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  For once he didn’t want to strangle the guy. Clint slowed his pace and used the extra time to steady his breathing. He was going to do just as his mom suggested. Ask Lila. Straight out. She might give him a pitying look, but she wouldn’t laugh at him.

  Lila was giving Baxter the strangest look, so Clint sped up.

  His back was to Clint. “You know, if you’d just be a little nicer to me, I can make things happen for you,” Baxter said, reaching a hand out to Lila, who started laughing.

  “You bastard,” Clint said, and yanked the guy around to face him. His fist slammed into Baxter’s jaw, and the man stumbled back.

  “Clint!” Lila grabbed his arm and stopped him from taking another swing. “He’s not worth it.”

  Baxter sputtered, red-faced, trying to breathe. Several bystanders applauded.

  “Please,” Lila said, trying to drag him away. “I already quit. Who cares what the slimeball says?”

  Clint looked at her. Something was different about her voice. She didn’t sound upset like she had earlier. She led him to the trailer, but they didn’t go inside. “Are you saying you can’t get the role back? Is Jason being hard-nosed?”

  “Why would I want it back?” She seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “You’re not having second thoughts? Because you sure looked like it this morning.”

  “I was upset because I hadn’t told Erin first. I haven’t felt this good in forever.” She laughed, and the happy sound clutched at his heart. “I’m finished. With all of it.”

  Clint took her hand. “You’ve worked a long time for this. I hate to see you have any regrets or wonder what could’ve been...”

  “You’re right. I’ve been at this for a very long time. That’s how I can be so sure it’s not what I want. This didn’t happen overnight, Clint. Being on location and away from my family, and seeing the double-dealing up close... I’m not cut out for this.”

  “What about Erin?”

  Tears glistened in Lila’s eyes, and Clint felt his little bit of hope disappear. “Erin’s quitting, too. She was staying on to make sure Jason let me have the role.”

  “She’s quitting the business?”

  “Not completely. She’s got a fantastic idea for another documentary. She won an award for her last one.”

  The new information was making Clint’s head spin. He wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I thought you’d be happy for me,” Lila said softly.

  He met her steady gaze. “I want you to be sure, sweetheart, that’s all.”

  “Look, you’re going to believe what you want, but I’m telling you, I’m done. And I’m walking away for me.” She turned her hand over and entwined their fingers. “Hollywood was a fun dream—the best,” she said. “For a kid with stars in her eyes. I’m twenty-eight. I want to get married, have children, and I want to be there for them, always, just like my mom was there for me and my brother and sister. I know it’s not chic or popular to admit, but that’s what I want.”

  Clint could barely breathe let alone swallow. Neither of them had looked away once. He thought he could read her. But was he wishing for too much? “What do you plan on doing after you finish here?”

  “Well, I miss my family like crazy,” she said, and his heart sank. Lila wouldn’t leave California. “So I’ll go visit them for a couple weeks. When Erin moves ahead with the documentary, I figure I’ll help with that.”

  They had ranches in California, quite a few from what he’d heard. Maybe it was time to have a talk with Seth. “What about after that?”

  “I’m not sure.” Lila looked nervous. Damn, he’d started sweating five minutes ago. “Have anything in mind?” She put a tentative hand on his chest, her beautiful blue eyes brimming with hope.

  Relief and joy flowed through him like a spring river. Clint put his arms around her. “Actually I’m going to talk to a guy about building a house. Wouldn’t mind some input if you’re willing.”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling through tears and hugging his neck. “Yes.”

  Clint froze. He did a quick replay in his head. Marriage had been on his mind for a few days. Had he just asked her to— No, he was pretty sure he hadn’t done that.

  He leaned back and looked at her. “Lila, I love you.”

  She nodded and whispered, “I love you.”

  “You know we’ve only known each other three weeks.”

  “I keep reminding myself of that,” she said. “It seems like so much longer.”

  “And I think you know I have responsibilities here.”

  “I do know that,” she whispered, snuggling up closer. “But I hope you can take a few days off to come with me and meet my parents.”

  Clint’s chest tightened. He managed to nod. “Lila, will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” she replied, laughing and kissing him hard.

  He held her close, breathing in her familiar scent, long after the applause around them stopped.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from CHRISTMAS IN HIS BED by Sasha Summers.

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  What begins as a contractual arrangement turns into a tale of intrigue, dark lust and sexual obsessions.

