Blame it on the Mistletoe
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Tawny Weber
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CHAPTER 1
“IF ONE MORE GUY OFFERS to jingle my bells, I’m going to dump a pitcher of beer over his happy-holidaying head.”
“’Tis the season, goodwill toward drunken men, and all that.” Rita Cole winked at the other waitress before shifting a glass-filled tray from her shoulder to the teak bar. Bright lights, chrome and flowering vines were supposed to make the Asbury Park yuppie bar welcoming and innocuous. But the goody-goody decor didn’t hide the meat-market vibe.
“Consider it a gift,” Rita suggested. Life was hard enough without getting uptight over petty stuff. And any guys haunting this bar were inevitably going to be petty. “They get a few harmless fantasies and you get a sweet tip. Everyone’s happy.”
“Speaking of happy,” Kimmi said as she counted change, “thanks again for hooking me up with that pediatrician. How on earth did you find a baby doc?”
“I met her when I was apprenticing at the Hershberger salon in Manhattan. She was one of Sally’s clients.”
“How does a girl with all your skills and connections end up schlepping drinks in a bar?” the blonde asked as she hefted her own tray.
Wasn’t that the question of the hour? And one Rita wasn’t about to try to answer without a pitcher of margaritas, a box of tissues and a pile of chocolate to stave off the depression.
Instead, she forced herself to smile. There was no way she could spend eight hours with her feet wrapped in stiletto boots and her butt barely covered by a fur-trimmed velvet skirt if she was in a bad mood. Besides, a good mood meant better tips.
And she desperately needed the money.
She’d learned a long time ago that when a girl resembled a Playboy centerfold—all curves and wickedly sultry looks, guys looked whether she liked it or not. Given the choice between hiding her assets or making the most of them, she’d take the ogling. She just wished she could leave the judgment that went with it behind.
Five minutes later, her resolve was tested. She had just deposited a chocolatini, two margaritas and a pitcher of beer at a table of ladies and collected their credit cards when she felt a fat-fingered hand slide up the back of her thigh, skimming the hem of her short skirt.
When she spun around the hand dropped, but the guy’s smirk didn’t. Her stomach tensed but she forced herself to keep her smile intact.
“Sorry, were you wanting to place an order?” she asked as she subtly shifted her now-empty tray into a weapon-worthy position. “I can recommend Paul’s coffee if you need some help sobering up.”
“Screw coffee—I’d rather have a buttery nipple,” the pudgy guy said with a sloppy grin. “Better yet, why don’t you sit down here on my lap and let me taste yours?”
His companions, all equally take-their-keys-away drunk, laughed uproariously. Paul, the bartender, caught Rita’s eye and raised a brow in question. A quick shake of her head let him know she could handle it. She’d been doing so half her life.
Why was it some jerks looked at her and saw easy? She knew she put off a sexy vibe, but sexy and disrespect didn’t go hand in hand. She leaned forward to ask why the hell he thought her looks gave him permission to grab her ass. Then she took a deep breath. What was the point?
“How about I bring you that coffee on the house,” she offered instead. After all, there was a tip on the line.
“How about I show you my candy cane,” the guy leered. Then he lurched forward to grab her again.
Screw the tip. She shifted sideways so his arm slammed into the table. Just before she blasted him, Rita heard her mother’s voice in her head. Try a little honey before you lose your temper.
So she sucked in a deep breath, reined in her irritation and refocused. She glanced across the table and arched her brow at the drunk’s buddies.
“A good-lookin’ bunch of guys like you, letting him ruin your chances with the ladies?” She shifted her gaze, taking in the group of women watching from the table she’d just served. She leaned in closer, speaking in a loud whisper. “Nothing more impressive than a guy who comes to the rescue.”
Forcing herself to keep her smile in place, Rita waited. Their responses dulled by booze, the drunk’s companions eventually clued in. They exchanged glances, then one of the guys reached over and smacked the drunk on the shoulder.
“Dude, you’re being rude. Apologize and pay the sexy … I mean, pay the nice waitress.”
Their drunk friend looked belligerent. Rita balanced on the balls of her feet, just in case. But the guy’s buddies, so focused on posturing for the ladies, glared. One even half stood, flexing.
Finally the drunk’s frown shifted into a hardy, slightly embarrassed laugh. One eye on his pals, he handed over a twenty to pay for his five-dollar drink and told Rita to keep the change. His friends quickly followed suit before moving their chairs around to flirt with the women at the next table.
“And that’s how it’s done,” Rita murmured to Kimmi as they passed again, pretending her heart wasn’t hammering with leftover nerves.
“Maybe for you,” Kimmi shot back. “You go through life like it’s a big ol’ party.”
