A Broken Christmas (11 page)

Children’s hospital.
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Aimee was willingly putting herself in a position that would bring her back to what she’d been through. He frowned. “Do you think that’s the…best idea?”

A touch of sorrow passed over her eyes as she nodded. Sadness he had come to recognize too well, and that deepened his concern. He hadn’t thrown his marriage away to have her put herself in a more damaging position with work. She’d come a long way—they both had for that matter—to go back to the devastation that had refused to let her go.

Kyle’s grip must have tightened on her hand, for she winced, and pulled at her fingers. He loosened his thumb, stopping her hasty retreat. “Honey—”

“I’ll be fine,” she interrupted quietly.

He’d like to believe she would be, but the suspicion she was walking straight into the pits of her own personal hell refused to ebb. Parts of the battle-hardened combat nurse he’d married were broken, and nothing could convince him that the first toddler coming in from a fatal car wreck wouldn’t rip her into irreparable pieces. Still, he could say little. He had set her free, and her decisions no longer involved him. They might be together for the moment, but beyond surface level, they lived separate lives.

“If you need anything…” He trailed away, the rest of his sentiment left to six years of intimate knowledge of each other.

Pizza finished, Aimee pushed her plate aside. “So. Christmas.”

Damn. Not where he wanted this conversation to go. “What about it?”

“Conner and Mom Walsh would really like to have a normal holiday. You, me, them, here—like usual.”

It took less than a heartbeat for anger to surface. “No.”

“Why not? She’s the only family we’ve had in a long time. Are you so mad at Conner that you’ll punish her too?”

“I don’t want Walsh in this house. I’m not in the mood for Christmas either.”

“Kyle—”

“You heard me, Aimee. No. It’s my house. You want to decorate it, I won’t stop you. But no guests. Certainly not Walsh.”

He itched to pull his hand away from hers, to distance himself as much as possible from Aimee and this conversation. But he forced his hand to remain still. He didn’t want to fight. He’d said his piece. This didn’t need to turn into a battle. Instead, he concentrated on slowly closing his thumb to give her hand an affectionate squeeze, then eased to his feet. “If you’ll get the dishes, I’ll work on that star.”

Chapter Nine

The easy way tradition settled around Kyle, surprised him. Moments ago, he’d been wound up in the same knots that refused to unclench. But as he wrestled with straightening the star, remembrances of how many times this damn piece of tinsel and plastic had refused to sit any way but cockeyed, surfaced. One year, he’d almost thrown it across the room. Aimee rescued the poor star a nanosecond before it left his fingers and eased his frustration with a kiss so sweet, he questioned how ambrosia could be the nectar of the gods.

They’d made love in front of the fireplace, and afterward, he hung the star the same crooked way he had each time before.

What he really craved was the scent of pine. This fake tree just didn’t hold the same appeal.

He stepped back and squinted at the uncooperative tree topper. One of these days, he was going to replace…

The thought died as quickly as it surfaced. This would be the last time that star would push him to the limits of insanity. When Aimee left, there would be no more Christmas trees, no more hand-made stockings on the mantel, and no pine wreaths on the front door to tickle his nose when he walked inside.

His gaze strayed up the staircase to their bedroom, where wrapping paper rustled. Longing wrenched his heart. In two weeks, that room would be empty, and he had never spent a single night in this house alone. God above, what he would give if they could go back to the summer they’d decided children would be smart and change his mind.

What he’d do to be
normal
once again.

A dark shadow on the gold star made him frown. Damned thing had a light out. How appropriate. It never seemed to fail in its maddening existence.

Kyle hobbled to the foot of the stairs. “Aimee? Where’s that box of replacement lights? This thing’s got a bulb out.”

“Um.” Wrapping paper crackled. “I think it’s in the basement. Don’t worry about it. I probably stacked a bunch of stuff on top of the Christmas boxes.”

Don’t worry about it—had she forgotten the waging war between him and the star? He chuckled as he picked up his cane and trudged to the kitchen and the basement door. A distant flicker of red light beyond the dining room’s picture window gave him pause. Bulb temporarily forgotten, he drifted to the wide pane, scrubbed a clear spot in the frost, and gazed out at their neighbor’s decorated house, further up the woodsy incline.

On top of the peaked roof sat a lighted sleigh and two reindeer. Kyle couldn’t help but smile. Aimee and he still played Santa. Granted, their version was often a bit more…adult, and cookies and milk had never been so erotic as a child. Still, the sight of the magical sleigh drew him further into the magic of the holiday. Traditions were made for a reason, and if this was the last Christmas he had with Aimee, he would make it as memorable as their first. She would start her own, no doubt. He, however, wanted one happy memory to hang on to. One little place of peace—even if he didn’t deserve it—he could go to when the nightmares ripped him from sleep.

He left the window and went to the back patio door, hoping she hadn’t used all the wood he cut in preparation for last winter. As he slid open the glass, the hearty aroma of someone else’s burning fireplace filled his nostrils. He breathed in the smoke and the crisp winter air, let the pleasant aroma fill his lungs before he exhaled, and his breath clouded around him.

After a dozen winters in the sand, the serenity of new fallen snow was a glimpse of heaven.

