Lock, Stock & Jingle Bells Page 6

  “Lovely,” she muttered, and grabbed the clipboard off the divan before heading out into the hall toward the stairs leading down to the shop floor…only to run smack into Sean, who was on his way up.

  And he looked…determined.

  “Holly, we need to talk.”

  He was empty-handed this time—figured—but she was momentarily too discombobulated to put him off with the excuse that she was headed out for lunch, so she ended up blurting exactly what was on her mind, instead. “I—uh, was just thinking the same thing. In fact, I planned to come over to talk to you later.” Which wasn’t a lie, exactly, since she had been thinking about it but hadn’t pinned down exactly how much later that later would be.

  His previously set expression lightened somewhat and his eyes crinkled a bit in that way she was already coming to like. A lot.

  “You were?”

  It was that hopeful note in his voice that did her in. “Yes, well,” she hurried to say, to explain, before anybody got their hopes up, especially her. “I just thought you should know, I’ll be leasing out the store. So…I’m not going to be staying. And I wanted—well, I didn’t want to leave things, you know…” She ran out of steam at that point, mostly because the twinkle blinked out and his shoulders fell a little, and both of those things not only made her feel horrible…but also a bit terrified, like a fool who was about to make the biggest mistake of her life.

  “Oh.” He stood there, looking a little sucker-punched and she realized he might have been storming the castle, all intent on making a speech or…or some last big gesture to get her to decide things in his favor, and she’d just robbed him of his big, planned-for moment.

  “Is…that what you came over to talk about?” she stuttered, feeling badly for how this was going, but having no clue how to make it any better.

  Well, other than to throw herself at him, drag him to the floor, and have several hours of wild, uncontrollable, lust-slaking sex with him.

  But that would be wrong.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “Holly…I—” He just broke off, then raked his hand through his hair, and they stood there just past the top of the stairs staring at one another.

  She had no idea what was going through his mind at the moment, but going through her mind was that it would all get better and a lot less awkward once he left. Then they’d either pretend they’d never had any interaction and wave or nod casually at each other if they, by chance, crossed paths between now and when she left…or studiously avoid making any kind of contact whatsoever. Even that would be less awkward than this.

  So why was it that the thought of him walking away, of never, not once, seeing him again, not like this, not where anything was possible and she could say or do anything she wanted, if she just allowed herself the courage to…well, want. Something. Anything.

  Anyone.

  “You’re not selling the place?” he said, at very long length, apparently not ready to escape into their distant, casually waving future any more than she was.

  “I—I don’t think so. I’ve had an offer, to lease it out, but it won’t be the same store. Antiques, but sans the Christmas part.”

  He looked over his shoulder, down the stairs. “Aw, that’s a shame. I like the Christmas part.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He looked back at her, and the smile was back, though the eyes were still not crinkling. In fact, he looked…well, hurt. “No, I’m not. I love Christmas. I love all that it represents.”

  “Gross commercialization and an excuse for unrestrained instant gratification?”

  “Says the advertising guru. No, I was speaking more metaphorically than commercially. I like that sense of wonder and hope, that miracles can and do happen. I mean, I don’t believe in pinning all your dreams on a single day of the year or having wild expectations that no one can fulfill. I’m just talking about…” He shrugged. “I used to go to Ireland every year for the holiday, to visit my family there, and so, for me, it was always a time of singing, laughter, great food, warmth and fun, and just…love. So, I guess it’s just that part that attracts me. And what’s downstairs, it’s…well, it’s either a symbol of it or a reminder of it. Whimsical or spiritual. I like it all. Can’t help it.”

  “You know what’s ironic?” she said, and for the first time, put into words everything she’d always felt about that day.

  “No, what would that be?”

  “That my parents—well, my mother, but my father doted on her, so for him, too—loved, obviously, that season, so much so that they embraced the ideal of it and incorporated it into their way of thinking, all year-round. And though it was a pure and honest affection, they also made a business out of it, so, though not grossly commercialized, it was still defined by more than just a love for whimsy and the spiritual connection of it all. It was a hectic time of year, always, when sales were brisk and my mother was exhausted. I lived in a home that was a tribute to that holiday the way Graceland is a tribute to Elvis. We had tours, singing, parties…all to celebrate this amazingly, supposedly fun wonderland of a season. For me? I’d have killed to just have had my mother and father on Christmas Eve, or morning, or both, all to myself, to just celebrate in peace and quiet and just…be.” She looked him in the eye. “I love what you describe and can see why it brings you joy, both at the memory and the reality. But for me? I never had any of that, despite, supposedly, living in the center of everything it symbolized my whole life. I ended up hating it. All of it.”

  To his credit, he didn’t bat an eye, and more important, he didn’t look at her like she was emotionally bankrupt, or the poor cinder girl who needed a hug. Which is mostly why she’d never, past adolescence anyway, confided her feelings on the subject to anyone.

  “When you lived in London…you didn’t try and create your own version of what you wanted it to be? With new friends, cohorts, compatriots?”

