Christie Ridgway (9 page)

He strode toward her, chuckling. “Bailey, I’m the president of the chamber of commerce, not the United States, as you very well know.”

“Your orders sounded mighty presidential over the phone yesterday.” But when she’d asked him why they had to meet, he’d held out his reasons for the face-to-face.

“I like to do these things in person when I can,” he said, still smiling.

These things?
That didn’t sound good. “Well, I don’t have much time, we’re busy here, and”—she broke off as she realized that Byron had slipped out after the newcomer’s arrival—“we’re shorthanded.”

Next chance she got, she was going to smear suntan oil on the surface of Byron’s old-school longboard.

It was a surfer’s prank guaranteed to give him a cold dunking when he tried to stand on his first wave of the day. She hadn’t grown up half Gidget for nothing.

The captain drew out a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his sport coat. “Don’t worry, I won’t take up much of your time.”

Bailey eyed the paper. “What do you have there?”

“First off, I just want to extend the chamber’s appreciation for stepping forward, Bailey. We understand you have your own job, but this is important too. To your family and the community at large.”

She didn’t bother wondering how he knew so much about the circumstances. Coronado comprised a mere seventy-five hundred households—and due to the military presence, that meant significantly fewer were full-time civilians. Those civilians were the kind of people who reveled in the small-town atmosphere that included plenty of small-town gossip.

“We knew we could count on you, Bailey. We’re all glad you didn’t turn your back on The Perfect Christmas. It’s a landmark.”

“An institution.” She should have turned her back on it. That would have been the easier path. But the weight of tradition and her innate firstborn perfectionism had rendered her genetically incapable of allowing the decades-old family business to fail on her watch. She’d had to at least
try
to make it better.

“I’m doing my best until the twenty-fifth,” she said, making clear she had her limits, though. “After that…”

The captain beamed through her warning. Bailey supposed she was glad someone still felt like smiling.

She could barely breathe for the weight of the albatross.

Which only got heavier as he held out the paper in his hand.

“What’s this?” she asked, afraid to take it.

He still wore his charming smile as he forced the sheet into her hands. “The chamber events scheduled for the store.”

“Events? What events are those?” she asked, but slowly opened the paper. It outlined the next days until Christmas.

Santa Storytelling Hours.

Christmas Movie Nights. Which apparently included dessert.

Tea for the walking tours on Saturday mornings.

Her head shot up. “We can’t possibly do this. I don’t have the time or the extra employees necessary.”

She’d pressed Byron and his twin, Brontë, to find her additional help, but they were more interested in the state of the surf than the state of the store’s staff. “I’m sorry, but The Perfect Christmas will have to back out of these events this year.”

He was already shaking his head. “I know it might be difficult, but the flyers have been posted all over town for weeks. Concierges in the big hotels have organized groups of interested guests to attend together. We can’t disappoint the tourists. It’s our livelihood.”

Behind her, Trin was whispering in appalled tones. “Bailey, he’s a veteran! You can’t let the general down. Who’ll bring snow to Maine?”

Vermont
.

Albatross.

She tried picturing Byron in the dry-cleaner-wrapped St. Nick costume hanging in the back office.
Yo,
dude. Have yourself a cool Yule.

Bailey groaned. On her watch it was going to be the Big Kahuna playing the Big Claus. Terrific.

But despite that, with Trin whispering behind her and the chamber’s representative wearing an expectant smile in front of her, she discovered she couldn’t say no to the gen—
captain
. President. Whatever.

Whatever was wrong with her?

She still didn’t have the answer to that question at 11:58 p.m. that night. Back from the store but unable to sleep, she was wide awake when the phone rang in her old room. Channeling her inner teenager, she automatically picked up the receiver on the little table beside her bed.

Her spine jerked straight against her skinny pillow when she heard the voice on the other end.

And she couldn’t say no to that person either.

Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas

Facts & Fun Calendar

December 6

In 1843, British businessman Sir Henry Cole asked artist John Calcott Horsley to print some Christmas cards. One thousand cards were printed in black and white and then colored by hand. The cards, which depicted a happy family raising a toast, were criticized by some for promoting drunkenness.

