Holiday Op

Chapter Two

The week breezed by in a flurry of training exercises, false alarms, and administrative blah. Annabelle retreated home each night to a steady diet of frozen dinners, leftover cookies, and fudge from the parade. Not exactly the fuel of champions, but it comforted her in her sparsely furnished, lonely one-bedroom town home located five minutes off base.

Not so comforting was the constant reminder of the dashing Tony Lombardi.

And that stupid holiday party. Which was-tonight.

She curled her legs underneath her, nestled into the hideous, brown mustard Barcalounger Dad had passed on when he moved to Florida. It was the only piece of furniture she'd paid to move all the way from New Orleans to Alaska. Some comforts of home were simply priceless.

Tonight, she loved the feel of the familiar, indented upholstery at her back. It would be so easy to stay right here, order a pizza, and polish off the couple of beers she had left in the fridge. Or had she finished those the other night?

Annabelle walked into her matchbox of a kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. The shelves were barren save for a bottle of hot pepper sauce, a mostly empty jar of kosher dill pickles, and the plate of fudge Tony Lombardi had sent home with her after the parade.

The one he'd exchanged for a promise to join him at the holiday party.

She dug the heel of her hand into her forehead. Parties were so annoying. She could see it now. Mucho decorations, blaring Christmas music, a bunch of holiday drunks, and her, wishing she was tucked under a blanket at home with a tub of chocolate peanut butter ice cream.

What a blast.

But then again, a certain Food Service Specialist would be there. One who might volunteer to keep the drunks at bay and provide more of those excellent cookies. Oh, and he did have the finest rear end she'd ever seen on a man.

Not that Tony Lombardi, or any man, was anywhere near the top of her to-do list. Was he a nice guy? Sure, probably. Did he give good food? Hell yeah. Beyond that, whatever had passed between them last weekend was dead in the water. She didn't have time to get cozy with anyone. Her head belonged squarely in the game of search and rescue, not in the game of flirting.

But she had to be honest; dinner pickings were slim. There were only two pieces of fudge left. The freezer offered nothing but frozen peas, several blocks of mystery meat, and the corpse of a dead mouse in an improvised Ziploc body bag.

Oops, forgot about that.

"Ugh.” She slammed shut both doors.

It was a toss up. Pizza, Chinese, or…

Dinner a la Tony Lombardi.

Annabelle pulled out the collection of takeout menus the former tenant had left and perused the options. What was it gonna be? Meat lovers’ pizza, Sesame Chicken, egg rolls… Or Butter balls

… Or Mini Pecan Pies…

No contest! She tossed the menus on the kitchen table.

So what if Lombardi got all up in her Kool-Aid again? She could handle him. She could handle anything. And it would buy her a decent meal, a night away from the deafening quiet of her new home, and maybe, some entertainment.

What the heck?

Ho ho ho… here I come.

Or maybe she should have been thinking, bah humbug.

Annabelle stopped dead at the main entrance of the Rec Center. Not only was everyone dressed to the nines, they were wearing Santa hats. Every stinking one of them. Annabelle peered down at her dark-wash boot cut jeans, forest green cable knit sweater, and practical brown snow boots.

Will someone, please, shoot me now?

Underdressed was the understatement of the year. Especially since every other woman in the room was wearing some sparkly top with a pretty skirt or a dress. Stares were already heading in her direction. Maybe they were spouses? Guests? Whatever. She was an enlisted woman. She had to retain some level of dignity, right? Right.

Now, where was the bar?

Annabelle squeezed her way through an obstacle course of warm bodies and strong perfume before finally reaching an empty bar stool, where she planted her too-casual rear and ordered a Guinness.

"A woman after my own heart,” crooned a caramel voice in her ear. “Make that two."

She jumped and turned in her seat to meet the bracing blue stare of Tony Lombardi, looking good enough to eat in a brick-red button down shirt and camel trousers. He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar.

So that's what his hair looked like. No longer covered by a hat, his near-black curls looked like someone had just run their hands through them. Something she could imagine herself doing in a different time and place.

Now where did that come from?

"You snuck up on me,” she said.

He threw his arm across the back of her chair and leaned in close, inserting his aura of home and hearth cooking smells and a woodsy aftershave into her space. “You're the one that snuck in without saying hello."

