A Little Bit of Holiday Magic (2 page)

“We’ll talk tomorrow.” She made a smacking sound, her version of a good-night kiss over the phone. “Sleep well, dear.”

“Will do.” Too bad he’d be sleeping alone. Stormy nights were perfect for going to bed with a hot woman. But the December dating deadline—the second Monday in December, when men stopped seeing women, in order to avoid spending the holidays with them—had passed. Even friends with benefits expected more than he was willing to give this time of year. “’Night, Mom.”

He placed the phone on the end table, sat in the recliner and took a long pull of beer. This year’s seasonal brew from the Wy’East Brewing Company went down smoothly.

He glanced at a photograph hanging on the wall—of Jake Porter, Leanne, Nick Bishop, Tim Moreno and himself at Smith Rock during a sunny day of rock climbing in central Oregon. He raised his bottle in memory of Nick, who’d died during a climb on Mount Hood’s Reid Headwall at Christmastime nine years ago.

Wind rattled the windows.

Storm, storm, go away. Billy Paulson wants to play.

He downed the rest of the beer.

Game highlights gave way to a sports talk show.

He flipped through the channels, not bothering to turn up the sound. News. Chick flick. Syndicated comedy. The same boring shows.

Bill heard what sounded like a knock.

No one would be out tonight. Must be a branch against the house.

Another knock.

He stood.

The knocking continued. Rapid. Loud.

Not a branch. More like someone in trouble.

Bill ran, opened the door.

Cold wind slammed into his body. Bits of ice pelted his face. Swirling snow blinded his eyes.

He blinked. Focused.

A woman stood on the porch. A woman holding a bunch of blankets. A woman covered with snow.

Bill ushered her inside, then closed the door.

Dark, wet hair obscured her face. Her teeth chattered. Her jeans and jacket were soaked. She wore wet gloves.

He brushed snow off her jacket, icy wetness chilled his palms. “What’s going on?”

“S-slid into a s-snowbank.”

“Were you buckled up?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“No. Air b-bag.”

“Back or neck pain?”

“No.”

“Does anything hurt?”

“F-f-face was b-burning. H-hard to breathe. B-but that’s better now.” She shivered. “Just c-c-old.”

Bill pushed the wet hair off her face to get a better look at her.

Wide amber eyes. Flushed cheeks. Runny nose.

Full, generous lips.

The kind of lips a man, at least this man, dreamed about tasting and kissing and...

Her lips trembled.

Focus, Paulson.
“Let’s get you out of that wet jacket.”

She held out the pile of blankets. “M-m-my s-son.”

Adrenaline shot through Bill. He grabbed the child and laid him on the rug in front of the living room fireplace. “Is he injured?”

“I d-don’t think so.”

Bill peeled away the wet top covering. “How old is he?”

She struggled out of her gloves and pink fleece jacket, nothing more than a waterlogged sponge now. “Three.”

Another blanket came off, this one dryer than the last. “What’s his name?”

The woman slipped off canvas sneakers. She wasn’t wearing socks. Not exactly dressed for the weather. What in the world was she doing driving around in a snowstorm?

“Liam.” She stepped away from the puddle of water pooling by her shoes. “I’m G-Grace. Grace Wilcox.”

“Bill Paulson.”

“Mommy,” a small, scared voice said from beneath a blue fleece blanket.

Grace kneeled next to the boy. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt. Goose bumps covered her arms. “R-right here, honey.”

Bill raised the blue blanket. “Liam?”

A small boy with dark hair and pale skin looked up with quarter-size blue eyes. He wore red mittens and forest-green footie pajamas.

Bill gave the kid his best fireman smile. “Hello, little dude.”

Liam’s lips quivered. “Mommy.”

Grace pulled his mitten-covered hand onto her lap. “It’s okay.”

Okay? Only if she was talking about them being out of the storm. Maybe she had hit her head or maybe she was drunk.

Bill didn’t smell alcohol. She didn’t show any obvious signs of impairment, except for driving late at night in a blizzard. “Was Liam in a car seat?”

Her do-I-look-like-a-bad-mother glare hit Bill like an ice pick in the forehead. “Of course my son was in a car seat. He was in the backseat.”