He spied the remnants of his exuberant efforts last October, and relief flooded through him. Leaving his cane inside, he hobbled across the powdery white covering their deck and picked up a large armful of hand-hewn logs. It took a little coordination, but he managed to juggle the wood and his suddenly uncooperative leg, back inside the house, all the way to the fireplace. There, he knelt in front of the stone mantel and tossed the logs inside.

Kindling came from the basket on the hearth, pieces of shingles and small twigs they both collected whenever they went on walks. He drew a match from the tall box, struck it, and held it to the dried wood. When it began to crackle and flames licked at the brittle pieces, he stole a glance at the stairs, ensuring Aimee was still locked away in the bedroom.

The faint,
snip-snip
of scissors assured she wasn’t coming out soon.

Kyle awkwardly pushed himself to his feet and returned to the kitchen. He told himself one glass of wine wouldn’t hurt, that opening a bottle had nothing to do with wanting to recreate the other aspects of their usual Christmas traditions. The sudden racket behind his ribs as he plucked a bottle of merlot from the wine rack, however, argued sound logic.

Ignoring the unsteady drum of his heart, he poured two glasses and shuffled back into the living room. His leg breathed a sigh of relief when he sat on the couch, and the increasing ache in his knee ebbed. He’d used the thing too much today, and he had hardly done anything worthy of being called
work.
Renfield was out of his mind if he thought Kyle’s leg could hold up under an eight-plus hour day in meetings and hobbling around base, let alone travel overseas. Strategic lead would require nothing less.

Plain and simple, he was toast.

He refused to think about his dysfunctional leg and hand now, however. Tonight was for crude enjoyment. When Aimee left, he’d deal with his failed career.

Kyle set both wine glasses on the coffee table, leaned sideways, and clicked off the lamp. Firelight flooded the room, combining with the bright glow of the Christmas tree. Perfect. Aimee would love it.

He looked to their bedroom door. “Aimee? Could you help me find this bulb?”

It took every bit of his self-control to keep from giving in to a Cheshire grin as she stepped out of the room and came to an abrupt stop. Hesitant steps brought her to the top of the stairs. “Kyle?”

“Down here.”

Her gaze canvassed the dimly lit room before it found him on the couch. She’d changed out of her clothes, exchanging workout pants and sweatshirt for a pair of short cotton shorts and one of his old T-shirts. The sight of her long, lithe legs doubled his heartbeat. He looked away before smooth creamy skin got the better of him, and he took a deep drink from his glass. Damn. Firelight and wine had not been one of his better decisions.

Aimee entered his peripheral vision, the light scent of warmed sugar carrying in the air. “It looks pretty.” She picked up her wine glass and gestured at the tree. “Very pretty.”

She sank into the cushions beside him, and his gaze skittered to the area of slight sensation where her thigh touched his. “It needs a bulb,” he answered with effort.

“Not tonight.” Aimee leaned back and let out a sigh. “It’s late. I just want to relax.”

Unable to resist the temptation of her nearness, Kyle looped his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his side, and her long silky hair tumbled over her elbow. He caught a rich chocolate strand, twined it around his finger, hoping he wasn’t pulling too hard.

If his absent toying pained her, she made no attempt to move. In fact, Kyle could have sworn she snuggled closer. Her hand settled on his thigh, her dainty palm creating lazy circles against the cotton of his sweats. Circles he would kill to truly feel.

He let out a soul-deep sigh. He had never imagined how important a little touch could be, or how much he would miss the innocence of fingertips casually stroking his skin.

“Here,” Aimee said as she leaned forward to set her glass on the table. “Give me your leg.” Reclining, she grasped his thigh in both hands and eased it over hers. Those strong fingers, despite their delicate appearance, began to work deep into his muscle.

Uncomfortable with her driving need to nurse him, he moved his leg, attempting to remove it from her reach. “Don’t, please.”

Aimee clenched her hands, trapping his leg in place. “Drink your wine and stop fighting me.”

Obediently, Kyle drank from his glass. But the sweet merlot had lost its flavor, and he set the half-f glass on the tabletop. He conceded to her massage, despite the instinctual need to retreat and hide his weakness. Leaning his head on the back of the couch, he closed his eyes.

“You can’t feel this?” Aimee asked quietly.

“No,” Kyle whispered. “Just pressure.”

He concentrated on regulating his breathing, controlling the rapid beat of his heart. Though he couldn’t consciously feel the way her fingers worked into his flesh, his imagination conjured fantastic images. The grip and squeeze along his inner thigh, the way the material would pull and slide as her fingers moved closer to his groin… He clenched his teeth against a groan.

Suddenly unable to tolerate another moment of the heavy silence that hung between them, Kyle sat forward and pushed her hands away. “Stop.”

She gave him a sharp frown. “What are you so afraid of? That I might notice something different?” An elbow to his side drove him back into the cushions and gave her hands freedom once again. Only this time, as the base of her palms dug into desensitized muscle, she slid to her knees in front of him and slipped her hands to his calf. “Close your eyes, Kyle. There’s nothing about you that frightens me.”

A fact that scared him more than if she’d turned away in repulsion. For whatever reason, even after the horrible way he had treated her, Aimee refused to run. He expelled a ragged breath and yielded. No sense arguing. Not tonight. The tree was lit, the fire roaring, and a bottle of wine waited in the kitchen. Maybe tonight he could forget.