Romancing Christmas: Brothers in Arms, #5

By Kate Aster

When matchmaker Freya Hansen-Adler is inspired by the holiday spirit, she'll stop at nothing to see former Navy SEAL Harris and single mom Ava get the happily ever after they deserve…

I set the bar pretty low when it comes to the holidays.

I have to. As a Navy officer, I spend plenty of them far from anyplace I'd call "home"… sometimes getting shot like I did on my last SEAL mission.

So, yeah, I set the bar low enough that I can roll over it.

That is, until I meet my neighbor Ava.

She's the type of woman who bakes pecan pie and drinks egg nog. She carols with her neighbors and illuminates her house with enough tiny lights that it can probably be spotted by satellites. I bet she even owns a stack of ugly Christmas sweaters.

She's also got a son… and roots dug deep into this picturesque holiday town. Roots that make life with a Navy guy like me impossible.

Ava is the last thing I need. Yet she's all I want for Christmas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Aster
• Release date: Oct 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201051402

Book preview

PROLOGUE

~ FREYA HANSEN-ADLER ~

It’s a formula, Mason, I find myself explaining to my husband for the third time, even though he’s barely read past the fourth chapter in the romance novel I’m writing.

With diminishing patience, I continue, I need to have—

He lifts his hand, peering at me from behind my manuscript. I know the formula. This is the third romance you’ve written. Girl meets boy. Girl has some reason she can’t be with boy. Girl gets over it and has amazing sex, multiple times, each time including at least six pages of foreplay. Girl falls in love, because who wouldn’t? He’s got abs, loves kids and puppies, and has more stamina in the sack than he should, considering he saves the world on an everyday basis.

Haha, I say with measured sarcasm.

You know I’m right. Then something pulls boy away. They get over it and have their happily ever after.

Yes, and it’s—

—the formula. I get it. I just don’t buy the snowman scene, Freya. No grown man and woman build a snowman together. It doesn’t happen. Especially if the guy is a SEAL.

But it has to be in there. Remember, this is a holiday romance. The formula has more ingredients than the standard romance.

And building a snowman is one of them?

Absolutely. Everyone knows that. I sigh, my shoulders deflating. Every holiday romance has a couple building a snowman together, and I’m not out to try to reinvent the wheel. Snowmen lead to snowball fights—

Mason cuts me off. Another thing adults don’t do.

My lips form a tight line, and my eyes narrow before I proceed. And snowball fights lead to tumbling into the snow in a warm embrace. Lips are close together. BAM—they kiss.

There are a million other ways to get them to kiss. Like this. He leans toward me and presses his lips to mine. They graze gently along my mouth, just a whisper of pressure at first, almost like a tease. Then his fingers thread into my hair and he angles my face, deepening his kiss as he does, making that same fire spark inside of me as though it’s the first time I’ve felt it.

He parts my lips, and I can taste the minty toothpaste he just used. I love that I know exactly what brand he uses. I love that I know how he squeezes the tube from the top rather than the bottom. And I love that I know if this kiss lasts any longer, I’ll let him toss my manuscript aside and plunder me thoroughly.

He eases his face barely an inch from mine and his eyebrows rise. See? Easy. No snowman needed.

There has to be a snowman. And the couple needs to bake something together. Like Christmas cookies or pecan pie or gingerbread.

He practically recoils. What Navy guy bakes gingerbread?

Every Navy guy trapped in a holiday romance. You bake together, then you have a food fight.

A food fight? What? Are your characters six years old?

Thirty-something. And I don’t mean a huge one. Just dabbing some frosting on each other’s noses. Or maybe brushing a little flour off their cheeks when they’re done baking.

He looks visibly repelled. Remind me to never get trapped in one of your holiday romances. Sounds like hell on earth. He frowns, looking at the stack of papers in his hand. What else did you stick in here? Christmas caroling?

I feel my face brighten. Oh, that’s brilliant! I snatch the papers and red pen from him for a moment and jot down, Add in a caroling scene.

This poor SOB. What other horrors do you have planned for this guy?

Fire in the fireplace. Decorating a tree. And family. There always has to be lots of family, preferably the meddling kind, that pushes the two together.

Meddling. He cocks his head. So you’re writing yourself into this romance novel?

You’re just full of jokes today, Mason, I remark, unamused. And I don’t meddle.

