A Christmas Together Read online

  Brennan needed a deep calming breath before she could counter, “It was over.”

  A neatly plucked, jet-black eyebrow rose to challenge her assertion. “So why did you freak when your father sent him divorce papers?”

  “Freak is a strong word…”

  “You never left him. You never divorced him. You’re in love with him, and it’s past time you stopped.”

  And if an off switch existed, she would have flicked it. With a sigh, her shoulders slumped. If her two best friends wanted to channel their pent-up aggression on her behalf, who was she to stand in their way? “Have I told you recently you’re the awesomest friend ever?”

  “Of course. I went on that horrible spiritual retreat with you, didn’t I?”

  Blinking away her blurred vision, Brennan focused on the present. “And we did lots of yoga by the beach.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Zahra’s lips curved. “I was surrounded by several dozen women whose marriages just ended. If I hadn’t already lost faith in the institution, I would have by the time the month was over.”

  * * * *

  “It’s in poor taste to eavesdrop on girl-talk,” Dan drawled. “How long have you been standing there?”

  Karl turned. “Too long. I meant to go in, but…”

  “Sometimes, poor taste isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Women have a habit of telling each other what they should be telling us.” The man angled his head to the side. “I bet you’re a meat-and-potatoes type of guy. Why don’t we check out the roast?”

  They ambled over to the carving station and loaded their plates. “So what did Brennan’s little friend want you to say to me?”

  “Why do you think Zahra can make me do anything?”

  “Because you’re whipped.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe they were using you to make me jealous. It worked until I saw you with her.”

  His conversation partner batted those long lashes in a comical facsimile of innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Karl snorted. “There’s no other reason you would have let her decorate Safe Harbor’s waiting room with junk. Your tastes couldn’t be more different.”

  “I have a generous heart. The furniture was made by battered women and orphans.”

  “They’re ugly as all hell,” he observed. “And you wouldn’t have bought them if you weren’t head over heels.”

  With a shrug, Dan admitted, “I honestly did it so she would shut up. You’ve seen the woman talk. She can go on for hours, if it’ll give her what she wants.”

  Karl helped himself to multiple small ladles of ketchup. “So what does she want from me?”

  To his surprise, the man prevaricated. “Why would you ruin a perfectly good piece of meat with Heinz?”

  “Because it improves the taste.” He added some hot sauce for good measure. “Are you ready to walk back to the table, or do you want to dawdle over the dozen or so different pickles they have here before delivering your message?”

  “It’s no fun when you know it’s coming.” Dan added an assortment of olives to his plate. “I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes version. Decide what you want to do with your life before you make a move on Brennan.”

  Karl’s brows snapped together. “Those are some warped notes. I would have guessed she asked you to take me out to sea, and throw me overboard.”

  “The sheikha’s judgment is a bit clouded at the moment. If it turns out you want to stick around, I’ll work on her.” After stopping for some kimchi, they headed toward their table. “As far as I’m concerned—your wife’s a smart girl. She can make her own decisions.”

  Chapter 7

  Karl leaned against the entryway to Brennan’s private gym. Considering the eclecticism of her penthouse’s decor, he’d expected the space to be packed with machines. Instead, all it contained were a stationary bike, rowing machine, ceiling-anchored punching bag, and a set of candy-colored kettle bells. Polished wood lined the floor near him, and a giant beige exercise mat covered the room’s other half. Glass windows formed one wall, and mirrors covered the rest. Discreet speakers, positioned at all corners, played what sounded like a Celtic twist on Carol of the Bells.

  His wife had turned quiet halfway through brunch. Once they’d reached home, she’d proclaimed a headache and disappeared into her room. Not yet fully recovered from jet lag, he’d taken a nap. Ten hours later, he’d woken once again with hunger pangs. This time, no cookies waited in the oven, though he had found a plastic-wrapped sandwich on the kitchen counter. All he’d been able to dig up from the fridge were fancy glass bottles proclaiming to be “scientifically categorized as the deepest, highest quality naturally-carbonated artisan water,” so he’d opted to drink from the tap. He’d never understood the appeal of flavorless soda.

