterfall. Bungee jumping. Nude housekeeping. Floating buns bare on the international space station. Stretched out on a ’57 Chevy. A grand piano. A library bookcase.

  It was fun to daydream. But it made things worse whenever he was around her. At the most inopportune times—playing board games, singing carols, sitting across the dinner table—those exciting fantasies would pop into his head.

  Keeping his hands off her was almost impossible.

  He reached down deep for self-control and took a cold shower every night to cool his ardor. It didn’t help.

  Everything about her inflamed him.

  By the time Saturday rolled around, he was a walking bundle of unchained lightning. Suppressed sexual energy oozing from his pores.

  Tonight, they were going to the First Love Cookie Club charity ball. There would be alcohol and dancing. And touching. And mistletoe.

  Ah, crap. He was in trouble.

  They planned to arrive separately at the party venue—the high school gym turned ballroom. As the committee chairperson, Naomi had to be there early to make sure everything was going smoothly.

  And Shepherd had to go borrow a suit from Gideon. He’d pared down his life after rehab and he’d tossed out his suit. Luckily, Gideon had several and they wore the same size.

  “You should always own a suit,” Gideon said when he went to pick it up. “For funerals.”

  “Aren’t you just a little bundle of sunshine?”

  “I call ’em like I see ’em.” Gideon handed him the suit on a wooden hanger. “Do you need dress shoes too?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gideon gave a slight eye roll. “What size do you wear?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Me too.” Gideon reached into his closet for a pair of black dress shoes. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You planning on dancing?” Gideon nodded at Shepherd’s cane.

  “It is a dance. That’s kind of the point.”

  “Just wondering,” Gideon said. “I had a tough time adjusting to losing my hand. I had trouble doing normal things. Just wondering if you were having the same issues over your knee.”

  Shepherd shook his head. “You lost a limb. That’s a much bigger deal than a bunged-up knee.”

  “Is it? In my book, it’s a loss either way.”

  “Thanks for all this.”

  “Someday you can return the favor,” Gideon said, as if he expected Shepherd to be around for a good long time. “See you at the dance.”

  When Shepherd got to the high school, most of the people going inside were dressed in Dickens-era clothing. Gingerly, he climbed out of his Jeep.

  “Look at you,” a passerby said, pointing at his cane. “Tiny Tim twenty years later. Creative.”

  He didn’t know whether to be amused or insulted. He decided to channel his inner Naomi and laugh.

  The passersby laughed with him.

  Man, but he loved this town.

  “Hey, cowboy.”

  Behind him, knuckles rapped against the side of his Jeep. He turned to see the sassy barista from Perks, dressed in steampunk garb. Goggles. Top hat. Knee-high black boots. Brown bustle skirt and corset. Trust her to give Dickens a Jules Verne twist.

  She pooched out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “You never did call me.”

  “You wrote your number on my palm, and I washed my hands.” He held up his palm for her to see.

  “Convenient.”

  “Truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “I like Naomi.”

  Mia sighed. “I figured. Although I don’t know why. Don’t get me wrong. She’s pretty and all that, but she’s just so darn sweet. That chick’ll give you cavities.”

  “Don’t disrespect her.” Shepherd sharpened his tone.

  “I meant it in the best possible way.” Mia clucked her tongue, eyed him up and down. “Does Naomi know that you’re head-over-heels?”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are.”

  “Does that ploy ever work, by the way?” he asked. “The writing-your-phone-number-on-a-man’s-palm thing.”

  “Honey,” she said, lowering her eyelashes, “you’re the only one who never called.”

  “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

  “Think nothing of it.” She waved a hand. “Even the best batters strike out seven times out of ten. You flying solo tonight?”

  “I’m meeting Naomi inside.”

  “Curses,” she said, like a cartoon vil
lain. “Foiled again. Walk me in?”

  “Sure.” He took the elbow Mia extended, and escorted her into the building.

  There was no music playing. People were milling around looking lost.

  “There you are.” Naomi appeared in front of him, breathless. One look in her eyes and he forgot all about Mia. Dropping the other woman’s arm, he stepped closer to Naomi.

  Naomi was dressed in a long Victorian-era skirt and a high ruffled collar. She eyed Mia. A disgruntled expression flitted across her face, but she quickly cloaked it with a smile.