Bailey had showered after coming home from work and scrunched her hair dry, but she had to shimmy out of her flannel sleep pants and cotton-knit tank top. Considering the circumstances, she yanked on her black jeans, her stiletto-heeled black boots, then pulled over her head a tight black camisole followed by a looser, see-through silk one of midnight blue with black sequins sewn along the edge of the vee neckline.

Without billy club or badge, but with two layers of brown-black mascara and plum-rose lip gloss, it was the best rescue uniform she could come up with on short notice. It said, “I’m a kick-ass babe and I’m in charge.”

Or so she thought until she strode into the unfamiliar bar on the nontourist side of town. Simply named Hart’s it was located at the far corner of a small strip mall, next to a darkened nail salon. She’d gone through the single-wide, dinged-metal door with confidence.

But as she stepped into the low-lit room that smelled of beer and loud aftershave, rocked by the noise and the vibration of a pumping bass line beneath the soles of her boots, her bravado drained right out of her.

Had she ever walked into a bar by herself?

Certainly not one like this.

Though women accented the room here and there, it was mostly filled with men. Young men with shorn hair and muscular bodies. Military men, she deduced, who liked their beer and their raucous music. In one dark corner a few couples moved on a scarred dance floor. In another, dueling pool tables glowed green under drop lights.

When a knot of tough-looking men turned to check her out, she almost backed through the door.

But she’d promised Mrs. Jacobson to retrieve Finn and bring him back safely. How could she fail an eighty-something-year-old lady who had crocheted the receiving blanket she’d been bundled into for her trip home from the hospital?

Then there was Finn himself, of course. She couldn’t help but be concerned about him after his grandmother said he’d called, clearly inebriated. She didn’t want him driving himself home. The elderly woman swore she’d have gone after him herself, but she’d recently given up her license.

Bailey didn’t want Finn driving himself home either. She owed him that, at least. After all, it was Finn who

’d held her hair off her face and out of the gutter when she’d puked up wine coolers until her belly button hurt.

Seventeen and stupid.

Now she was twenty-eight and on a rescue mission.

Except she didn’t see Finn anywhere.

Then a man blocked her view. He was huge, one of those shaved-head, biceps-like-hams types, who looked as if he spent Sunday afternoons wearing blue face paint and yellow San Diego Chargers bolts on his cheeks. His voice was hoarse, as if still recovering from screaming for the team. “Can I get you something?”

When she felt for the doorknob behind her, a little smile played over his mouth. It made him look almost like a human being. “The manicure place is next door, hon. They won’t open again until nine in the morning, though.”

Somehow it was a relief to know he didn’t believe she belonged here either.

Another man walked up to the first. “Troy—” he started, breaking off as he glanced her way. “Bailey?

Bailey Sullivan?”

She knew who this was, though it had been a decade since she’d seen Tanner Hart in person. There was no mistaking his blue eyes, his golden-haired, movie-star good looks. Six months ago he’d become a media sensation, though then he’d been clean-shaven and his blond hair cut tight to his head. Now it was reaching his shoulders and the gold stubble on his chin hadn’t seen a razor in a couple of days.

Obviously Tanner had changed his life since the incident that had caused Finn to warn: “
Don’t mention it
if you see him.
” So she stuck to general niceties.

“Hey, Tanner. Fancy, uh, meeting you here.”

“This is where I work.” He jerked his thumb at the Mr. Clean look-alike who’d first spoken to her. “This is my brother, the bar’s owner, Troy Hart. Troy, this is Bailey Sullivan.”

Her hand disappeared inside Troy’s huge paw, as she recalled what she knew about him. Heroism was a Hart family tradition. He’d won more than his share of medals in Afghanistan.

When her fingers were returned to her, surprisingly unscathed, she looked over at Tanner. “I’m here for Finn. His grandmother sent me to bring him home.”

“Sent
you
?” Tanner echoed.

“I live right next door, if you remember. I promised I’d rescue him, since he’s apparently pretty, um, intoxicated. Is he here? Have you seen him?”

