Secret Santa Read online

  Chapter Four

  Vanna

  What in the hell am I thinking? Thoughts were flying fast and furious through her head as she turned to the kitchen. She was suddenly hell bent on making large platters of sandwiches and getting a counter—or better yet, an entire state—between her and this man before she embarrassed herself further. First I invite him in for a quick bite—she shivered as her mind turned to his teeth scraping along her neck—Stop it, Savannah.

  She opened the refrigerator; the cool air welcome as it caressed her heated cheeks. Quickly pulling out packages of meat and cheese, as well as condiment selections, she twisted to place them on the countertop only to run into Truck’s broad—hard, and so much of him—chest. Containers flew from her arms, and she gave a small cry of dismay, quickly cut short when the jars were caught in midair by his hands—large, and oh so manly hands. Hands I’d like to feel in more places than the small of my back. Stop it!

  “Easy, darlin’,” he said, setting down the jars and reaching to pluck the rest of the items from her hands. “Where’s the bread?” Settling in as if he had been in her kitchen a million times before, he unerringly opened the silverware drawer and pulled out a knife. Twisting his neck, he looked at her, one eyebrow lifted as his lips slowly curled into a—sexy, oh God, is that grin ever sexy—grin. “Vanna, the bread?”

  The dance had thrown her off balance. The sweet, tender, incredibly beautiful dance. A dance she would hold close to her heart for years, because it wasn’t like any experience she’d ever had before. So, it threw her terribly off balance, because he was a Rebel Wayfarer. She’d seen his patch. Well known to her, she recognized the emblem because Gunny was in the same club. She had been to Indiana several times over the past two years, meeting most of the local members as well as many from other chapters, but she’d never seen or heard of Truck. His bottom patch said ‘Nomad,’ but he held an officer’s title. Confusing. Filled with a sudden urgency to know how this man fit into her friends’ lives, she blurted, “Truck, you’re a Rebel. Where’s your bike?”

  He set the knife down and turned to lean against the counter, standing close beside her. “Left it parked at the house”—gesturing to the south—“since it was a short walk from there to here.” He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Saw there were lights on here when I went past. When I got there and saw the state of things, I hoped whoever lived here would still be up.” That shoulder lifted again, the motion easy, he was comfortable in his body. “Bike’s a little noisy, figured the wrong way to make a good first impression would be to wake the whole damn house when shoe leather would work just fine.”

  Ducking her chin, she kept her gaze directed to the floor so he wouldn’t see the disappointment on her face when she moved away. “Lucky I’m a night owl,” she murmured. Not fate, she thought, just a convenient neighbor.

  Retrieving a loaf of bread from the box in the corner of the cabinet, she grabbed two plates from the shelf and a bag of chips from the snack drawer, moving back to stand beside him. Close, but not too close. Working in what she hoped was a companionable silence, they assembled sandwiches, one for her and two for him. Then, still wordless, she led him back to the living room where Christmas music was still softly playing.

  Over the simple meal, Truck talked, telling her stories about all the places he’d been. He mentioned names, smiling at her when she nodded at him, indicating she knew at least some of the folks he spent time and shared history with. And she did know many of them, including Mason, Slate, Gunny, Hoss, Jase, and Deke. These men all seemed to be in his inner circle of confidantes, which didn’t surprise her, because they were the elite in the club. But she was pleased to hear his experiences with them extended well beyond the organization itself, he also seemed to know their women and families. She watched as his face softened when he spoke of their children.

  “I heard about the trouble Gunny’s gal found herself in, how no one knew she was Jase’s sister.” He shook his head. “Glad of where she wound up, though. Woman’s good for my brother, he needed her.”

  Vanna shook her head, “She needed him just as badly.” Chuckling, she stirred the chips on her plate with one finger, looking down. “Sharon lived with me for a couple of years before she…healed enough to try things on her own again.” She pinched the crust off one edge of her sandwich, tearing it into chunks and tossing them one at a time into her mouth. “I didn’t find out until months later that I already knew Gunny.”