“Just a question.” Bill didn’t see any cuts or bruises. “No offense intended.”

He touched the boy’s shoulder.

She grabbed the top of Bill’s hand, her fingers, as cold as Popsicles, dug into his skin. “What are you doing?”

“Checking your son.” Bill didn’t need to look over to know an anxious mother was watching his every move. “I’m a firefighter with Hood Hamlet Fire and Rescue. I have EMT training and am a wilderness first responder with OMSAR.”

“OMSAR?”

Definitely not from around here if she didn’t know what that was. He shot her a sideways glance. Anxious, but attractive with wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, straight nose and full lips. Mid-twenties, if that. “Oregon Mountain Search and Rescue.”

Her gaze went from distrustful to relieved. “Looks like I picked the right house.”

“Da-arn straight.” Bill didn’t want to curse in front of the kid. “No visible signs of trauma. Does anything hurt, buddy?”

The little guy scrunched up his nose. “P-Nut.”

Bill looked at Grace. “Huh?”

“Peanut is right here.” She handed the child a stuffed animal. “Tell Mr. Paulson if anything hurts, okay?”

The kid’s eyes glistened. Tears would fall in 3...2...1.

“Tummy.” Liam’s voice cracked.

Internal injury? Bill’s throat tightened. “I need to check Liam’s abdomen.”

Color drained from the woman’s face. She rubbed her hands over her mouth. “Maybe we should call 9-1-1.”

“I am 9-1-1, minus the truck, flashing lights and uniform.” Bill grabbed the pajama zipper and pulled. “Relax. I know what I’m doing. If he needs help, we’ll get it.”

“Hungry,” Liam said.

Bill’s hand stalled. “You want something to eat?”

The little boy nodded.

“Wanting food is a good sign.” Bill examined Liam. No redness or marks from where the car seat straps may have hit his body. No signs of distress or shock or concussion. The kid seemed fine. “How does a cookie sound?”

A grin brighter than the lights on the Christmas tree erupted on the kid’s face. “Cookie! I want cookie, puh-lease.”

Bill’s throat relaxed, allowing him to breathe easier. The kid was going to be okay. But the mom was another story. Not quite panicked, but cold and suspicious.

The dark circles under her eyes told only half the story. Exhausted, check. Stressed, check. Nervous, two checks. Her eyes darted back and forth, unable to focus on one thing too long. But with each pass, her gaze lingered on him a second longer than the last. Her wariness pissed him off. She seemed to forget
she’d
knocked on
his
door tonight.

“Do you want a cookie?” he asked. “Chocolate chip. My mom made them.”

Grace gnawed on her lip. “No, thanks.”

Bill rose. He grabbed two chocolate chip cookies from the snowman-shaped cookie jar on the kitchen counter, then returned to the living room. He handed one to Liam, who’d removed his mittens, and the other to Grace, who looked as if he’d given her a grenade with the pin pulled.

Her confused gaze bounced from the cookie to Bill. “I didn’t want one.”

“You look like you need one.” He watched Liam munch his cookie. “Nothing wrong with his appetite.”

“Unless I’m trying to feed him veggies.”

Grace’s lighthearted tone surprised Bill, but it was good to see her sense of humor come out. “Who wants to eat icky green and orange things?” he asked.

The kid and Peanut nodded.

“Green and orange
things
—” Grace emphasized the last word “—help a person grow to be tall and strong. I’m sure Mr. Paulson didn’t become a firefighter by eating junk food and drinking soda.”

Grace sounded like a mom. Duh. She was one. He wasn’t helping her out here. “Your mom’s correct, Liam. Eat lots of vegetables, fruit and protein if you want to grow up to be tall and strong like me.”

She stared down her nose at Bill. “Modest.”

Her tone and look screamed
not interested.
That only piqued his. “Humility is a virtue.”

Grace opened her mouth, but didn’t say a word. She looked away, then took a bite of her cookie.

Bill knelt next to her. Wet hair dampened Grace’s shirt. She wasn’t busty, but had curves in the places that mattered. She smelled good in spite of being wet, a mix of vanilla and cinnamon and something he couldn’t place. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”

Holding the cookie, she crossed her arms tight over her chest. “I’m okay. The snow washed away the powder from the air bag.”