  She shook her head. “I came back for Thanksgiving, which we did celebrate as a family, usually one of the last times either of my parents were coherent before plunging into the chaos of the big sales season and end of year tax season for my dad. So, there were good memories tied to that day, at least comparatively speaking. At Christmas-time, I’d take the rest of my vacation leave and…”

  “What, go lie on a beach somewhere and work on your tan? I could understand that.”

  She was tempted to just nod and say yes. It would have been easy enough. But she felt, considering it all, that he deserved all of the truth. “No, I’d get a rail pass and travel around Europe with a sketch pad, pencils, and paint. Different destinations, different years. But that’s what always brought me comfort, growing up in this world of Santa on steroids, so I clung to that. I reveled in it, to be honest. I wasn’t hiding, I was celebrating the thing I loved most. So, maybe that is my Christmas spirit.”

  “Why don’t you pursue that? Your art. Clearly it’s your passion.” His lips quirked a little then, and a tiny bit of that twinkle surfaced again in his eyes. “Or are you not good enough?” A bit of the brogue snuck into his voice, and she couldn’t help it, she smiled, too.

  “I don’t know. I just know I enjoy expressing myself that way. But I don’t know that it would be a wise move, to try and figure out how to earn a living at it. Easier said than done. I can wield a pen and brush more effectively in the advertising world. Still art, still creative, but with a more clearly defined career path.”

  “And paint, then, simply as a hobby?”

  She folded her arms over her clipboard. “Seems like a wise, healthy way to approach matters, yes.”

  “Hmm.” He folded his arms, too. And leaned against the wall. “Are you happy with that arrangement? Does it feed your soul? Are you fulfilled?”

  “I—I think it just is what it is.”

  “You said you were leasing this building, but not all the contents. What are you going to do with it? With all the things down there?”

  “Sell them. And before you ask, yes, my mother knows
. Or will, as soon as she gets back from cruising the Mediterranean.” But she’d given her blessing. Even Mrs. Gillespie seemed to think her mother had thought it inevitable. “I hope to have it all done before she gets back, just present it as a fait accompli. Even though she knows it’s likely coming, it will probably be easier on her that way.”

  “I think you’re right, but that’s not why I was asking. What will you do with the profits? I know, none of my business, but…I’m asking anyway.”

  “I—” She broke off. She really hadn’t even thought about that part. “I don’t know. I mean, there are a lot of things I have to figure out if I’m going to remain owner of the building in deed and so it will probably go toward…handling all of that. Which I won’t be able to do from overseas, so I’ll have to hire someone. Or retain…someone. I’m still looking into all of that.”

  “Why not invest it in you? Why not take your inheritance and do with it what, in spirit, your mother was giving it to you to do. To carry on, perhaps not with her dream, but with your own?”

  Holly stood there, clutching the clipboard as if it were the only connection left to rationality and reality and…anything that wasn’t this crazy life raft that Sean was tossing to her. Like she was out to sea. And needed rescuing. She didn’t. She was fine. She’d go back to London, back to her safe job, and her traveling, and her painting for herself, and be perfectly, one hundred percent fine. Dammit.

  She turned on her heel and walked back into the storage room-turned-sleeping quarters, hating the sudden knot in her gut. And the lump in her throat. And the zip in her pulse. It didn’t bear thinking about. Not really. Fantasy. That’s what that was. How dare he just casually toss that out there. Because now she wouldn’t be able to pretend she had no alternatives. But even if she wanted to consider it…what would she really do with the money to make it happen?

  “Holly?”

  She swung around. “What?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He walked into the room. “Why not do it? Haven’t you ever dreamed of it?”

  “Of what? Of making some kind of living as a painter? As an artist? Maybe when I was nine. But then I grew up. And I found a way to provide myself with a career that would allow me to travel to the most beautiful places in the world and paint them to my heart’s content. I thought that was a pretty fair deal.”

  He walked right up to her, then took the clipboard from her arms and tilted her face up to his. “And is it? Is your heart content with that?”

  “It has to be.”

  He smiled then, and she felt herself begin to tremble. “Why?”

  “Sean—” The word came out more a whisper, a plea.

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You have parents who are both self-made, successful, and happy in their chosen professions. Why have you settled for less?”

  “My parents are proud of me, they—”

  “I’m not talking about impressing them, I’m talking about fulfilling the promise they gave you.”

  She would have snorted had it been possible to make a sound. But he was far too close, so deep inside her personal space she was losing track of where she ended and he began and all of her previously so well established boundaries…he didn’t respect any of them. In fact, he didn’t even seem to recognize boundaries existed. And maybe they didn’t for men like him. “My parents barely knew how to be parents.”

  “That might be true. My parents spent their lives sweating in that restaurant and allowing their only son to be raised by a large extended family. But they loved me, that I never questioned. And I know you didn’t, either. My parents gave me all kinds of gifts that might not have had a thing to do with sitting with me while I struggled with my homework, or being there when I was freaking out because it felt like the entire world was expecting me to bring home a county championship. But I learned so many other things. Didn’t you?”