  After trying and failing to tire himself out with pull-ups over the doorjamb of his bedroom, he’d followed erratic pounding noises and soft music to this location. His first reaction had been to turn around. Before making any moves, he should sort out his life. Staying away from his half-naked wife seemed prudent.

  But she’d looked so adorable attacking a punching bag; he couldn’t bring himself to return to his empty bed. Her boxing gloves and sneakers were bright pink. Dressed in a red sports bra and dark green yoga pants, with a white sweatband on her head and her hair tied up in a high ponytail, she looked like a Christmas-themed aerobics instructor.

  Though covered in sweat and lacking even a hint of make-up, the sight of her increased his heart rate by several orders of magnitude. While he missed the bespectacled geek who’d whined about short jogs, he found the woman bouncing on her toes just as fascinating. She could get a new wardrobe, a new house, and even a new life, but the way he felt about her remained the same.

  Deciding to focus on anything but his painful erection, he scrutinized her fighting form. He’d never seen anyone box in a less threatening manner. He choked back laughter as she lobbed a cartoonish side kick that failed to sway the punching bag. “Want a few pointers?”

  She spun to face him. “How long have you been watching me?”

  “A while.”

  Stress lines appeared along the corners of her mouth. Even before she parted her lips, he could guess her intent. If he didn’t want to leave, he’d have to distract her. “You punch like a girl.”

  “I do not.”

  A few years ago, he would have pinched her cheeks. Now, all he had the right to do was level a patronizing stare at her pink boxing gloves. “If you say so.”

  “It’s not what Marko tells me.” She brought her hands to her hips. The gloves added a comical touch.

  He struggled to keep a straight face. “Who’s Marko?”

  “My personal trainer.”

  Striding to her side, he asked, “Do you have pads I can hold?”

  Her eyes narrowed, she extended her arm in the direction of a large wooden box sitting by the window. He opened the lid to find punch mitts in the same color as her gloves. Reluctant but resigned, he slid his fingers into the pink faux leather and sauntered back.

  Glimpsing his reflection as he lifted his hands up in front of his chest, he winced. “Want to start with a simple jab?”

  “Why are you doing this?” She took a halting step forward.

  “You need a good excuse to punch me. I’m giving you one.”

  She stared at him, lips pursed and forehead wrinkled.

  He tapped the side of her head with his mitt and pulled his arm away when she batted at it. “Aim for my head. You’ll feel better. Trust me.”

  With an exasperated hiss, she launched her fist at the center of the pad on his right hand. Assessing her stance, he decided her form was perfect—too perfect. “The thing with all these mirrors,” he gestured with his arms, “is it makes you focus on how you look instead of your target. Try a hook. Focus on the pad this time instead of your reflection.”

  Her blow knocked his wrist back. His attention drifting to the defined shape of her shoulders
might have had something to do with it. “You’re being super nice. What gives?”

  “I’m always nice. And I was eavesdropping on your conversation with your friend.” Her glove hit his mitt with resounding force.

  “That was private. I closed the door.”

  He adjusted the pads so she could work on a jab-hook combo. “Here’s my question—why didn’t I hear about the accident? Why ask Her Royal Bitchiness for help and not me?”

  Without warning, she added an uppercut to the routine. He had quick reflexes, but her fist almost hit his chin. “Because I knew she’d drop everything and come. And the hospital tried to contact you. I tried. Zahra tried. Nulli tried. I even suspect my father tried. No one at the Pentagon would patch through the calls, and your email inbox was full. By the time someone deigned to inform me you were back State side, I had a life in Dubai and discovered I was happier here.”

