Page 43 of Stella's Christmas Rescue
“Now.” I pant.
Jordan gasps, then roars, “YES!” He comes and his hips force him tighter into me. He kisses my back again and again, then murmurs, “Can you stand?”
“I dunno,” I pant.
He pulls out, with one hand on the condom and the other on my back to stop me from falling. “Ready to try?”
“Sure.” Not my most graceful moment, but I manage. “Think I need another shower.”
He laughs, “Sounds like a plan.”
15
“So, what is that pile of wood in the living room for?” I ask over supper. It’s been a day since our training session, and I think the bruises are healing. Stella’s a damn spitfire in hand—to—hand. She let me pick up our meal again, so that’s progress. I think she’s finally letting me in. Figured now is as good a time as any to ask about the wood pile. It’s not kindling for the fireplace. This wood is carved up.
Stella smiles, then looks away. “My grandfather is a huge wine aficionado. And in my family, we usually make Christmas presents. I’ve knitted some afghans for everyone else this year, but my grandfather likes quilts, and I don’t quilt. So, for him, I decided to build him a wine rack. But I’m not as good with woodas I am with yarn, so I screwed it up. I’m not sure how to go about it now.”
I smile at her. “I’m sure I can help out with that.”
“Jordan.” She strokes my hand, then says, “I have asked so much of you already.”
“And I’m happy to do it. All of it. I haven’t had a good reason to pull out my woodworking tools in a long time.”
“Why are you so good to me?” Stella looks mystified.
Which sets me on fire for her. “Because you deserve it.”
She blushes, then drinks her bourbon. “Is there anything I can do for you? Does your family make Christmas presents?”
I chuckle at the thought. “No, they make Christmas emotional scars. These days, I usually have Christmas dinner with Wes or one of my other Marine brothers.”
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
Stella says, “I ask about your family, and you change the topic to your Marine buddies. You never talk about who you came from.”
“Not much to say. We’re not close. They’re not who I come from. They’re who messed me up enough to think going to war would be easier. And it’s my Marine brothers who are who I came from.”
She slowly nods, then asks, “Well, have you ever thought of having your own family?”
I shrug. “Now and then. I think everyone who doesn’t have a normal family thinks about it.”
“Wow.” She clears the table.
“Wow, what?”
“You are the most polite deflecting person I have ever met. How do you do that all the time? More importantly, why?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I asked you if you think about having your own family, but you deflected and said everyone thinks about it. And you’ve answered that way every time I’ve ever come close to bringing up anything personal.”
It’s time I come clean about it all. “You remember when I told you about the family I robbed when I was a kid, and how I send them presents every year?”
“Yes.”
“My family is a mess. My parents divorced when I was a child, but we were poor, so they couldn’t afford to live apart right away. Things got worse for a long time after that. My parents are self—centered, the type who only cared about what people could do for them or get for them. So, growing up, I equated love with things. And I screwed up that other family’s Christmas, I thought I ruined their family, because I thought presents were love. I thought I had done to them what my parents had done to me. I hated myself for a long time for what I did.”