What about Harris? He arches a knowing eyebrow at the name of our friend.

I cringe slightly, caught.

Harris and my husband only go back a handful of years, but he was best man in our wedding and was active on the SEAL Teams early in his career, meaning he still wears that Trident that bonds him to my husband forever.

I should add that he’s practically the only single friend I have, so I will admit that I’ve always got my eye out for a suitable match for him.

Harris is still single. So clearly I don’t meddle enough, I counter.

Freya, the only reason you pushed him so hard to rent my old apartment in Annapolis when he got stationed at Fort Meade is because he’d have a single neighbor there.

I feign offense. The place has a great view for a cheap price. I don’t see him complaining.

Only because he doesn’t know why you pushed the place on him. And your instincts were totally off. He’s coming up on two years there as of this summer, and he and his neighbor have barely said a word to each other.

They just need the right opportunity. The right… A lightbulb flickers on in my brain as I glance down at the manuscript, and my voice trails for a moment as an idea percolates in my head. …the right formula.

Mason tucks in his chin, a trace of dread in his eyes. I don’t like that look on your face, Freya. What are you plotting in that author-brain of yours?

Mason, think about it. Snowman. Baking. Caroling. Tree decorating. They always lead to romance. If I could just get Harris and his neighbor to experience some of those things together, I’d bet anything they’d fall in love.

His frown deepens. You’re insane. I need to warn him.

I fire him a look. You’ll do no such thing. You know they’d make a great fit.

Freya, I love you but….

There are no buts in love, I remind him, the determination in my eyes warning him to tread carefully.

But… he barrels on, clearly not noticing, I think Harris is still recovering from you trying to set him up for seven days solid on the cruise to our wedding.

I shrug. That cruise ship was crawling with single women. How could I not try? Besides, it gave me something to focus on rather than panicking over wedding details.

Yeah, but now you have no excuse to fall back on.

No excuse?

He thinks I have no excuse?

A warm smile slides up my cheeks.

I had planned to tell him after dinner. I’m making his favorite—chicken parmigiana. I had pictured candlelight as we watched twilight take over the sky from our kitchen window, setting the perfect mood for the scene I’ve been writing up in my head ever since we started trying to have a child.

I planned every detail of it, just like I write a scene in a book.

But suddenly, I can’t hold back.

Biting my lip, I look at this man I love so completely and ponder for a perfect moment that this is the last time he’ll ever think of himself as just a SEAL, a Navy officer, a friend, a brother, a son, and the best husband I ever could have dreamed up in my highly creative brain.

After this moment passes, he’ll also think of himself as a father.

A dad.

And he’ll make an extraordinary one.

My smile stretches, and as he notices, he looks at me curiously.

I scoot closer to him and take his hand in mine. Chills of anticipation cascade over me as I place it on my belly.

Actually, Mason, I’ve got an even better excuse.

CHAPTER 1

Later that year, just before Christmas

- HARRIS -

You want me to build a snowman?

My brow is pinched with disbelief as I ask, and my hand clenches my phone a little tighter than it should.

I’ve been friends with Freya for several years now, and she’s kind of become a little sister-type in my life. She falls into the role easily as the wife of one of my closest friends, Mason Adler.

But seeing as I already have two sisters, I’ve hit my limit.

Yeah, she replies so casually that I can’t help thinking she believes that every Navy guy just regularly marches out into his front yard to build a snowman anytime the weather is right for it.

Uh… why? I dare to ask.

"I told you. We know someone who might be interested in renting your apartment next when the Navy moves you this summer. I need some good pictures of the place."

And I don’t mind taking some, I say cautiously. "But do you have to have a snowman in them?" My mind struggles to find a reason. Freya’s a romance author with a brain that simply doesn’t work the same as mine. So what seems obvious to her sometimes just doesn’t jump out at me.

Yeah. He’s divorced, but he’s got a little kid who visits him. I thought a snowman would make the place look a little more family-friendly.

I gaze through one of the small windows of my basement apartment at the snow on the ground. Freya, if he’s got a kid who will be visiting, he won’t want this apartment. It’s only got one bedroom. In truth, this place is smaller than even I would normally rent. But the owner who lives upstairs also lets me keep my vintage Camaro in her garage. That was a huge selling point for me.