Tanner and Troy exchanged a glance. It must have spoken volumes, because Troy backed off with a little wave while Tanner crowded her toward the door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure I confiscate his keys. He’ll, uh, stay the night with me. Or, uh, something.”

“So you’ve seen him?” She rose on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder. “He’s here?”

“You bet. Sure. And he’s fine.” Tanner kept moving her backward. “I’ll take care of it. Make sure he comes out okay. You have my word. Scout’s honor. Cross my heart.”

Bailey’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t manage a law firm peopled by a bunch of motor-mouth attorneys without learning a thing or two about what a bunch of fast talk could really mean. Planting her feet on the sticky floor, she crossed her arms over her chest. “What aren’t you telling me? I’m not leaving until I know he’s okay. I promised his grandmother, Tanner. I won’t go until I at least see him.”

He rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin. “Listen, Bailey. Finn…Finn hits the bottle kinda hard, now and then. When he does, I watch out for him. He’s not going to get into any real trouble.”

Her stomach clenched. Not any “real” trouble. What did Tanner mean by that? She pictured a broken nose, bloody lips. Finn picking bar fights. Or worse, Finn stumbling around in the dark, half blind and prey to criminals, pickpockets. Maybe even terrorists. Remember, he was a federal agent.

She clutched Tanner’s arm, even as she realized she might be overreacting just a tad. “Take me to him. I’

ll get him home right now.”

“Bailey—”

“Tanner, I’m not leaving until I at least see him for myself.”

The guy who’d been the lead story on more than one infotainment television program groaned. “You don

’t—”

“I certainly
do.
”

Shaking his head, Tanner turned. “My life sucks,” he muttered. Then he pulled her by the wrist, leading her left to a part of the bar she’d missed before. Jutting off from the main area was a smaller room, filled with more tables and chairs, another couple of pool tables, and in one corner…Santa.

Santa
Finn
, with a bevy of giggling beauties lined up before him, all ready to sit on his lap and tell the pirate what they wanted for Christmas.

A red-and-white fleece hat perched sloppily on his dark head. Candy canes poked from the pocket of his shirt. And after each woman whispered her secrets in his oh-so-eager ear, he gave her a piece of candy…and a lingering kiss.

Something told her Finn Jacobson wouldn’t relish her rescue.

Which was exactly why she took her place at the back of the line.

The women shuffled forward slowly, since Finn took his sweet time with each lady. It gave Bailey plenty of minutes to work up a good mad. Oh, he was going to cringe when she got through with him.

Because he gave each woman his full attention (not to mention a swat on the butt as she left his knee), he didn’t see her coming until she was right in front of him. Even then he wasn’t fully aware of the trouble he was in because he was checking out his stash of candy sticks as he automatically curved an arm around her waist and drew her nearer.

“Have you been a good little girl?” he asked absently, still looking down as he pulled her onto his lap.

She landed with unnecessary force. He
oomphed
.

Bailey smiled with satisfaction. “I don’t know, Santa,” she said, pitching her voice to bad-girl sultry. “I thought you had a list.”

Finn’s head came up. He looked stunned.

Good.

She waited for embarrassment or remorse or shame to overtake his surprised expression.

Instead, he smiled. Slow. Sexy. His arm tightened around her as his gaze dropped to her breasts. “Oh, sweetheart, Santa has a list all right, and you’re at the very top.”

She was going to kill him! Of course, she should have known he wouldn’t cooperate and feel the least bit of guilt for…for…

Well, of course she didn’t care if he kissed a hundred other women in front of her. It was none of her business.

Digging her stiletto heels into the linoleum floor, she jerked off his knee. “Your grandmother was worried about you. But obviously you’re in fine form. Tanner will take you home, though you look like your usual capable self to me. Good-bye, Finn.” She started off.

“Whoa. Wait.” He stood to make a grab for her. His arm swung wild, and his body followed it, half turning him so that he stumbled into the chair he’d been sitting on. It toppled with a crash. The women who’d been in line behind her scattered.

Finn spun a full circle, his momentum taking him forward and into Bailey. She grabbed his arms to steady him.