Yours for Christmas: Strong, California, #3

By Anne Marsh

Discover New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Anne Marsh's small town California firefighter series!

When Navy SEAL Zack Medina comes home to Strong, California for Christmas, he's got more than a firefight on his hands. He needs to convince his estranged wife that 'tis the season to forgive…and that will take a Christmas miracle. Bree lost her heart three years ago to the sexy SEAL and letting him back into her heart—and her bed—would be a mistake. A really hot, impossibly sweet mistake…

 

For more fire fighter romances, check out the Strong, California series! All books can be read as standalone books.

Smoking Hot
Sweet Burn
Yours for Christmas
Heated
One Hot Firefighter
Her Firefighter SEAL
Her Christmas SEAL

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Marsh
• Release date: Dec 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502233233

Book preview

Chapter 1

Navy Lieutenant Zack Medina did not bake cookies. Or swap them. Hell, he didn’t even eat cookies, although that was both because his last deployment had been to the Middle East where cookies were in short supply and because he didn’t actually like sweets. So there was no good reason to explain why he was standing on the sidewalk outside a brightly lit bungalow in Strong, California. Stupid to hope if he knocked on the door, the woman who lived there would welcome him with open arms.

With—it was okay to be honest when his brain was clearly one-track—sex.

Hot sex, kinky sex, regular old missionary-style sex.

He wasn’t picky. Of course, he also hadn’t had sex since the last time he’d seen the bungalow’s owner, so he had thirty-six months of celibacy to break.

Instead of loving, he’d done plenty of fighting, pushing his body and his mind to the max. Coming home should have been a relief. He’d fought. He’d won. He’d come out in one piece. His truck ticked quietly, motor cooling after the six-hundred-mile drive from Coronado. The heat radiating off the truck was familiar, although there wasn’t a sand dune in sight, but the bungalow might be filled with hostiles. A wave of feminine laughter rolled out.

Jesus.

He’d stormed an Iraqi compound once, entering through the women’s quarter. A similar wave of joyful sound had hit him as he’d breached the doors, leading with his M4A1. His male ass hadn’t belonged in that happy space any more than it did here. He double-checked the Christmas card he held in his hand. The address written in the card matched the numbers above the door and it appeared that the cookie exchange at 124 Fourth Street on December 15 th was in full swing. The card shed glitter onto his boots as he stood there, mustering the courage to engage.

The amount of blue and white glitter contained in the card defied the laws of physics. He sparkled like a damned vampire every time he opened the thing. He had glitter in his duffel bag, on the front seat of his truck and—he looked down—on the front of his jeans. Real smooth. Although it was only seven o’clock, the sun was long gone. The sky was dark and, up here where the mountains started, the stars were clearly visible. Like the Iraqi desert, there was no light pollution to cover up the constellations. He was no fucking astronomer, but he liked the twinkle-twinkle. Bonus light was always a good ace-in-the-hole, although the bungalow’s front lawn was a testament to either cheerful excess or a blithe disregard for the electric bill.

Animatronic reindeer raised and lowered their heads on the snowless lawn. Someone definitely had the crazy going on for Christmas. But this was one of the things he’d been fighting for, he reminded himself. He’d put reindeer on his lawn over his dead body—but he could plant a garden of gnomes, flamingoes or fucking Santa Clauses. Live and let live. Freedom of choice was a principle worth fighting for.

In order to reach the front door, he’d need to make it past the reindeer herd, a semi-deflated blow-up Santa waving a spotlight, fourteen candy canes strung with twinkly lights, and a crèche with Baby Jesus, who undoubtedly needed sunglasses and not frankincense or myrrh thanks to the electric glare.

Ready to roll? He addressed the question to Santa and not to the baby in the manger. God wasn’t on speaking terms with him anyhow. He had as much chance of an answer from the celestial department as he did from the red plastic big guy. Shoving the past to the back of his mind, he moved up the sidewalk, automatically scanning the shadows for possible trouble. Small California mountain towns weren’t usually terrorist hotbeds, but you never knew. The bad guys had to hide somewhere.

He took the steps two at a time and knocked hard. Again with the old habits. It probably wasn’t a good sign that he barely restrained himself from opening the door after he knocked. Or kicking it down. His mission plan for tonight included making friends and starting over, not taking prisoners.