“Networking at its finest,” Rita claimed as she tucked the tip into her bra and tried to reclaim her upbeat mood.
“With your looks and people skills, you’ll be waitress of the month in no time,” Kimmi said, gesturing to the photo wall. “It’s hokey, but you do get a hundred-dollar bonus.”
“Nope, I’m not sticking around that long,” Rita told her. “Not even for a C-note. Humoring drunks isn’t one of my career goals.” Even if it was the job she ended up doing ninety percent of the time. “I’m just here to get enough money to pay for my trip home to Ponder Hill for the holidays.”
Kimmi’s grimace said it all.
Home. Holidays. Family.
Ugh.
Exactly.
Still, loyalty had Rita saying, “It’ll be great. I haven’t been home for Christmas in years.”
“You like your family?”
“Yeah,” Rita said, shifting to take some weight off her left foot, then her right. “Yeah, actually they’re all great. Perfect, in fact.”
Which was why Rita had never quite fit in. The only thing she was perfect at was being a pain in the ass. After a while, seeing that look in her parents’ eyes, that where did we go wrong look, got to be too much. It was easier to stay away than to deal with their disappointment.
Over the years she’d made excuses at the holidays or talked one of her sisters into suggesting a family trip instead.
Until this year. After six Christmases, her mom had insisted Rita come home. Apparently, without her presence, her father’s holiday would be ruined. Amanda insisted that without all three of his daughters around the tree, her husband would sink into depression.
What choice did Rita have? She was pretty sure it was mostly bullshit, but how could she risk her father’s happiness at the holidays?
“Perfect, huh?” Kimmi made a face. “Is that why you look so thrilled?”
“Well, let’s just say I was much happier about the prospect when I originally gave in … I mean, agreed to go home.”
Before her latest career bust. Her sixth since leaving home at eighteen, which only added to her parents’ readily shared worries. Unshared, she was sure, were their suspicions that she was a total loser.
A suspicion she was starting to buy into.
Case in point. She’d loved the idea of being in fashion. She was great at putting together outfits. But as her most recent boss, a high-end clothing designer had reluctantly told her, she had a narrow vision and a quirky style that only one percent of the population could pull off. In other words, she sucked as a designer.
Her big plan for the holidays had been to prove to her parents that she wasn’t their loser little girl. Part one was to wow them with tales of her career success. Part two had been to get them an awesome present, like her sisters always did. She’d prove that she was not only focused and happy, but that she was doing well enough to buy them something they’d never forget.
And she’d found the perfect gift. The lady who ran the antiques shop in Ponder Hill had tracked down an antique victrola just like Rita’s great-granny’s. Rita had grown up hearing the story of how her parents, both musicians, had loved to dance to music from that antique victrola while dating. When Rita was about two, her dad had broken it during one of their many moves.
She’d been so excited to find one. This was a gift that would not only outdo her sisters’, but touch her parents’ hearts. She’d spent the past six months making payments, with the last installment due when she got home to pick it up.
A payment she no longer had, thanks to losing her job and having to use her savings to pay rent.
But she wasn’t giving up. She had a Plan B.
Wait tables, smile until her cheeks hurt, and pull in enough tips to make up the lost funds. Squaring her shoulders to shake off her doubts, Rita lifted another tray of drinks and turned to weave expertly through the crowd. She’d only gone a couple feet when she saw the key to Plan B belly up to the bar.
“Benny, you cutie pie. Get yourself a drink on me and I’ll be with you in a few.” She gave the pudgy balding guy an extra big smile and winked as she turned away. She needed Benny to agree to put off their departure by a few extra days to give her some time to sock away more money. She hoped smiles and the sight of her ass in a short skirt would do the trick.
On cue, he immediately zeroed in on her legs.
While Benny enjoyed his thrill, the guy behind him caught her eye. A tiny shiver of awareness slid down her belly, then the crowd moved and she lost the view. Crazy. Even though she rarely dated these days, hot guys were still pretty common in her life, but they rarely gave her tingles. Not even tall, sexy guys with wind-tossed golden hair and shoulders to die for.
“Cutie pie?” Kimmi shot back. “You need your eyes checked.”
“Looks aren’t everything,” Rita said dismissively. “He’s from Ponder Hill. Benny graduated with my oldest sister, and when I put the word out that I was looking for a ride, he offered a no-strings-attached transport home for the holidays.”
“Ooh?”
Rita snickered at the sexy lilt in Kimmi’s tone but shook her head. “Hardly. In the first place, he’s a nice guy but not my type.”
Her dream type had been cemented back in high school. Tall, bad-boy blond with a chip on his shoulder and an attitude that said c’mon. Rita sighed at the memory. She’d met plenty of bad boys, plenty of blonds and plenty of guys with attitude. But none did it for her like that wild Ramsey boy had.
