Her heart skipped two beats, and she softened to him. Alex being nice was new to her. She wasn’t quite certain how to take him at his best.
“Go shower. We need to hit the road in twenty minutes,” she told him.
He turned, took the stairs to the loft two at a time. A quarter of an hour later, a damp-haired Alex joined her once again. A brown button-down shirt stretched over his wide shoulders; a pair of khakis ran his long legs. Sperry Top-siders fit his feet.
He looked cool, desirable, and all male.
His gaze narrowed as he took her in. “You look like Mrs. Claus.”
She patted her white wig, adjusted her granny glasses. Her dress was red and long sleeved and fashioned with a white apron. She’d slipped on red tights and black ballet slippers.
“This time of year, Santa needs all the help he can get,” she said.
“Christmas is a real ball-buster,” he agreed.
“You should enjoy and embrace the season, Alex. It’s special.”
He didn’t look convinced.
She pulled her car keys from the pocket of her apron, dropped them on his palm. “You drive, I’ll deliver. I’ll give you directions as we go.”
“I can turn left or right.”
Alex Boxer had never driven a Volkswagen Bug, and it took him a few adjustments to settle his big body in the seat. The VW had the chug-chug of the Little Engine that Could, not the silky smooth ride of his Saleen S7. If all went well with the judge, he’d soon be back behind the wheel of his sports car. Zoom, zoom, zoom.
He’d be leaving any day now, and the realization that he’d miss Holly twisted his testicles as only a nutcracker could do.
She had a way of making people smile, he noticed, as she slid from the VW to deliver the sixth basket of the afternoon. The door to the small, boxy house swung wide, and the nursery rhyme “The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe” came to mind.
Eight children poured out, followed by one tired-looking mother. Holly gave the family three big baskets of cookies and reindeer dust. The youngest child immediately spread a runway for Santa, and the lawn soon glittered brightly.
“What’s their story?” Alex asked once Mrs. Claus returned to the vehicle.
“Mary Lambert has three children of her own and went on to adopt the remaining five when her sister and brother-in-law were killed in a car accident,” she explained. “Her husband, Jake, works construction and goes where the pay is highest. Right now he’s building condominiums sixty miles north on Vero Beach. He drives home every night to be with his family.”
Alex’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “That’s a tough way to survive.”
“People do what they have to do,” she said softly. “Jake’s a good man. He took on the responsibility of two families when he was twenty-five.”
Alex was older than Jake, yet his deepest thoughts ran to twin blondes and a case of beer. The freedom of the road beckoned him. He took care of himself, but no one else.
He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, felt the need to do something nice for someone other than himself. He looked at Holly and asked, “Is there anything I can do for the Lamberts?”
“It’s nice of you to ask, but Jake would never accept charity. He’s too proud.” Holly slipped off her granny glasses, looked him in the eye. “Holiday takes care of its own. When the kids come into my ice cream shop, I give them each an extra scoop with sprinkles. At the grocery store, the owner slips Mary an envelope of coupons. The doctor always has pharmaceutical samples of medication to give out when the kids are sick. Should their car break down, the mechanic charges for parts, not labor. We all look out for one another.”
He was suddenly at a loss. “I’d still like to do something.”
“Why, Alex?”
Because I have a million dollars in the bank and this family is living hand-to-mouth. “Seems the right thing to do, Holly.”
He heard her swallow, saw her eyes well up. She was looking at him differently now, as if seeing him for the first time. He didn’t want her seeing more in him than was actually there, so he shrugged. “I can be a good guy sometimes.”
“It’s called Christmas spirit,” she told him. “It’s far better to give than to receive.”
She surprised him then by leaning across the seat and kissing him full on the mouth. He’d expected the cheek, but he’d gotten lips, and he took advantage of her gratitude.
He kept the kiss soft, light, easy, one between friends, until she sighed and a sense of belonging warmed his heart.
Alex liked kissing her. There was nothing wild or demanding in their exchange, no straining to tear off their clothes. There was a sweet innocence about Holly. She cared and shared, and allowed him into her life.
It felt right to take his time, to learn what she liked and to give what she needed. The experience was new, exciting, seductive. Holly McIntyre was a natural high.
There was honesty in her kiss. She saw beyond his status as the Most Valuable Player of the World Series. She didn’t want to bask in his fame or count the zeroes in his bank account. She was into him, into Alex Boxer, the man. Her kiss told him so.
He wished they’d met under different circumstances. He’d served his community hours with a royal chip on his shoulder, giving her nothing but grief. He had a few regrets…
A sudden knock on the car window made them both jump. Alex hit his head on the ceiling of the Bug, and Holly scrambled to find her granny glasses.
He could barely contain his smile when he met the wide-eyed stare of a little girl, no older than six, whose freckled nose now pressed the driver-side glass.
“Mommy, some man’s kissing Mrs. Claus!” The girl’s shout echoed through the entire neighborhood.
Alex gave Holly time to straighten her wig before he rolled down the window and white-lied, “Mrs. Claus and I shared a sugar cookie. I was wiping crumbs from the corner of her mouth.”
“With your tongue?” The kid had a set of lungs on her. She needed to learn how to whisper.
He looked toward the house. “Where’s your mother?”
“Making dinner.”
“Maybe you should offer to help,” suggested Holly.
The girl produced a five-dollar bill. “Mommy sent me to the store for milk.”
“Can we give you a ride?” Holly offered.
The girl shook her head. “I like to walk. I count cracks in the sidewalk, and halfway down the block, Peach Corbett’s drawn hopscotch in orange chalk.”