A Kiss, A Kid And A Mistletoe Bride. Lindsay Longford

      “Oh, it definitely is.” Her laugh rippled through the air. “It will be absolutely perfect for Dad and me.”

      “Whatever you say. Come on, Oliver. You take that branch and haul it up to your shoulder.”

      “’Course.” His son puffed out a biceps you could almost see without a microscope. “Because I’m strong.”

      “I can see you really are,” Gabby said admiringly, her expression tender as she looked down at his grumpy son.

      God. His son.

      Once more that weight settled over him. The responsibility. The constant fear that he’d mess up. But he’d asked for this responsibility, gone looking for it, in fact. He would do what he had to do.

      “Ready, Oliver?” Joe heaved the tree off its temporary stand.

      “Sure.” Oliver clamped onto the assigned branch with both hands. “This is easy.” His whole body was hidden by the branch held tightly in his grip.

      “Can you see?” Gabby’s question brought Oliver’s attention back to her.

      “I can see my daddy’s behind.”

      “A guiding light, huh? So to speak.”

      This time Joe was sure he heard a strangled laugh underneath her words.

      “Watch it, smarty-pants,” he muttered to her as she walked beside Oliver. “Nothing good happens to smart alecks.”

      “Who? Me?” Her hair glittered and glistened, shimmered with her movements in the damp air.

      “Oh, sure. You have that butter-won’t-melt-in-your-mouth look to you, Gabby. Even in eighth grade, you looked as if you were headed straight for the convent. Still do, in fact.” He lifted one eyebrow and felt satisfaction as her face flamed pink. “But I know better. That nifty red skirt gives you away, you know. That skirt’s an invitation to sin, sweet pea.”

      She sped up her steps, trying to pass him.

      “You’re wicked, Gabby, that’s what you are.” He liked the flustered look she threw him. “Wicked Gabby with the innocent eyes and bedroom voice.”

      Her mouth fell open even as she danced to his other side.

      He liked keeping her off balance. One of these days, if he ever had the time, he’d have to figure out why he liked pushing her buttons. Always had. “You’re a bad girl, Gabby.” He waggled a finger in a mock scold. “Santa’s not coming down your chimney this year, I’ll bet.”

      “Oh, stop it, you fool,” she sputtered, finally darting past him with a laugh. “You’re incorrigible, Joe, that’s what you are.”

      “Shoot, everybody knows that.”

      “What’s corgibull?” Oliver planted his feet firmly in place, stopping the procession. He stuck his head up from behind the branch. “And why are you and her laughing? What’s so funny?”

      “Your daddy is funning with me. He’s making very inappropriate jokes,” Gabby said primly, digging in her wallet and sending Joe a sideways scolding look as she dragged out money for the tree.

      “Yeah?” Oliver stuck his fist on a nonexistent hip and rushed to Joe’s defense. “My daddy’s ’propriate.”

      “Oliver’s right, Gabby.” Joe tightened his mouth. “I’m very appropriate. Especially—”

      “Uncle,” she said, her eyes gleaming with laughter and something else that made Joe want to step closer and see for himself what shifted in the depths of those changeable eyes.

      But he didn’t.

      Getting too close to Gabrielle O’Shea would be one of the stupidest moves in a lifetime filled with mistakes.

      “I give up, Joe. Let me pay for this dratted tree and get home. Dad’s probably wondering what sinkhole opened up and swallowed me.”

      Joe stood the tree against a pole.

      Pine needles in his hair and all over his clothes, Oliver stomped up beside him.

      “Stay with Gabby, Oliver, while I lug this tree over to Moon.”

      Mutiny glowered back at him.

      “It’s polite, son. To provide ladies with an escort.” Feeling like a fool, Joe didn’t dare look at Gabby. She’d be laughing her head off at him. Him. Giving etiquette lessons to a kid. What on earth was the world coming to?

      When he turned around, though, she wasn’t laughing. Her face had gone all blurry and kissable, and he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to make her look at him the way she was.

      If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her for sure. Would have stepped right up to her, wrapped his arms around her narrow waist and given in to the itch to see what that shiny blouse felt like under his hands.

      No question about it. He wanted to kiss her more than he’d wanted anything for himself in a long while.

      Instead, ignoring the warning alarms in his brain, the voice screeching Stupid! Stupid! he gave in to the lesser temptation and slicked back the curl of hair that had been tantalizing him for the last fifteen minutes.

      Against the back of his hand, her hair was slippery like the silk of her blouse. Against his palm, the slim column of her neck was night-and-mist cool. For a long moment she stood there, not moving, just breathing, hazel eyes turning a rich, deep green, jewels shining in the darkness as she stared at him. He curled his palm around her nape and dipped his head.

      Well, he’d never laid claim to sainthood.

      Against the end of his finger, her pulse fluttered and sang to him, a siren call.

      And beside him, clinging like a limpet, his son leaned, small and cranky and utterly dependent on him.

      The strains of “O Holy Night” drifted to him. Heated by her body and nearness, the scent of Gabby, so close, so close, rose to him. Surrounded by scent and sound, he forgot everything except the woman in front of him.

      Forgot the silenced alarms in his brain.

      Forgot responsibility.

      Forgot everything.

      Oliver pulled at the edge of Joe’s pocket. “I want to go, Daddy. I’m tired.”

      Joe stepped back and let his hand fall to his side. He wasn’t about to tell sweet Gabby he was sorry, because he wasn’t, not at all. If it wasn’t for Oliver, well, mistake or not, he’d have Gabby O’Shea wrapped up against him tighter than plastic wrap.

      But Oliver was in his life with needs and fears Joe was only beginning to glimpse.

      His son had taken up permanent residence in the cold, lonely recesses of Joe’s heart.

      No one else had ever found the key to that cramped room. But Oliver had, that first time three weeks ago when Joe had taken his small hand in his and walked with Oliver out of the apartment where he’d been left.

      Not hesitating, Oliver had picked up a raggedy blanket, latched onto Joe’s hand and said only, “I told Suzie you’d come. I told her I had a daddy who would find me.” He’d smiled at Joe, a funky, trusting, gap-toothed smile. “I knowed you would. You did.”

      That had been that.

      Next to that power, even Gabby in Christmas mist and glittery lights could be resisted.

      He hoped. And maybe only because she backed away at the same time he did, both of them knowing better than to yield to that sizzle.

      So when his son’s gruff voice came again, Joe knew the choice was easy. Whatever he wanted wasn’t a drop in the bucket compared with what Oliver needed.

      It couldn’t be.

      He wouldn’t let anybody, not even