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  AT THE BRINK by Anna del Mar

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  Christmas in His Bed

  by Sasha Summers

  1r />
  BEING BRALESS WAS as close to rebellious as Tatum had been in almost a decade. So was reading her third romance novel in a row, barely emerging from the nest of quilts she’d dragged to the comfy rocking chair in front of the now-dying fire. No makeup, no expectations, no worries. Day one of her new life was good.

  When she was done reading, she could dig through her suitcase for her vibrator and some quality alone time. Or she could stay up reading all night long.

  For the first time in her life, there was no one to stop her from doing whatever she wanted. And knowing that was...awesome.

  She glanced at the old cuckoo clock over the mantel. Right now her ex-husband, Brent, and the new Mrs. Cahill, Kendra, were probably sipping umbrella drinks on some beach somewhere—if he’d actually taken a vacation. But knowing Kendra, she wouldn’t have given him a choice.

  She burrowed into her quilts and added the book she’d finished to the pile at her feet. Her evening would be far more satisfying than a night with Brent and his tiny penis. Penis size aside, he had no stamina and had never taken an active interest in giving her pleasure. Tatum had always waited for him to head to the shower before finishing things off right with her handy-dandy purple-swirly love machine. She called him Chris, after her favorite movie actor. Brent and Chris had never met. Brent had no idea Chris existed.

  She drained hot chocolate from her large Santa mug and stood, padding across the wooden floor in her socks and slippers to restart the Nat King Cole album. Maybe it was wrong that she was in such a good mood, newly divorced and absolutely alone on Christmas. But she was. She wanted to be happy. And right now, Nat King Cole, stimulating romance novels and copious amounts of hot chocolate were all she needed to be happy. And, maybe later, Chris.

  She picked up the last book on the side table, reading the back blurb and its tantalizing promise of “eroticism on every page” with a sigh. But a slight movement from out the large picture window caught her eye. She froze, a prick of fear running down her spine.

  A man stood on her front porch railing. A big man. So tall she couldn’t see his head or shoulders as he reached for something on the roof.

  She edged closer to the fireplace and the brass poker resting against the wall. She might be alone, but she wasn’t helpless. She gripped the poker and made her way closer to the window.

  But the man wasn’t armed with a weapon. He had a large coil of Christmas lights hanging around his shoulder. Christmas lights. She didn’t drop the poker, but her swing-first-question-second instinct wavered. Something about a man hanging Christmas lights brought the threat level down.

  She lowered her weapon, watching as the man moved along the porch railing with ease, threading the heavy strand of lights on unseen hooks. He was fast. But why was he there, working so hard to decorate her house? He must run one of those decorating services. Maybe he was at the wrong house? She should stop him before he got too far.

  She wrapped a throw around her shoulders and pushed through the front door, still holding her poker. A blast of cold air cut through her sweats and the thermal underwear beneath. Shit, shit and double shit. She’d forgotten how frigid North Texas could get. She hurried across the porch, but stopped a few feet from the man on the railing.

  His leather jacket rode up as he worked. And his stomach... She swallowed. What a view. He stretched, exposing more actual man flesh than she’d seen in oh so long. And it was amazing. The kind of amazing even the best romance novels would have a hard time capturing.

  Cut. Hard. All man. Every cleft and ridge of his six-pack was on display. His jeans hung low enough to reveal the edge of his hips. Just looking at him made her light-headed. Stunned. Excited. Achy.

  Something deep inside her turned molten and fluid.

  Her fingers twisted in the throw around her shoulders as her gaze followed the impressively dark happy trail that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. What sort of surprises would be found underneath the skintight, faded jeans that clung to this man’s hips? She swallowed, her imagination offering up all sorts of possibilities. She was oh so tempted to touch that stomach.

  Which was wrong. And completely unexpected. She’d never ever do something so irrational but...

  But all that muscle and strength, the dark lines of a tattoo peeking wickedly from under the edge of his shirt, had her utterly captivated. What would it be like to touch a man like this? Better yet, what would it be like to have him touch her? A shiver racked her body. Brent had very specific preferences in bed—namely her lying still beneath him, quiet, aching for something more. Wanting something...more. More...like this.

  She pressed her hand against her stomach and the delicious flare of liquid heat that coiled inside her. Maybe all that reading was getting to her.