  Was she jealous? That thought lit him up like a Christmas tree.

  “I don’t want to interrupt,” Naomi said. “But could you come look at the sound system? The DJ isn’t here yet, and we’ve got an input problem.”

  “Or . . .” Mia crossed her arms, her voice taking on a singsong tease. “Maybe it’s an output issue.”

  “Why do you think I would know anything about stereo input?” Shepherd asked, his heart mushy with the idea that Naomi was jealous.

  “Or output,” Mia whispered.

  “I dunno.” Naomi’s eyes sparkled in the holiday lighting. “You’re good with your hands?”

  “He is?” Mia looked at Shepherd’s hands. “How would you know?”

  “Personal experience,” Naomi said. “I know what he can do with those hands.”

  “Whoa ho.” Mia laughed. “Maybe it isn’t an output problem. But just in case, do you want me to write my number on your palm again?” Mia winked at him.

  “No,” Naomi and Shepherd said in unison.

  “Rats,” Mia muttered. Shrugged. “Win some, lose some. Ooh, there’s Jeff Perry. See ya. Hey, wait up, Jeff.”

  “She’s sweet,” Naomi said as Mia waltzed off with Jeff.

  “Not at all.” Shepherd shook his head.

  “Sassy then.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “About the stereo . . .”

  “I do know how to fix your input.” Shepherd wriggled his eyebrows.

  She crooked a finger, her smile a radiant hook, hips swaying. “This way.”

  I’d follow that swing anywhere, he thought and went after her.

  She took him backstage where the control base was located. “I’m praying you can get this fixed. I don’t know when the DJ will get here, and what’s a dance without music?”

  He liked being her white knight. “Got your phone with you?”

  She whipped her phone from her pocket.

  “Switch on the flashlight and hold it over here,” he directed.

  She flicked on the flashlight. Leaned over his shoulder to illuminate the control panel. Her scent filled his nose. She smelled like Christmas, all peppermint and pine needles.

  His mouth watered and he thought, God, I’d love to taste those lips.

  “You need more light?” She inched closer. Her breasts brushed against his shoulders.

  Shepherd gulped. He felt a little light-headed. Well, it was warm back in this corner, behind the stage curtain. He tried to focus on the wires, but damn if he couldn’t stop thinking about the soft, high breasts pressing into him. She felt ripe, juicy. Pluckable.

  Knock it off.

  Yeah, right. That was like trying to stop ice from melting in the Sahara Desert.

  He exhaled, jiggled wires. Music blared.

  Simultaneously, they gasped. Jumped.

  “Turn it down, turn it down.” She stuck her phone in her pocket, dampening the light, and clasped both hands over her ears.

  He grappled for the volume. Got things under control. At least as far as the sound system was concerned.

  “Thank you.” She blew out her breath. “Whew. Crisis averted. You’ve saved me again. I’m going to have to tell Dad to give you a raise.”

  “No need,” he said. “I’ll do anything for you. Gratis.”

  They were facing each other in the shadows. In the gym, they could hear people starting to dance to the music. “Please Come Home for Christmas.” The Eagles version.

  “Anything?” A mischievous note crept into her voice.

  “Say the word, butterfly. Your wish is my command.”

  The side door opened, letting in light from the parking lot.

  “I’m here, I’m here.” A twenty-something guy in a Santa suit and fake beard burst through the door, carrying his equipment. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve got everything under control now.”

  Naomi looked skeptical.

  Shepherd put a hand to her shoulder. “Let the man do his job. I want to hear more about what you need.”

  “I need to make sure the music keeps rolling.”

  “I’m on it, I’m on it,” the DJ promised.

  “He’s on it.” Shepherd reassured her. “You don’t have to ride herd on everyone all the time.”

  Again with that skeptical stare. This time fixed on him.

  The DJ took charge. Handling the music and the microphone. Drawing back the curtain. Going out on stage. Hollering, “Let’s get this party started. For realz.”

  “See?” Shepherd held out his hand.

  A sidelong glance. Her half smile. Small hand sunk in his.

  Shepherd led her down the backstage steps and out to the gym floor. Couples were dancing. Party lights blinked festively. The central strobe in the middle of the room was loaded with mistletoe.