“Looking you over won’t take long.”

She scooted back. “I’m good.”

He cut the distance between them. “Let me make sure.”

Grace stood. Every motion seemed to take effort. A battle of fatigue and stress and shock, one she was losing. “You’ve done enough.”

His gaze ran the length of her, checking for obvious injuries. He didn’t see any. “Show me where the seat belt straps hit you.”

“It’s not necessary. I told you, the air bag—”

“If you stiffened prior to impact, you’re going to be sore.”

“I’m—”

“I’m trying to do my job here. That’s all. Please let me examine you.” He was losing patience. “I have to determine if you need to go to the hospital tonight.”

She nibbled on her lip.

“Would it make a difference if I put on my uniform?” he asked.

“None whatsoever.” Her firm voice left no doubt she was serious. “I appreciate you letting us get warm, but I need to find a place to stay tonight.”

“You’re not going anywhere unless it’s the hospital.”

She glanced out the window. “But—”

“The weather’s wicked. You’re staying here tonight. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Forget deer in headlights. Grace’s expression made her look as if she’d been flattened by a semi. “That’s—”

“Your only option.”

Her mouth twisted.

He wasn’t deterred. “I have two spare bedrooms. Use one or both.” Bill pointed to her coat. “You may feel warmer without your wet jacket and shoes, but you need to change clothes.”

Grace rubbed the back of her neck.

“Sore?” he asked.

“Fine.” She moistened her lips. “All my clothes are in the truck.”

“I have something you can wear. Be right back.” Bill sprinted to his bedroom and grabbed a pair of flannel pajamas, a Christmas gift last year from his parents. Well, from his mom. His dad usually arrived home on Christmas Eve and was out the door on the twenty-sixth, leaving Bill to become his mom’s entire world again. Maybe if he’d had a sibling, a little brother or sister, things would be different. Better. But Bill hadn’t called for help soon enough. His mother had lost her baby and couldn’t have another.

Back in the living room, he handed the pajamas to Grace. “They’ll be big on you.”

She stared at them as if he’d handed her a French maid outfit to wear, complete with fishnet stockings and a feather duster.

Her jaw tightened. “You want me to wear your pajamas?”

He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “They’re practically new. I’ve only worn the bottoms a couple times. Flannel is warm. You might be hypothermic.”

Her suspicious gaze targeted him once more. It was a good thing she wasn’t armed, or he would be a goner.

“You’re really a firefighter and mountain rescuer?”

“Check the pictures on the mantel.” He pointed to framed articles and photographs. “And the walls.”

Looking around, Grace held the pajamas in front of her like a shield.

Okay, he got it. Got her.

No wedding ring, and a kid had made her cautious. That was smart. She didn’t know him. Didn’t know her having a child meant he considered her off-limits, a look-don’t-touch, modern-day leper.

“My job is to help people in trouble. I do that when I’m on the mountain, too,” he said. “That’s all I’m trying to do here.”

“It’s just...” Grace glanced at Liam, who was playing with Peanut. She touched the boy’s head. “I’ve never been stranded—with a stranger.”

“No worries. I understand. But you’re safe here. If it makes you feel any better, the bedroom doors lock.”

Her eyes darkened. “From the inside or outside?”

That would be funny if she didn’t sound so serious. “I have an idea. I’ll call the sheriff’s office. Let them know about your truck, so they can get it towed. Then you can talk to the sheriff or a deputy. They’ll appease your concerns about staying here tonight.”

“The sheriff and his deputies will vouch for you?” Only a deaf person would miss her please-someone-tell-me-he’s-not-psychotic plea.

“I’ve lived in Hood Hamlet my whole life. I know everybody.”

Grace’s gaze took in the articles and photographs hanging on the wall again. The tension in her face, especially around her mouth, lessened. “Okay. Let’s call the sheriff. I doubt there’s more than one black pickup stuck in a snowbank around here, but in case there is, mine has Georgia plates.”

“Long way from home.”

She shrugged.

Must be a story there. Not his business.

