All She Wants for Christmas. Stacy Connelly
that she found him every bit as sexy as when she’d seen him in his designer suit?
“I can see how this might turn out very fortunate, indeed,” Eleanor said, with a delighted chuckle.
The older lady’s thoughts weren’t hard to follow, but Holly shook her head. “It’s not what you think.”
“This isn’t about what I think. This is about facts. Like the fact that your Mr. Forrester is the first man you’ve ever invited here.”
“He isn’t the first man I’ve invited,” Holly refuted softly. “He’s just the first to actually show.”
She’d asked Mark to visit the group home with her several times while they were dating, hoping to ease him into the idea of fostering Lucas. But there’d been nothing easy about it.
At first glance, Mark had been everything a woman hoped for: handsome, smart, charming. Only later did Holly realize he’d been playing a part to get what he wanted. Before long, their entire relationship was based on his needs.
And one thing he hadn’t wanted was to even consider the possibility of raising someone else’s kid.
But it didn’t matter whether or not Clay was anything like Mark. Clay Forrester had a pedigreed family history; Holly had never even found out who her parents were.
The differences that started at birth had continued throughout their lives. He was the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company; she struggled to make ends meet working at a flower shop. He was champagne and caviar. She was soda pop and tuna fish. A chauffeur-driven limousine compared to a VW Bug.
And Holly knew better than to fantasize that any of those things mixed, no matter what Eleanor thought.
Clay hadn’t sung Christmas carols in years, but even he knew Mary Jane and her fellow singers were a good octave off. Standing beside the piano, having been given the important job of page turning while Mary Jane played, he couldn’t help smiling. Traditions that had gotten lost in overcommercialization came back to life in the children’s happiness.
If Marie could see me now. He’d meant what he said to Holly. No way would he have put on the costume and made a fool of himself in front of his employees. But the second he’d seen the disappointment in Holly’s eyes, he’d known he was going to make a fool of himself, after all. All for a woman whose mysterious green gaze quickened his heartbeat.
Not that he’d jumped at the chance to play Santa. He’d spent a good ten minutes pacing his office, trying to convince himself he wasn’t at fault. But the excuse rang hollow.
Because even though he hadn’t known Charlie was headed to the foster home, the man had said he was booked for another job, and instead of accepting that, Clay had negotiated a deal where he came out the winner, loser be damned. He hadn’t thought twice about making Charlie a better offer, and if not for Holly, he wouldn’t have thought about it at all.
So he’d donned the Santa outfit to salvage Christmas and his conscience, totally ignoring the mocking voice that laughed over the stupid things a man would do for a beautiful woman.
“Wonderful job, children,” Sylvia complimented, her clapping signaling an end to the sing-along before Mary Jane could launch into yet another round of “Frosty the Snowman.” Holding up a camera, she said, “How about a picture with Santa?”
Seated once more in the parlor chair, Clay posed with each child on his knee while Sylvia coaxed them to say “Cheese.” As he held Lucas on his lap, with the little boy tugging on his beard, Clay noticed Holly watching. For a brief second, he thought he saw tears in her eyes, but then the flash blinded him. She was smiling by the time she bent to lift Lucas from his lap.
She straightened and perched Lucas on one hip, but the little boy swung his booted feet, a silent demand to get down. The minute Holly released him, Lucas dropped to his knees and was off, pushing his fire truck across the braided rug.
Clay caught her wrist, claiming her attention with a slight tug. He ran his thumb across the back of her hand and smiled when her pulse leaped beneath his fingers. Thoughts of discovering even smoother skin and more intimate pulse points sent his own blood pumping.
“Come on, Holly. Don’t you have any Christmas wishes?”
The color in her cheeks brightened as she tucked her dark hair behind one ear. Despite the uncertainty in her green eyes, her tone of voice was composed and dry as she said, “I’ll drop a letter to the North Pole.”
He shook his head, careful not to dislodge the hat and white wig. “It works better in person. So tell me. There must be something you want.”
Despite the teasing question, Clay hoped for a serious answer. He wanted to know about Holly. She was different from Victoria. So selfless and giving.
Oh, he knew plenty of people, himself included, who made donations this time of year. He wrote checks for numerous charities, but Holly obviously did more than give money. She gave a part of herself.
He sensed she was the kind of person who never put her head before her heart. A woman who led with her feelings, accepting the risk of ending up emotionally bruised. But as much as Clay admired her for that, he’d learned his lesson when it came to leaving his heart unprotected. Some risks weren’t worth repeating.
As Holly gently tugged her hand from his, her gaze sought out Lucas. Keeping her voice a low murmur, she said, “I’m sorry, Clay, but I don’t believe in Santa Claus.”
“Miss Holly! You’re doing it wrong.” Mary Jane’s exasperated voice rose above the parlor’s cheerful din. “You’re supposed to sit on Santa’s lap.”
“That’s just for boys and girls,” Holly answered quickly, with a reproachful glance at Clay, as if disapproving of whatever he might say. “It’s different for grown-ups.”
Her narrowed gaze expressed her doubt, but the little girl said, “But you still get your wish, right?”
“Well?” Clay prompted, knowing Mary Jane had Holly trapped. “There must be some long-ago wish Santa never granted you as a child.”
Emotions flickered across her expression, and longing filled her green eyes. In that moment, Clay vowed that anything she wanted, anything she asked for, he would give her.
“Holly—”
“A pony,” Holly blurted out. Her forced smile couldn’t erase the shadow from her eyes as she turned to Mary Jane. “Don’t all little girls ask for ponies?”
“Barbie has a pony,” Mary Jane added, with a not-so-subtle look at Santa.
“Then a pony it is,” Clay agreed, realizing his own wish to get to know Holly better was going to go unanswered. At least for now.
After another round of pictures, including ones of Eleanor and Sylvia, Clay had the feeling he was overstaying the kids’ bedtime. Earlier, Lucas had climbed into Holly’s arms and fallen asleep, his fire truck cradled against his chest and her cheek pressed to the top of his head. When she’d caught Clay watching, she gently pried the truck from Lucas’s hands and stood, carrying the little boy from the parlor as the Hopewell sisters rounded up the older kids to brush their teeth.
He should say good-night. He’d done what he’d come to do, and his employees were waiting for him at the party. Even though he’d called Marie to tell her he’d be late, she wouldn’t be able to cover for him for long.
He should go.
Pushing to his feet, Clay eyed the front door, then the hallway where Holly had disappeared. The hall light gleamed, but the sound of her voice guided him. Singing “Silent Night,” her soft, sweet voice called to him like a siren. Standing in the doorway, he watched, unseen.
Holly sat on the small bed. Leaning forward, she brushed Lucas’s hair back and pressed a kiss to the sleeping boy’s forehead. Every gesture spoke of caring and compassion. Volunteering at the foster home clearly wasn’t something