  She threw her shoulder into the next hook. Her apparent anger paled in comparison to the red haze blurring his vision. “None of those things should have happened. Family emergencies take precedence…”

  “How deep undercover were you?” A loud crack accompanied her jab.

  As he thought through the timeline, his chest tightened. At that particular point in his mission, he’d barely remembered where the pretense ended and reality began. There’d also been no way for the military to contact him. “Shit. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  He shifted his stance to anchor himself. She was in better shape than he’d expected and was hitting the pads hard enough for him to break a sweat. “I chose to be placed in a black-out situation. You’re my wife. I should have been there for you.”

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. Her arms turned into a blur. “Why did you…” Judging from her increased aggression, he’d stumbled upon the deepest hurt. “Why did you always choose another mission over me? You knew each time you left, there was a chance I wouldn’t be there waiting when you came back.”

  The frequency and strength of her punches increased. It gave him something physical to focus on. “I was a dumb-ass.”

  Her fist crashed into his palm and managed to make his elbow bend. “No shit.”

  He dug in his heels and braced for impact. “If I stop being one, will you give us another shot?”

  She adjusted her sweatband before throwing another upper cut. “No. This conversation is years too late. Your job wrecked our marriage, and, as far as I can tell, you still have the same one.”

  Grunting, he met her blows instead of keeping his arms immobile, surprised the adjustment had been necessary for someone who used pink gloves and professed a passion for yoga. “What if I quit?”

  “No, thank you.” Her uppercut missed its mark, met emptiness, and headed for his jaw. Her words had frozen him in place, but she managed to halt her fist an inch away from its target. “I have never, and would never, ask you to make a career change for my sake. It’s a decision you need to reach on your own, for reasons of your own.” She lowered her arms. “I almost hit you. I’m clearly tired. Let’s—”

  “We’ll switch to your lower body.” He tossed off his mitts before grabbing her wrists and undoing the Velcro on her boxing gloves. “By the way, did this same trainer teach you the kicks you practiced earlier?”

  Her chest heaved. “Karl, stop it. What are you trying to accomplish, anyway?”

  He focused on the task of freeing her hands. “At this particular moment, I’m giving you a self-defense lesson. What you did before was an extended core work out. They look pretty, but those kicks won’t do shit in a fight.”

  His comment managed to trigger a reluctant smile. “In that case, I should give my trainer a raise. I don’t plan on getting into fisticuffs, but I have plenty of opportunities to wear a bikini.”

  He dropped the padded vinyl on the floor. “I thought you had a policy against bikinis.”

  She pointed at her mid-section. He regretted following her finger with his gaze. Her belly was a flat expanse of toned muscle. The mere sight dried his throat. “I used to be flabby. I’m not anymore. You have no idea how many hours of pain and suffering it takes to stay like this. I show off these abs at every opportunity.”

  Swallowing air, he tried to ignore the roaring in his ears. “What’s with the transformation? You hated dresses, and you once said high-heels and push-up bras were invented to oppress women.”

  She shrugged. “I needed to shake up my life. A new wardrobe helped. I also like fitting in. In D.C., I could get away with sweatshirts and denim. Here, opulence is the new normal. Besides, by your own admission, I never had much to show off back then.”

  “That’s not true.” Unable to resist, he caught her trim waist and leaned in. “I didn’t have enough opportunities to say it, but you were—are—stunning. I harped on about muscle definition so you’d work out with me, so we could spend more time together. The first time I saw you naked, I forgot to breathe.”

  A faint tremor vibrated his palms as their breaths mingled. Her lids drifted down. Her eyes grew languid. Her lips parted as she drew in a shallow breath.

  His hands lifted to her ribcage. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to focus when you’re dressed like this?”

  “You seem to be surviving,” she rasped.

  “Define surviving.” Nearly groaning under the effort, he forced himself to step back. “Let me show you how to fight. It could come in handy in the next couple of days.”

  She blew out a breath. “Alright. I’m all ears.”

  He moved toward the area covered by the exercise mat. “First off—show me your front kick.”