  This man wasn’t supposed to be here; he might even get in trouble for being here if he was hired to holiday-fy another house. She stepped closer, surprised to hear him humming a Christmas carol. The sound was deep and rough, an undeniable turn-on.

  “Excuse me?” she said. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

  No response. But one arm went higher, revealing more of the tattoo on his side. A feather? A quill? Covering a long scar along his ribs... And more muscles.

  “Hello?” she tried again, a little louder.

  He was on one foot then, reaching for something on the roof.

  She stepped forward, considering the best way to get his attention. She blew out a deep breath. This was ridiculous. What was the matter with her? She reached out and tugged on one of his jeans belt loops.

  “Hold up,” he called out. “Almost...got...it.” The strand of Christmas lights came on, casting the porch in hues of red and green.

  She held her breath as he leaped down, eager to see what the rest of this man looked like. But the clear blue eyes that greeted her were a total surprise. The kind of surprise that left her breathless—and shocked.

  No.

  “Spencer?” Her voice was high and tight. Even now, after years, she knew him. Instant recognition—instant reaction. Her heart twisted sharply at the all-too-familiar blue eyes regarding her in astonishment. And her body was racked with something he’d inspired whenever he was close to her: desire.

  Spencer Ryan. The very last person she wanted to see right now.

  He stared at her, frozen. Why was he acting so surprised? It was her house. A house she’d practically run from years ago, because of him. She had every right to be here. He did not. She welcomed the anger warming her belly. Anger was good. Much better than...the other feelings bouncing around inside of her.

  His gaze sharpened, searching hers. She tried to ignore that familiar pull tightening the pit of her stomach. “Tatum?” His voice was low, husky.

  “Yeah... Hi,” she croaked. This is bad. So, so bad. Like she needed another bump to her already dinged confidence. Nothing like coming face-to-face with the man who had humiliated her, destroying her heart and her fragile ego eight years before. Yes, it was the holidays and there’d been a chance she’d run into him. But she’d hoped she wouldn’t. Definitely not her first night home. Not when she wasn’t ready to face him. And certainly not with crazy hair and no bra.

  She tore her gaze from his, wrapping her arms around her waist. All the muscle and sexiness was Spencer? What the hell had happened to him? This Spencer barely resembled the clean-cut boy she’d held hands with in the halls of Greyson High School. Now he was big, almost intimidating—with shaggy black hair, a thick stubble covering his angular jaw and a new wariness about his clear blue eyes. Those eyes.

  She forced her gaze away. She would not think about his eyes. Or his body. Or those abs. And that tattoo... Her pulse was racing just standing there. He was all hot in his gloriously ass-hugging jeans and broad-shoulder-hugging jacket while she wore a blanket.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said, finally
smiling. He hesitated briefly before pulling her against him in a warm embrace.

  She stiffened. She didn’t want to hug him. He might look good—who was she kidding, he looked frigging amazing—but she knew what he was capable of. What sort of pain he could inflict. She knew that but... His hand pressed, open, against the base of her back. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel the contours of his fingers and the warmth of his palm. And it—he—felt good.

  Then she took a deep breath and inhaled his scent. She swallowed, trembling. Dammit. He smelled the same, teasing her...flooding every cell with a steady throb of want. “It has.” She didn’t know where the overwhelming urge to hold on to him came from, but she fought it. It shouldn’t matter that it had been too long since anyone had held her close. She wasn’t going to melt in his arms.

  She pushed away from him, stepping back quickly.

  His smile faded as he eyed the poker in her hands. “Prepared for battle?”

  She blinked, looking at him, then the poker. “What?”

  “Or is it some new fashion accessory I don’t know about?” He shot another pointed glance at the poker, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest. If she wasn’t pissed as hell at his sudden and irritating reappearance in her life, she might admire the shift of muscle in his forearms. But she was. She was pissed.

  “Where I come from, a woman alone protects herself from strange men hanging off their porches.” She sounded unruffled and together—revealing none of her inner turmoil. “Especially when it’s in the middle of the night.”

  He glanced at the open door behind her, then back at her.

  “I’m a little tired for company and, since it is late, it’s best if you go,” she said over her shoulder, heading back inside and out of the cold—away from him. Her voice wasn’t shaking. She didn’t look like she was retreating. Even if that was sort of what she was doing. But she sort of had to because she couldn’t seem to get a handle on the way she was reacting to him.