“And in the second place?” Kimmi urged.
Rita gave a rueful half smile and said, “In the second place, Benny’s a mama’s boy. And I’m hardly the kind of girl guys bring home to their family.”
* * *
TYLER RAMSEY WATCHED the sexy pinup queen make her way through the crowd, noting his weren’t the only eyes glued to the sweet curve of her ass. Rita Cole. Pure fantasy material and the last woman in the world Tyler wanted to see.
“C’mon, Benny,” Tyler cajoled. “You’ve got better things to do than play taxi to a diva. Tell her the deal’s off and let’s go test your new bike.” He referred to the custom Harley he’d driven fourteen freaking hours to deliver. To a guy who, instead of showing the brand-new bike off to all the potential customers he’d told Tyler about, was taking off in the morning to drive those same fourteen hours back to Ponder Hill. Hell, if Tyler had known, he’d have stayed home and let Benny get the bike there.
He definitely wouldn’t have gotten within touching distance of Rita Cole.
Tyler was pretty sure every damned mistake man had ever made could be laid at one of the Cole sisters’ sexy toes.
“Better things to do?” Benny breathed, his eyes glued on Rita’s fluffy white hem. “No way. This is my shot. My golden opportunity. My—”
“A waste of your time. A waste of gas money. And the pain of having to watch all those sexy wet dreams dry up when you have to admit what she really is.”
That got Benny’s attention. He glared. Between the light glinting off his bald head and reflecting off his Coke-bottle glasses, he looked like a pissed-off, myopic holiday elf.
Tyler winced with guilt. Ever since grade school, nerdy Benny had followed Tyler around, content to hang in his friend’s shadow. A perfect example was the guy contracting Tyler to build him a Harley. Benny the nerd on a Harley, just to help his old buddy launch his new business. That was friendship.
The only time Benny didn’t listen to Tyler was when it came to women. The guy was a sucker for women out of his league, never able to see past the packaging.
While their packaging was top-notch, the Cole sisters were bad news. Rita had gone to high school with Tyler’s little brother, Randy. Gone to school with him, gone out with him, gone done and broke his damned heart. You’d think the kid would’ve caught a clue from Tyler’s experience with Rita’s older sister, Alison. But, no. There was something irresistible about those girls.
Alison Cole had been Tyler’s senior prom date. He’d had a secret crush on Rita, but even a bad boy like Tyler couldn’t ask a freshman to prom. So he’d asked Alison instead, then spent part of the evening passing a flask with his buddies. Combine too much whiskey, Alison’s perfume and a pathetic attempt at the Macarena and the night had been a mess. Especially when, after they’d gone out for air, he’d puked all over her prom dress, then passed out. The next thing he knew, everyone in school was whispering that he’d knocked Alison up.
His rep had been trashed. His face had almost got smashed by her angry father. He’d spent four weeks in detention for fighting with every guy who’d had the nerve to ridicule him when the truth had come out. Alison had started the rumor herself to get revenge for his ruining her evening.
He’d vowed to avoid all of the Cole girls from then on.
So at the moment, he didn’t know what pissed him off more. The trouble the sisters caused? Or that, even though he knew better, just the sight of Rita Cole turned him on like crazy.
“She’s trouble, buddy. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Benny snapped. “Rita’s gorgeous. She’s the one, you know. The future Mrs. Rodgers. I’ve been waiting for this chance for years.”
Benny rambled on about her beauty and perfection, showing some scary hints of obsession. Tyler wasn’t sure if the guy even saw her as a person or as a walking, talking blow-up doll.
Years of accumulated frustration, not all of it sexual, boiled over when Rita, squeezing between bodies to slide her tray onto the bar, gave Benny a quick hug.
Tyler’s body hit automatic meltdown. God, she was gorgeous. A sexy combination of a forties’ pinup girl and a sweet girl-next-door, she’d filled his dreams for almost a decade now. He’d only seen her twice in the past eight years, and now she was right next to him. Close enough to reach out and run his fingers through her tousled black hair. To see if her skin was as silky smooth as it looked. To taste her full lips.
As if echoing his thoughts, Benny’s pleasured groan was the last straw. Tyler had to get the guy to give up his obsession. Maybe then he could finally give up his, too.
His body overruling his brain, Tyler stepped around Benny and wrapped an arm around Rita’s surprisingly fragile shoulders. Pulling her to his side, he gave himself three seconds to enjoy the twin thrills of her surprise and his own lust. He reveled in the feel of her lush curves pressing into his chest, her shocked breath wafting over his lips as she gasped.
Then he made his move.
“Hey Rita, nice to see you again,” he said before taking her mouth in a slippery, hot, wet and wild kiss.