  She pointed at his feet. “That’s my yoga space. Shoes off.”

  With a snort, he did as she bid. As he untied his laces, he could see her dainty feet out of the corner of his eye. After he’d convinced her sneakers were a necessary component of anyone’s wardrobe, she went on to amass quite an impressive collection. But she’d always gone up a size so she could kick them off. Some things hadn’t changed.

  Once he’d discarded his shoes, he focused on her toes. “Are those snowflakes?”

  She wiggled them. “One of the many benefits of living here is the abundance of nail salons.”

  He bent until his face hovered a few inches off the ground. How the woman could have neutral-smelling feet after workouts had always been a mystery. “Those have to be stickers.”

  “Of course not.” She huffed. “It took forever, but they did a great job. I don’t know why you’re ogling my pedicure. It’s a white base coat with a shape painted on top.”

  He rubbed his finger over her right toenail. “Is this glitter?”

  “The polish has some, yes. You were giving me fighting tips?”

  He rose. “It’s fun to discover all the little things about you that have changed, as well as everything that hasn’t.”

  Her gaze drifted over him, the intent appraisal hardening his erection. “You stayed exactly the same.”

  He cupped her cheek. “Not all changes are skin deep, but it’s a conversation for later. Show me your best kick.”

  She stepped back and lifted her fists, before launching her leg up in a pose reminiscent of a Karate Kid poster.

  He shook his head. “Cute, but too slow. I saw it coming a mile away. Besides, what part of my body were you aiming for?”

  Her lower lip jutted out. “I don’t follow.”

  He pointed at the mirror behind him. “You were concentrating on your form. You weren’t thinking about what part of me you wanted to hit. A kick that high would land on my stomach and most people’s chests. You’re pretty strong, but you wouldn’t do much to an average-sized guy if that’s where you got him. Little people need to fight dirty.”

  The bridge of her nose wrinkled. “I’ll let the ‘little’ comment slide since you’re making a point. Less posing, more power. Where should I aim for?”

  He pointed as he spoke. “Since you�
�re short, aim for the knee and groin. Once your attacker is down, you can follow it up with an elbow strike or punch to the back of the neck. More likely, you’ll run.” He raised both hands with his palms facing down. “Try it a few times. I know you’ve been dreaming about busting my balls.”

  She lifted her leg, bent her knee, and aimed her the ball of her foot at his crotch. He caught her calf with ease. But she proved a quick learner. Each time she practiced the move, the force behind her impact increased.

  “Now do a back-kick,” he suggested after detecting muscle fatigue. She’d been pretty worn out by the time they’d started. He had a feeling she was running on less than a full night’s sleep.

  She raised her fists and leaned forward. She kept her spine perfectly straight as she lifted her leg up. The move made him scratch his head. “You’re not a kangaroo. You don’t need to raise your hands. As for the ‘kick,’” he drew quotation marks with his fingers, “were you copying some sort of yoga pose?”

  She glared at him. “It’s exactly how I was taught to do it.”

  “This isn’t cardio-kickboxing. The point isn’t to sculpt your butt, which, by the way, is in wonderful shape.”

  “When am I ever going to kick someone who’s behind me?”

  He circled her. “What if a guy came up to you from behind and did this?” He reached forward and squeezed her bottom.

  Her leg shot up. He caught it in time. “Not bad.” Without releasing her ankle, he closed his other hand over her hip. “While aiming for the balls can be effective, it’s predictable, and your leg has a lot of distance to travel. Instead, kick straight out and aim for the knee.” He lowered her foot to the desired angle before letting it go. “Come on, give it your best shot.”

  She did—with a vengeance. But he had positioned himself far enough away her short legs couldn’t touch him. “Keep going. Try to make it hurt.”

  She was both laughing and panting by the time he inched closer so she could graze his knee. When he released her, she turned and lifted her nose in the air. “How did I do?”