  Glancing up, she saw he was watching her avidly, listening with a peculiar focus to her words. “I knew him as ‘Lost Lane.’ Back before he met Deke, before the Rebels.” She pushed back in her chair, lifting one leg to tuck her calf underneath her. “We met under…questionable circumstances, in the woods.” She laughed. “But he quickly won me over with his impeccable good manners and dashing charm.”

  She told him about meeting Gunny, a name Lane was trying to outrun at the time, one fully embraced now. Backwoods Indiana, his appearance frightening, but her gut said his was a wounded soul, one she wanted to soothe. As she would hope someone would attempt to soothe her Kitt under the same circumstances.

  It was Truck’s turn to laugh and she watched his face change when he did, the wary look he had worn almost constantly since looking at her pictures fading away. The sound of his amusement filled the room and she smiled in response before saying, “What? I’m serious. He was…is a good man. Offered me coffee right away. Tried to set me at ease, which meant a lot.” She sighed, thinking of those days spent hiking with Lane…Gunny. Listening to his shocking stories of war, and seeing firsthand the extent of what that horror could do to a person. In those days, he had been filled with fear, holding onto control with a loosely gathered fist. Gunny, the husband and father, was a different person, and every time she saw him she was even more proud of how he had grown and changed through the years.

  In his first interactions she had seen echoes of her son’s avoidance of touch, the unease if someone tried to hold his gaze too long. Gunny had shared himself little by little through the days as they hiked. Words coming easier with each mile passing underneath their feet, and now she treasured those memories above so much. Seeing him with her Sharon, how careful he was with Kitt, and his tenderness with the children he and Sharon had, she knew her instincts were true, she had been right to trust him.

  Truck ate up her stories, his reactions urging her forward in her recitations. His laughter became something she sought to provoke, feeling as though each outburst was an earned reward. He gave himself fully to the emotion, something she suspected was a regular occurrence in his life. Something she found inordinately attractive, seeing it in contrast to her own necessarily regimented responses.

  “How did you meet Sharon?” She had become so lost in the memories that his question surprised her, but she quickly recovered.

  “I pulled her out of a ditch.” She grinned at his skeptical look. “Literally. She was nose-deep in a canal in Florida, hiding from her then-husband. She had been beaten within an inch of her life, and still screwed up the courage to leave as soon as she saw an opening. Then she found the courage to trust the crazy woman standing on the lip of that ditch, hand held out.” Shaking her head, she twisted and set her plate aside; suddenly realizing she hadn’t brought in drinks for them. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about drinks. Would you like tea, or lemonade?” She thought a moment. “I might have a beer, but it’d be questionable whether you’d get skunky or not.”

  “Just water would be fine, Vanna.” He shifted on the couch, stretching his legs with a suppressed groan. She pushed an ottoman towards him with one bare foot.

  “Put your feet up if you like. Your boots can’t hurt the footstool more than my boy has.” His eyes filled with questions, immediately lifting to meet hers. She watched as his gaze cut to a picture of her standing next to Kitt, then back to her.

  “Be right back,” she said, ignoring those unspoken questions for now. For now? That implies there’s a
later, woman. Her inward scoff was thick with sarcasm and she winced a little. He’s nice, polite, good-looking, a great dancer, eloquent, a good listener, likes vinyl, and rides a motorcycle. Of course there won’t be a later. Man like him? Taken. Always. He simply hasn’t mentioned his woman’s name yet. She stood in the kitchen for a minute, then another, waiting on the flush in her cheeks to subside, the empty ache from earlier in the evening again settling in her chest.

  “He’s the new neighbor, and we happen to know people in common. Be nice, Savannah.” He’ll finish eating and then be gone…and why does that thought make me wanna cry?

  Back in the living room, she was reaching out to place a bottle of water on a coaster next to his plate when his hand captured hers, holding her in place. “Vanna, relax, honey. If I’m making you nervous, I can go. I’ve been here for hours, darlin’.” He gestured to his plate, “You’ve fed me, entertained me. Kept me company. Interested me, way more than you know. Made me feel more at home than I’ve felt for years. You’ve been more than hospitable, and while I’ve enjoyed our conversation and time together immensely, it would be a poor return if I overstayed my welcome. You say the word, darlin’, I’m outta your hair.”