  “So,” he said. “What was that anything?”

  “May I have this dance?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t want to dance with me.”

  She nodded. Confirming. Yes, she did. “You. Me. The dance floor.”

  “You’ve forgotten.” He held up his cane.

  “Don’t give me that Tiny Tim routine. I’ve seen you crawling around on the rectory roof. I’ve felt you catch me when I almost fainted. I watched you carrying Hunter on your shoulder for half an hour. It’s not easy. That boy gets heavy.”

  Yeah, in all those cases, it was after he’d downed anti-inflammatory pills. “You also saw me fall off the curb.”

  “Those sidewalks are notoriously trippy.”

  “You’re not letting me off the hook.”

  “Anything. That’s what you said.”

  He shook his head, laughed. “Indeed.”

  “I want to dance.”

  “Punch first?” He tried delay tactics.

  “You can do this,” she said in that way she had of challenging people. She would have made a good nurse. “You can dance with me. We’ll take it easy. No competition.”

  “I’m a lousy dancer in the best of conditions, and this isn’t that.”

  “I don’t care.” She held out a hand. “I want to dance . . . with you.”

  His knee was yelling at him, Don’t do it, fool, I might collapse and you’ll end up on the floor. But his heart said, The woman of your dreams is asking you to dance. Be strong. Be brave.

  Her smile was the deciding factor. Those sweet, beguiling lips seduced without intent. Moist and pink and glistening in the light from the mistletoe-laden chandelier. He felt the same sense of fate that had swept over him the day she’d first gotten into his Jeep by mistake.

  He took the hand she offered, using his cane to hold him steady so that he didn’t put much weight on his bum knee. What a prize dance partner he was.

  But his lameness didn’t bother her. In fact, she looked inordinately proud to be squiring him onto the dance floor. Her shoulders were straight. Chin up. Her bearing regal and relaxed.

  “Leave the cane,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

  “You’re going to lead?”

  “Whatever it takes to dance with you, Mark.” She said his first name as if it was a precious natural pearl she’d found while shucking an oyster. And she was polishing it up to a high sheen.

  “I’m supposed to lead.”

  “Throw those silly, antiquated rules out the window.” She gently tapped his temple with her small fist. “Who cares who leads? The point is to have fun.”

  Part of him fel
t liberated. Another part disadvantaged. He wanted to lead. Wanted to give her the fantasy of Cinderella dancing at the ball. But reality and fantasy were two different things.

  It was all he could do to walk without limping, much less dance.

  He stuck out his hand. “If I tumble, we go down together. As long as you’re good with that . . .”

  “Deal.” She took his hand.

  He held her close. Her lovely scent surrounded him. He peered into those blue eyes the color of a warm summer sky. His heart bounced off the trampoline of his stomach and into his throat. God, she was gorgeous, and he was the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “For dancing with me.”

  “Thank you for forcing me.” He chuckled.

  “Stick around, you’ll figure out I’m pretty good at coercing people into doing things they don’t want to do.”

  “I’ve already started putting two and two together.”

  “And yet, you’re still here.”

  “Yeah.” His voice came out husky. “I guess I am.”

  She laughed. Music to his ears. A tonic for his bedraggled soul. Because of Naomi, he’d come back to life.

  The DJ put on “So This Is Christmas.”

  A slow song that sent several couples off the dance floor. But slow was his top speed, and he couldn’t help feeling the DJ had picked something down tempo just for them.

  Naomi wrapped her arm around his waist. She was his crutch. Holding him up. “Now,” she said. “Put your arm around me.”

  It was as easy as that. His arm went around her waist, and he was holding her. She was holding him. They were holding each other.

  Emotions tumbled in on him. He felt like the loner high school kid who’d by some miracle gotten lucky enough to escort the prom queen to the dance. He didn’t trust it, the glorious feeling of hope. Why was she dancing with him? Out of pity? Or because she got satisfaction from taking on fixer-uppers?

  Then she rested her head on his shoulder, quelling his self-doubts. All he could think of was her. The smell of her—shampoo and moonbeams, vanilla and mist. The sight of her hair—silky and smooth. The sound of her breathing—slow and controlled.