Even if he was curious...

CHAPTER TWO

F
IVE
 
MINUTES
 
LATER
, Bill took the phone from Grace, who held on to his pajamas with her other hand. The lines creasing her forehead had disappeared, but the wariness in her eyes remained. He hoped that look wasn’t due to something the sheriff had said. “All good now?”

“The sheriff said Liam and I would be safe with you.” Her voice sounded stronger, but her words had a nervous edge. She rubbed her fingertips against the pajamas. “He’s going to take care of my truck.”

“Truck,” Liam repeated. “I like trucks. Big ones.”

“Me, too.” The kid was cute. So was the mom. If she would quit acting as if Bill was a murderer. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. At least her toes weren’t frostbitten. “Something’s still bothering you.”

Her hands stopped fidgeting with the pajamas. “You’re perceptive.”

“Sometimes.” Bill wasn’t about to play games with Grace after what she’d been through. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She looked at Liam, looked at his EMT and wilderness first aid books on the shelf, a snowboard, an old fire helmet, looked at everything in the living room except Bill.

He took a step closer. “Something’s got you wigged out.”

Grace rubbed her lips together. “The sheriff thinks you should, um, check me. See if we...I...need to go to the hospital.”

That would do it. “Good idea.”

“No. I don’t. Need to go, that is.” Her gaze still avoided his. “I’m a little sore. Nothing else.”

Liam played with Peanut, seemingly oblivious to everything else.

“Most people are sore after an accident.” Bill didn’t know if she was afraid of going to the hospital or of him. He’d guess the latter, but wished she’d look at him so he could try to see if something else was going on with her. “The rush of adrenaline can mask injuries. You should be examined.”

Grace nodded, but looked as if she’d rather face a dentist and gynecologist at the same time than be checked by him. She ran her teeth over her lower lip.

“I promise I don’t bite,” he teased.

She blushed. Her bright red cheeks made her look like a teenager.

He motioned to a chair. “Do you want to sit?”

“I’d rather stand.”

Figures. When Bill was on a call or out in the field on a rescue mission, he tried to keep the patient at ease. Joking around with Grace wasn’t working. He’d try talking to her. “Where do you live in Georgia?”

“Columbus.”

“You don’t sound Southern.”

“I grew up in the Midwest. Iowa.”

“Cornfields and the Iowa Hawkeyes.”

Her amber eyes twinkled. “And country fairs.”

“Let me guess. You were the Corn Queen.”

Her grin brightened her face. Not only pretty, unexpectedly beautiful.

Air stuck in his throat. He struggled to breathe.

She struck a royal pose, lifting her chin and shifting her shoulders back. “Corn Princess.”

Bill had no idea why he’d reacted to her. Must be tired. “Sash and tiara?”

“Corn-on-the-cob scepter, too.”

“Real Iowan corn?”

“Only the finest.” She gave Liam a royal wave. “I was the envy of the corn court until an unfortunate incident with one of the 4-H goats.”

“Poor goat.”

“Poor corn.” She made an exaggerated sad face. “After the goat encounter, I was a princess without a scepter.”

Okay, this was more like it. Smiling and joking and raising Bill’s temperature ten degrees. “So what brings her highness out of the land of sweet tea and juicy peaches across the Mississippi River and over the Rockies to the verdant Pacific Northwest?”

She stared at Liam. Her eyes softened. “Astoria.”

“Ah. Nice little coastal town, if you don’t mind being at sea level.” Bill preferred living in the mountains. “Do you have family there?”

“No, but I thought why not try something different.”

Her voice sounded shaky. Nerves?

Or something more? “That’s a big move.”

She shrugged, but tight lines formed around her mouth. “I’ve moved a lot.”

“I’ve moved twice, not counting my stint at the fire academy. Once from my parents’ house to an apartment, then into this house.” Bill stood next to Grace. The top of her head came to the tip of his nose. “Show me where you’re sore.”

She pointed to her left shoulder, where the seat belt would have hit.

He touched the spot. “Does this hurt?”

“Slightly tender.” She glanced at his hand on her, then looked away. “I can’t remember all the moves we’ve made. My husband was in the army.”