  “No, Truck. You’re fine. I’ve had a wonderful evening as well. Glad I was still awake and able to help out.” Tugging her hand loose, she stepped back, nearly tripping over the ottoman. “Since we’re new neighbors and all.”

  His eyes flared, gaze trapping her for a moment and then in a flat tone slowly said, “Yeah, new neighbors.”

  She had barely regained her seat when footsteps sounded overhead. A groan escaped her throat before she could suppress it. Crap, Kitt’s up. She whipped her head sideways to see it was nearly three o’clock in the morning—we’ve been talking for four hours?—then whipped just as fast the other direction, grimacing at the still uneaten cookies plated next to the half-glass of milk. Normally nibbling on the cookies was the last thing she did before heading to bed on Christmas Eve, helping feed Kitt’s belief for another year, but she hadn’t gotten to bed yet tonight. Now, Kitt was up and she knew he would be on a mission to see if Santa had come. Crap.

  “Hand them to me.” The order was spoken in a low tone, similar to the do-not-ignore-me voice she used with Kitt, and got the same instant reaction from her that it would from Kitt. Barely a second passed before she scooped up the plate and glass, passing them to Truck without argument.

  Kitt’s footsteps slowed when he hit the stairs, probably confused by the number of lights still brightly shining on the main floor. “Mom?” The voice sounded more than a little frightened, and the question in the form of her name repeated before she could respond. “Mom?”

  “Here, honey,” she called, and then told him, “I’m not alone. It’s okay. I have a friend in the living room with me.” It wouldn’t do for him to be startled at seeing a stranger in their house in the middle of the night. He would still be startled, but at least he had some advance warning this way. “I’m in here.”

  Standing between Truck and the entryway, she looked over her shoulder at where he was seated on the couch. Her glance just in time to see him place three pieces of cookie back on the plate, a large bite taken from each one. As she watched he upended the glass of milk which she knew had to be warm by now, chugging down a little more than half. Then he reached out and put the glass and plate on the table next to where he sat, smiling up at her. “You’ve got a little,” she motioned to her upper lip and his smile changed to a broad grin as he reached up to wipe the milk from his mustache. “Got it,” she whispered, turning back to see Kitt standing in the dining room, looking past her at Truck with an expression she couldn’t place.

  “MOM!” His shout was loud and both hands lifted shoulder high, elbows bent, tucked tight to his side. “VANNA MOM!” He danced from foot to foot, mouth open in a huge ‘O’, hands flapping madly in the air. This could be either extreme excitement…or fear.

  “Right here, honey. I’m right here.” Unsure of what his reaction meant, she stayed focused on him even when the shadows moving in the room indicated Truck had climbed to his feet. Kitt’s gaze tracked up and up over her shoulder, and then his face split in half in what was absolutely the widest smile she had ever seen from him.

  “SANTA!”

  “Oh, shit,” Truck muttered, and her thoughts echoed his words.

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter Five

  Truck

  Vanna’s son shouted again, this time wordless, and launched himself around her and at Truck. Bracing, because while the kid was clearly all boy, he was still as big as a man. Truck’s arms closed around Kitt when he hit Truck’s chest, holding them both upright with some effort. “SANTA!” Shouting into his shoulder, the boy was bouncing up and down in place, jolting him with every jump. “MOM! SANTA!”

  “Honey,” Vanna’s voice sounded strained and Truck lifted his head to see her eyes were fixed on her son’s back. “Kitt…” Trailing off, her voice was soft, but still strained and he saw she had rolled her lips between her teeth, biting down hard. Lifting her chin, she reached out one arm, hand hovering just over the boy’s shoulder as she said, “Kitt, I need you to let the man go.”