  “I—yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Then why aren’t you taking advantage of it? Reaching, like they did, for what you want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He pulled her closer, slid his hand beneath her hair, pulled her face closer to his, until she was on the tippiest of her toes. “Reach for what you want,” he said, his lips brushing hers. “I came over here today because I’m reaching for mine.” He smiled, and the twinkle was back in full force as he brushed his mouth over hers. “Come on, Holly. Reach with me.” He kissed her then, and it was intoxicatingly slow, and wonderful and perfect, the way his mouth fit over hers, the way he coaxed her tongue into his mouth, the way he gave, then took, then gave again, until her head was spinning and her body felt like it would simply float straight up to the ceiling if he wasn’t holding her down.

  “Sean,” she whispered when he lifted his head. “You’re braver than I am.”

  “Says the girl who took off across an entire ocean, to a foreign land—”

  “England is hardly—”

  “Shh, let me spin my tale of Holly’s Great Adventure. You’ve had one, you know. Most eighteen-year-olds, especially ones reared in small towns, would freak at the thought of moving out of state. Even I stuck close. Not you, racing off to Oxford, settling in London. You reached.”

  “I ran.”

  He lifted his head then and let her slide down his body so her feet were once again flat on the floor. Funny, but when he looked at her the way he was now, she still felt like she was floating.

  “And now?” He pushed her hair from her face, stroked her cheek with his thumb, searched her eyes. “Are you running again?”

  “I—don’t know. Maybe. My life is there.”

  “You had a life here, once.”

  “I did. But it’s not one I want to come back to.”

  “Good, because that particular version is no longer here. But there is a foundation here, a place you know, that you loved, that loves you. With people you’ve known your whole life. Who would support you, because you’re a Willow Creek girl. You’ve had family around you your whole life, if you’d just opened your eyes and looked. They don’t have to be bound by blood or a shared gene pool, you know.”

  “I do. Know that.” But did she? Had she ever really taken the time to think about it that way? She’d spent most of her time wishing her life was different and plotting a way to put it behind her, start over.

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You didn’t exactly have anyone pointing the way. Nobody blamed you for taking off, you know. They all thought you were quite the smart, sharp one, so worldly and bold. They were all proud of you, still are. But they’d love to have you back.”

  “They—it’s been a long, long time, Sean. They don’t even know me. Not the adult me.”

  “One thing I learned about this town is that you’re always known to the ones who knew you when.”

  “Maybe that’s true for the Gallaghers. Everyone loves your family and you are a good percentage of the town all on your own.”

  He laughed. “We both have a place here. Your mom and dad were both loved, respected, and you gain a lot, automatically, just from that.”

  “Doesn’t seem right,” she said, more to herself than him, “given I didn’t appreciate it all that much.”

  “That’s the other part of small towns…you’re always one of us. Flaws and all.”

  Now she laughed. “Says the flawless guy.”

  His eyebrows raised in true surprise. “Hardly. Step across the street and any number of my cousins or aunts will happily list for you all of my faults in colorful detail. On second thought, I’m trying to get you to give me a shot here, so forget I mentioned that.”

  Her laughter faded but the smile remained. He made it almost impossible not to. He was charming, and sexy as hell, and the way he kissed her…there was no comparison she could draw, because it was incomparable.

  He backed up and sank down onto the divan, pulling her down into his lap. “Just…think about the things I’ve said. At least give it some consideration. All of it. Not ju
st the me part.” He grinned. “Well, maybe put a little emphasis on that. See? Not flawless. But I find myself feeling really greedy where you’re concerned. Like so much time has passed already, and I can’t stand the thought of losing any more of it. It’s too precious. That’s another thing my parents taught me.”

  “Oh, Sean—”

  “I didn’t say that for the sympathy vote. But it is something I carry with me. It’s why I do most everything I do. No regrets, that’s my motto. And it’s a good one. Maybe you should think about it in those terms.” He shifted and laid her back on the divan, lowering his head toward hers.

  She should have pushed at his chest, let him know that he was taking things too far, assuming too much, but when her hands came up they ended up clutching his shirt…and pulling him closer, not pushing him away. “I don’t want regrets, either,” she said, her voice dropping to a trembling whisper as he shifted his weight so he could lean more fully over her. “I just don’t know which one that would be.”

  “Maybe this will help you decide.”

  8

  She tasted sweet and warm and perfect, and Sean was pretty sure he could kiss her for hours. Days. The rest of his life. There was little that was lush about her small frame, and he’d have to be careful not to crush his weight down on her, much as he wanted to feel her under him. However, what she lacked in curves she more than made up for with that mouth, those lips. They were full and soft and so inviting he thought he might lose himself there forever. And when she kissed him back? Every part of him responded. She kissed him like she did everything else, with such direct, focused intensity. And she fit him, her mouth to his, there was no fumbling, no trying to find just that right angle.