Was.
Past tense. She hadn’t said ex-husband, but she wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Bill knew some folks didn’t wear rings. Others lost them. Or pawned them. “Is your husband waiting for you in Astoria?”

She bent down and stroked Liam’s hair. “He’s...dead.”

Her words cut Bill at the knees. He opened his mouth to apologize, to say something, anything, but nothing came out. She was so young with a kid.

Just like Hannah, Nick’s wife.

A million memories rushed back, memories Bill had hoped to forget. The smell of death when his rescue team had found the bodies of Nick and Iain, still roped together. The sound of grief when he’d spent days at Nick’s house, trying to comfort the Bishop family. The taste of regret when Bill had realized nothing he did or said would make things better for Hannah and her two young kids.

He had felt so useless back then. He forced himself to breathe now. At least he could do something for Grace. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” The words came automatically, as if programmed in and spoken without thinking.

Her gaze, full of affection, remained on Liam, who kept himself entertained with the toy elephant.

Bill thought he could reach out and touch the love she was sending her son. A small knot formed in his chest. Ached behind his ribs. He didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like how he wanted to hold Grace until she looked at him the same way.

Not that she would. He had a habit of failing the women in his life. Just like his dad.

“Columbus, Georgia.” Bill forced the words from his dry throat. “Is that where your husband was stationed?”

“Yes. Fort Benning. Damon was a Ranger. He was killed in action in Afghanistan two and a half years ago.”

Damn. That sucked. “A real hero.”

“Yes. Highly decorated. He loved what he did.”

Grace’s affection for her late husband filled her voice. Love never played into Bill’s relationships. He much preferred the other
L
word.
Lust
. Love was too messy, too complicated. It was capable of causing pain and grief, like Grace must have endured with her husband’s death. “Our service members have paid a high price in the Middle East, but your husband leaves behind a legacy of memories, and Liam.”

Her gaze went from her son to Bill. “Is there, um, anything else you need to check?”

He looked at his hand on her shoulder. Damn. Still touching her. He lowered his arm. “Any headache or sore neck now?”

“No.”

If her headrest wasn’t set properly she could have whiplash. He rubbed his hands together so they wouldn’t be cold against her skin, and stepped behind her. “I’m going to move your hair to check your neck.”

“That’s fine.” Her tight tone made him think otherwise.

Bill pushed her long wet hair over to one side. His fingertips brushed her neck.

She inhaled sharply. Tensed.

“Sorry.” He liked the feel of her soft skin. If only she wasn’t so cold. But he knew ways to warm her up. Lots of ways.

Stop. Right there.

Bill might have the reputation of being a player, but he didn’t play with patients. He touched her neck again. “Does this area hurt?”

Her back stiffened. “Not really.”

He wasn’t buying it. “You feel something.”

“Nothing major.” She sounded nonchalant, as if she had a splinter in her finger, nothing more. “A dull ache.”

He moved his hand lower. “What about here?”

“Very dull. Almost nothing.”

He moved in front of her. “Show me where the seat belt hit you.”

Grace pointed to her left shoulder, then diagonally across her chest and over her hips.

“Does your abdomen or lower back hurt?”

“No.”

“Hips?”

“All good.”

“We can hold off a trip to the hospital tonight. Depending on how you feel tomorrow, you might want to see a doctor.”

“Okay.”

“Time for you to get out of those wet clothes. You can change in the bathroom. First door on the right.” Bill motioned to Liam. “The little dude and I will make cocoa.”

Liam clapped the elephant’s paws together. “Cocoa. Cocoa.”

Bill offered her the phone. “Take this with you. You can call whoever you need to, and let them know what’s happened.”

Sadness filled her gaze. “Thanks, but there’s no one to call.”

With that, Grace walked down the hall. Denim clung to her hips, showing off her curves and the sway of her hips.

Nice butt.

Hot.

Whoa.

Not going to happen. Not with a mom. Definitely not with a widow.

He liked rescuing damsels in distress, but only long enough to see them back on their feet and be rewarded for his efforts. He might help moms, but he didn’t date them. Ever.

Mothers with children equaled commitment.