"I didn't see you."

"Oh, but I saw you."

Well, duh. Plain Jane was kinda hard to miss amid the glitz and cheer. Annabelle rolled her eyes and turned back to her beverage. Gripping the cold, sweaty glass in both hands, she took a sip of bitter goodness. “So where's the food? More importantly, where's dessert?"

Tony circled around and slid onto the barstool beside her. “I'm starting to think you only like me for my cooking."

Her lips twitched. “Anything's possible."

"Just when I thought we were getting to be friends."

She allowed a small smile. “Sure, okay, if that's what you want to call it."

"You're still only here for the food."

"Probably."

"Well then I guess I better play up my strengths if I'm going to impress you.” He flashed her that naughty grin, sending a tickle down the inside of her sweater. “Come on, I'll give you a special preview of the provisions."

Annabelle took her beer with her and followed Tony through a doorway at the back of the room that led to a large, commercial kitchen. Several chefs in white jackets and black Coast Guard baseball caps were busy stirring sauces, arranging platters, and singing along with I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. Every single one of them had to be tone deaf. But it was priceless. These guys were actually putting Christmas music to good use!

"This is my crew. We've commandeered the kitchen here for the night. Guys, meet Petty Officer Annabelle Foster, Kodiak's newest, highly esteemed rescue swimmer."

The crew waved, never missing a beat. Every one of them was elbow deep in huge meat, potato, or vegetable platters. Tony led her around the kitchen, pointing out each dish in succession. Sweet Potato Casserole with Pecan Topping. Roasted Red Potatoes with Rosemary and Garlic. Herb Crusted Beef Tenderloin. Honey Ham. Green Bean Casserole. Roasted Butternut Squash with Maple Pecan Butter. The list went on and on and on.

Annabelle mingled and explored the Rec Center while Tony finished up in the kitchen. When the crew finally served the food, the party was in full swing, dancing and all. Tony loaded up plates for each of them and led her to a table next to a stone fireplace. The fire blazed and crackled, sending off waves of heat.

Placing a napkin in his lap, Tony shoveled several bites of ham into his mouth, chewed, and smiled at her. “So, what do you think?"

"It sure beats condiments and frozen peas.” She tore into a slice of beef tenderloin. The savory tastes of garlic, rosemary, and thyme filled her mouth.

"That's all I get, huh?"

She flashed a half smile. “You done good."

"You're a tough crowd."

They ate in silence for several minutes, trading meaningful glances and irrepressible smiles. What was it about this guy that had her mouth twitching and a giggle on the tip of her tongue? There was something about the way he looked at her. That smug smile… That light in his blue eyes… Her stomach was in constant motion every time she looked at him.

Watching her, he plucked a corn muffin off his plate, tore it in two, and ate half in one gulp. Those hands… Large, decisive, and corded. No hesitation in the way they moved. They would probably feel firm and steady planted on her waist. The way it ought to feel when a man held a woman.

Annabelle tore her gaze away and tried to focus on the crowd amassing on the dance floor. She wasn't here to fantasize about Tony Lombardi's mitts. She was here to eat, relax, and enjoy the holiday party comedy routine.

"So what's your pleasure?” he asked. “Dancing? Drinking."

"Negative on the dancing."

"Not even a slow one?"

She slid her gaze over his chest, noting its finely sculpted peaks and valleys. Would it feel as hard against her body as it looked inside that shirt? Hmm… best not to go down that road. Talk about trouble. Not to mention distracting. Her work here at Air Station Kodiak required every ounce of her dedication, focus, and mental strength. No room for mistakes. No room for mooning about some guy.

"I'm better at drinking,” she said.

He pushed his plate aside. “I got an idea. I'll scare us up a couple beers. You go score us some pool sticks and I'll wipe the table with your hide."

Laughter exploded from her chest. Seriously! “You think I can't play?"

"I'm sure you can, just like I'm sure I can win."

"You are such an egomaniac."

Grinning with his lower lip between his teeth, he leaned back in his chair. “I double dog dare you to beat me."

Oh really? Now there was a challenge she wouldn't turn down. “Fine, you want to play it that way.” Annabelle leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table. “It's on."

Mr. Macho was about to find out that Annabelle Foster never let a man win.