The blonde woman wearing a reindeer sweatshirt over a pair of black cargo pants blinked at him when she pulled the door open. The reindeer antlers on her head slid forty-five degrees west as she considered his presence on the porch. Surprise.

I’ve brought cookies, he said gruffly, shoving his duffel bag at her. He’d stopped at Target and cleaned out the holiday display of Pepperidge Farm. Forty-two packages of crunchy goodness hadn’t seemed like overkill when he’d been standing in the aisle, overwhelmed by choices.

Okay. The woman grabbed the bag reflexively. Zack waited for her to step back before moving forward. See? All that work on his social skills had paid off.

Are you looking for… Her voice trailed off as she looked at him doubtfully. Maybe the doubt was because he was the only male in the room. Maybe she was understandably nervous about his size and his face. But he had an invitation. He’d paid his entry fee. Hell, he’d even gotten the holiday cookie with peppermint filling. Check, check and check.

I’m looking for my wife, he said.

The cookie-holding woman gaped at him as she processed his statement.

Bree, he clarified, just in case there was more than one unclaimed married woman swapping cookies tonight.

Wow. You win in the newsflash department. Blondie flashed him a thumbs-up. Christ, she looked like trouble. She’s fixing the tree.

He followed her pointing finger. A deliciously curvy woman bent over, her top half hidden behind an enormous Christmas tree. Cupping her ass, running his hands over the soft globes…those all seemed like excellent ideas. She’d be sweeter than any cookie. She was definitely the prettiest sight he’d ever seen. He grinned and the woman who’d let him in muttered something that sounded suspiciously like men. Hey, he’d been out in the field for too many years and he wasn’t dead. That had to entitle him to a few minutes of staring.

And then Christmas tree woman straightened up, waving a half-used roll of duct tape over her head like a prize-winning boxer.

Ta da! The lights went on and they twinkled, lighting up her face with flashes of red, green and blue. She was…his.

His wife.

Bree.

Bree finished duct-taping the strand of frayed lights together. Buying a replacement set topped tomorrow’s to-do list—as hot as the local fire department was, she preferred to meet them under circumstances other than a raging house fire—but for now? Consider the problem MacGyvered. She’d been taking care of herself for years and she was, if she said so herself, darned good at it. Duct tape was a girl’s best friend. It occupied the place of honor right next to BOB in her toolbox. And, hey, both came in pink and zebra-striped.

Mission accomplished! She turned around to face the room, laughing. Okay. Screeching like a banshee, but who cared? These were her friends, they had cookies, and if she couldn’t be herself here, where could she be? That was the whole point of girls’ night.

Except…there was a man in her living room. He certainly hadn’t been there ten minutes ago, because no way she’d have overlooked him. For one, he was huge. He had to be pushing six-foot-three and he had the kind of shoulders linebackers only dreamed about. Holy. Moly. Unfortunately, since she’d broken her glasses earlier that afternoon, he was also more than a bit blurry. Pity. She squinted, trying for a better look. Given her relationship woes, she was firmly in the look-but-don’t-touch camp, so she planned on enjoying this spectacular male mountain planted in her living room.

Katie Lawson elbowed her. Stop staring.

Easy for Katie to say, since the attractive brunette had her very own SEAL tucked away in her bungalow and wasn’t lacking for attractive scenery in her life.

Why? Honestly, staring was okay and not at all rude, because the guy was a party-crasher. If she’d invited a man who looked like this, she would have remembered. And everybody would have RSVP’d a resounding yes.

Laura Carpenter popped up behind Mountain Man, making faces and pointing. Bree sucked at charades. She needed English. She could also do bad Spanish and some very limited German. Gestures? Not so much.

Mountain Man moved forward until he was only feet away, his features slowly coming into focus.

Bree? His voice sounded rough and raspy and her girly bits perked right up.

That’s me. She stared up and up. She was short. He was…not. Wow. He was gorgeous. His hair was growing out of a military buzz cut that emphasized the strong line of his jaw. He also came with brown eyes and several days worth of stubble that made her want to grab his head and run her fingers over the rough surface. What would it feel like…no.

Married. She was married. Sort of. Look but don’t touch.

You don’t remember me? His mouth curved up in