He’d rather hang in base camp, drinking and playing cards, than attempt that summit. Married friends might be happy, but they had provided enough
beta
on the climb. Marriage took commitment and hard work. An instant family wasn’t on Bill’s list of peaks to bag.

Hot or not, Grace and her son were his houseguests, period.

The bathroom door closed.

Liam sidled up next to Bill, pressing against his leg.

He glanced down. “Guess it’s you and me, kid.”

Liam held up his elephant.

“And Peanut.” The expectant look in the little boy’s eyes reminded Bill of the schoolkids who toured the station on field trips. Sitting behind the steering wheel wasn’t enough. Sirens needed to blare and lights flash. And helmets. The kids all had to wear the helmet. “I bet you want another cookie.”

“Please. Cocoa, too.”

Kids were the same whether they came from Hood Hamlet, Oregon, or Columbus, Georgia. “Marshmallows or whipped cream?”

“Both.”

A small hand clasped Bill’s larger one. Squeezed.

Warmth shot up his arm. Boy, that felt good. And not because Liam’s tiny fingers weren’t so cold any longer.

Inquisitive eyes full of adoration gazed up at Bill, making him feel like a superhero.

Something tugged inside his chest. Something he’d never experienced before. Something he didn’t understand. He shook off the unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling.

Must be all the excitement around here.

This wasn’t the evening he’d expected to spend. A cute kid wanting to make hot chocolate with him in the kitchen. A pretty mom changing into his pajamas in the bathroom. But Bill was not unhappy the way tonight was turning out.

Company and cookies and cocoa beat decorating the Christmas tree any day.

Even at midnight.

* * *

It’s going to be okay.

In the bathroom, Grace repeated Damon’s words. She stripped out of her clothes and dried herself off with a blue towel hanging on the rack.

Why wouldn’t it be okay?

She was naked, standing in a strange man’s house, about to put on a strange man’s pajamas, wondering if the strange man was too good to be true.

According to the sheriff, Bill Paulson was a kind, caring, generous man. She shouldn’t be surprised, since she believed Damon had helped her find this refuge from the storm.

But she doubted her late husband would appreciate the hum racing through her body. A hum that had nothing to do with the drive or the crash or the strangeness of the night, and everything to do with her handsome rescuer. The only way to describe the feeling was first-date jitters. Except this was no date. And Bill...

He reminded her of Damon. The two men had similar coloring and take-charge personalities. Bill exuded the same strength, confidence and heat as her husband.

Too bad the similarities ended there.

Damon had always been attractive, but his looks became rugged over the years due to scars from shrapnel and a nose broken twice. Not exactly world-weary, but not happy-go-lucky like Bill Paulson, whose gorgeous features belonged on the pages of an outdoor magazine layout. Bill wasn’t quite a pretty boy, especially with the sexy razor stubble, but close.

No doubt she was in shock.

That would explain her noticing every little thing about him. Reacting, too.

Touching Bill’s hand had felt good, his skin warm and rough against hers. His touching her had felt even better, his hand on her shoulder, calming and sure, as if it belonged there.

But when he’d touched her neck...intimate, almost sexual, albeit unintentional...

She missed...that. A man’s touch.

Don’t think about him.

At least not
that
way
.

Annoyed with herself, she shrugged on the pajama shirt. The soft flannel brushed her like a caress. The friction of fabric over dry skin warmed her, even though the pajamas were too big.

The sleeves hung over her hands. She rolled them to her wrists, then fastened the front buttons with trembling fingers. Her hands didn’t shake from the cold, but from the situation.

Nerves.

She stepped into the pants. The hems pooled at her feet. She cuffed them.

The waistband slid down her hips. She rolled the top, determined to make this work.

Nerves weren’t her only issue. A touch of guilt, too.

Something’s got you wigged out.

Yeah, him.

Of all the houses on Mount Hood, she would pick the one belonging to a firefighter and mountain rescuer. The hottest guy she’d been alone with since, well, Damon had deployed.

Grace grimaced at her starstruck reflection. Had she looked this goofy while talking to Bill? She hoped not. Either way, she was being silly, acting like a teenager with a crush, not an adult, not a mom.