And he had, pulling her onto the bed and yanking down her panties, pushing himself inside her as she giggled and writhed.
Now the images disturbed him.
Things had changed.
He had changed.
And yet he’d still let her into his bed—this bed at the hotel.
He raked a hand through his still-wet hair and winced as his finger scraped the sensitive area under the bandage. What kind of a mess had he gotten himself into?
He left the bracelet where he’d found it. He’d deal with the glittery bangle, and Sophia, later. Right now, he had other issues, and he still felt a little dizzy. He made a pit stop in the bathroom, eyed the pain pills he’d been prescribed, then thought better of it. He needed a clear, if slightly aching, head today.
After grabbing his jacket, he whistled to Ralph, found his hat, and gently placed the Stetson on his head. Steadier than he had been, he made his way downstairs to a hotel lobby that was beginning to fill with guests checking in or out, suitcases and overnight bags in tow, kids running and playing around a fourteen-foot Christmas tree lit from top to bottom. His stomach rumbled at the scents of maple syrup and bacon wafting from the kitchen area near the bar and dining room, but he didn’t stop, didn’t want to run into too many people. Instead, he strode down a hallway leading to the rear of the building.
Outside, it was crisp and cold, no snow falling. He crunched across new snow as he crossed the parking lot between the back side of the inn and the front stoop leading to the coffee shop. As he stepped through the doorway, he heard the tinkling of the bell overhead. Skirting a few occupied tables where parents and children were eating, deep into their iPads or phones, or sipping coffee, he walked to the counter, where he ordered a cup of coffee and donut to go, as he had done since he’d established the café.
The quick breakfast would go onto his running tab, so he was free to eat and leave. With the clatter of silverware, the hum of conversation, and notes of “All I Want for Christmas” chasing after him, he walked under an archway leading through the Christmas shop, where one could purchase everything from hazelnuts to tabletop crèches, peppermint-flavored candy corn to Santa hats, glass ornaments to toy soldiers, angel tree-toppers to reindeer night-lights.
Everything Christmas and then some.
Offered for sale by James Cahill.
Why did it suddenly feel so crass? So commercialized?
The selling of Christmas, he thought, stepping around a six-year-old fascinated by the miniature train that encircled the displays.
What had Cissy once told him, on a particularly bleak, rain-soaked San Francisco Christmas Eve?
“You can’t sell Christmas, James.”
Well, he’d damned well tried. Though he’d known that expensive presents weren’t the heart and soul of the holidays, he’d convinced himself in the past few years that he actually was selling joy, that all the shiny toys and ornaments gave people pleasure.
He glanced around. For the first time since creating this holiday bazaar of a store, he felt as if he was commercializing something that should be held sacred, making a profit on the holiday. Since he’d never been particularly religious, the thought surprised him and burrowed deep, bothering him.
With Ralph padding behind, James sidestepped a blond four-year-old boy swatting at a glass rocking-horse ornament displayed on a flocked tree. His mother, a baby strapped to her in one of those front packs, was ignoring him and James did too. Let the kid break the ornament. Who cared?
Walking briskly through the back door of the shop, he stepped into the lot, a wide covered area where pre-cut trees were displayed. Here, customers could pick out their Christmas trees if they preferred not trudging through the surrounding acres of mud and snow with axes and saws, where they could actually cut down their own tree—all part of the Cahill experience brought to them by yours truly, James Cahill.
He made short work of the donut while eyeing a staff of seasonal workers in leather aprons, stocking caps, and gloves, all helping a bevy of customers who milled through the lot, poking through cut fir, pine, and spruce. Most were happy, one couple arguing the merits of a noble fir over a Douglas fir, children laughing, dogs barking, toddlers having their pictures taken on a real sleigh as they waited for Santa.
His stomach soured.
Good Lord, Cahill, get over it!
Just because he’d regained his memory, he didn’t need this come-to-Jesus epiphany about the commercialization of Christmas.
He spied Bobby getting out of the cab of a truck, its bed filled with recently cut trees. Tossing the butt of his cigarette into the snowy gravel of the service area, Bobby headed James’s way, Ralph bounding to greet him.
“I need a phone,” James said when the foreman was in earshot, “and a vehicle.”
“You can get one of those prepaid things down at the shopping mart, I think.” Bobby bent down and scratched the wiggling, tail-wagging shepherd behind his ears. “And there’s a beater of a truck at the shop. The old Dodge?”
“That’ll do. Why don’t you run me down there? I want to check out the office anyway, catch up on paperwork.”
“Okay,” Bobby said, fishing his keys from his pocket. “Uh-oh.