  “SANTA!” Head shaking back and forth vigorously, Kitt, because surely that was the boy’s name, loudly refused. “NO!” His arms tightened around Truck’s chest and squeezed hard, then relaxed a little when Truck didn’t release him or push away. Softly, quietly, Kitt sighed, “Santa came.”

  Truck caught Vanna’s eyes and smiled, hoping she would understand what he was about to do. From her reaction it was obvious her son was…different. Her caution in touching him shouted how out of character it must be for the boy to have wrapped himself around a stranger. Kitt’s vocabulary seemed limited, but she wasn’t restricting herself to baby talk, so Truck assumed Kitt understood more than he said.

  Squeezing Kitt gently, he said, “Of course I came. I always take care of the good boys.” Kitt’s jumps had slowed, but at Truck’s words they turned back into bounds, the boy’s shoulder catching him under the chin with every other jarring hop. “But, good boys don’t get their presents in the middle of the night. Good boys wait until morning, when their mothers say it’s okay to be up and about.” The hops stopped abruptly and he saw Vanna’s face pale. “I think you’re a good boy, Kitt. Are you a good boy?”

  Head nodding fast, Kitt still held on, fists pressed into Truck’s back, fingers clutching the shirt underneath his cut. “Santa.”

  “Yes, Kitt?” Arms slowly relaxing, he leaned back, looking down as Kitt moved slightly away.

  “I good.” Eyes darting back and forth across Truck’s face, Kitt came to a decision. “Santa good.”

  “Yes, honey,” Vanna crooned, “Santa knows you’re a good boy. Let’s get you back upstairs and tucked in. It’s been a busy few days, no wonder you are up early. Everything all thrown off track.” Her palm landed between Kitt’s shoulder blades and she stroked slowly up and down. The steady, even pressure of her caress transferring to Truck through the boy’s body as he melted at his mother’s touch. Kitt liked the feel of that, and even liking it, Truck suspected the boy didn’t often allow it.

  “No, stay Santa. Want stay Santa.” Kitt’s grip tightened again but Vanna’s soothing touch never faltered.

  “Santa has lots of other houses to visit, honey. He was just finishing up here. He’s gonna have to head out.” She edged closer, reaching out to balance herself with a hand on Truck’s bicep. “Just finishing up, so you can have Christmas in the morning. In the morning, honey. Not right now. You want to have Christmas in the morning, right? So do the other good boys and girls, so Santa’s gonna have to travel to their houses, too.”

  “Santa go?” The kid sounded heartbroken and he burrowed his face into Truck’s shoulder, resting his forehead there for a moment. “Santa go.” This wasn’t a question, but an acceptance of the inevitable and Truck’s mouth got tight at the sadness echoing through the boy. Then Kitt turne
d acceptance into a demand. “Like Santa. No go. Santa no go.”

  “Santa likes you, too, Kitt,” Truck said immediately and Kitt stood straighter, tipping his chin up to look at Truck’s face. “Santa likes you a lot, kiddo.”

  Tilting his head to one side, Kitt dipped an ear to his shoulder as he looked at Truck’s vest. “That not say Santa.” He was focused on the name patch stitched to the right-hand lapel of the vest, and Truck grinned. “Santa?”

  “Yeah, Kitt?”

  “Not Santa?” Kitt lifted a hand and tugged gently on Truck’s beard, pulling a laugh from him.

  “Beard’s kinda attached, kiddo.” He pointed at the patch. “That’s my nickname. Truck.” Grinning at Vanna over Kitt’s shoulder, he was glad to see her smile in return. “People call me Truck so they don’t give away my real identity. It’s a secret. Can you keep my secret, and call me Truck?”

  Eyes narrowed, Kitt considered this for a minute, then grinned and nodded. “Two door, three door, four door, crew cab,” tipping his chin up further, he stared at the ceiling, continuing his confusing recitation of words. “Dually, dual axle, fifth wheel.” Pausing he sighed, rolling his eyes at whatever it was the ceiling wasn’t telling him. “Flatbed, dump, stepside, fleetside, cargo.” He sighed again, stepping back and turning to look at his mother. “Truck Santa.”