My car was handed down to me from my grandpa. I’d like to honor his memory by keeping it in good shape. Besides, I plan on using it for the so-called midlife crisis that everyone says I’ll have when I retire from the military in about ten years.

They could make it work, she assures me. He’s in the military, Harris. He won’t mind sleeping on the couch when his kid comes over.

Freya, I get your intentions— I begin, treading carefully because since Freya announced to the world that she is pregnant, I’ve found her emotions less than predictable.

Not that they were ever predictable.

—but I’d feel like an idiot making a snowman, I confess. Maybe we could just Photoshop one in?

Oh, come on, Harris. It’ll take you two minutes. Please? If not for me, do it for the little kid who’s got divorced parents and a daddy in the Navy.

I groan. I have a soft spot in my heart for kids, especially the ones who deal with a parent in the military. Probably because I’ve seen firsthand how strong they have to be.

Okay, I concede. But it won’t be good. I haven’t made a snowman in maybe twenty-plus years.

It doesn’t have to be good. Just…

Her voice trails and instinctively, I brace myself.

…if you could do it at 3:30 today, that would be great, she finishes.

Perplexed, I glance at my watch. Why then?

Best lighting.

My face scrunches up. Did you give up writing and take up photography?

No. But I know what makes a good picture. Come on, indulge a pregnant woman.

I sigh. I knew she’d play the pregnancy card. It was inevitable.

I guess, I grumble. I’m not doing anything else today.

Thanks, Harris.

After ending the call, I decide to do a little unpacking before 3:30 rolls around. I just got home from the airport about an hour ago after being away for a couple days.

I travel so much in my current job at Fort Meade that I barely have time to settle in enough here to even hang a picture on the wall.

Mason used to live in this apartment back when we were both stationed at the Naval Academy. When he and Freya told me it was available during the time I’d be at Fort Meade, it seemed like a good fit, just a half hour from base. Even though this side of the Severn River is pretty sleepy, the view from the backyard is spectacular—with the impressive domes and historic buildings of the Naval Academy reflecting in the water.

I had hoped I’d get plenty of time to just sit and watch the sunsets here, preferably with my then-girlfriend.

But she didn’t last as long as I’d hoped. And with the mileage I’m racking up in this job, it’s a little harder than usual to find a suitable replacement.

I should be in town for a while now, though. Might be a good time to hit the social scene a bit more or call one of the numbers that I tend to collect in my cell phone. Women are pretty easy for me to meet. On planes. In grocery stores. Hell, I had a woman ding my car in a parking lot once and ask me to dinner in her next breath.

That was a firm no. I tend to be a little overly protective of my Camaro.

The initial meeting is easy, but scheduling enough time for follow-up is the big challenge.

The holidays will probably slow things down at work a bit now; no one will demand I fly anywhere to brief some four-star unless it’s mission-critical right now. It might be a good chance to remind myself what it feels like to spend time with a woman somewhere other than randomly crammed into the small seats of coach on a plane.

Mason and Freya invited me to their new townhome in DC for Christmas dinner, and seeing as it is the easiest way I can avoid eating leftover pizza that day, I took them up on the invitation. Besides, Mason’s brothers are coming in, and they’re a good group of guys.

I’ve also been told that they’re deep frying a turkey. The words deep fried are an easy sell for me.

I toss the plastic container from the microwaved meal I ate when I got home into the recycle bin and load my fork into my underused dishwasher. Yep, I’ve found myself falling into the stereotype of a typical Navy bachelor.

I’m really over it.

I glance at my watch and grab my jacket to make this snowman, hoping to God that I don’t run into any neighbors. In the time that I’ve been here, I’ve barely spoken to any of them. Which means that no one around here knows me well enough to conclude that I’ve gone anything but completely insane if they see me making a snowman out here all by myself.

I stand, gazing at the soft, pure snow. There’s not a footprint in it, and it’s been out here a while. But it’s not like there are kids living in this house. I rent my apartment from a newly widowed woman who seems to travel as much as I do.

I ponder my situation for a moment, watching my breath curl outside my mouth as I sigh. Then, resigned to my fate, I stoop over, making a ball.

It falls apart immediately.

I tug off my gloves and let the warmth from my hands help pack it together. Then I start to roll it on the ground. The ball grows