Same Time Next Christmas Read online

  They’re each other’s Christmas present.

  But what about the other 364 days?

  Ex-soldier Matthias Bravo likes spending the holidays hunkered down in his remote Oregon cabin. Until Sabra Bond seeks refuge from a winter storm. Now they meet every year for a no-strings Yuletide romance. But Matthias is changing the rules. This Bravo bachelor finally knows what he wants—Sabra forever. Is she ready to commit to love not just at Christmas but every day of the year?

  She spoke first. “Thought I would grab a book or two, read myself to sleep.”

  He wanted to beg, Stay. Talk to me some more. But all he said was “Help yourself.”

  She crossed the room to him and made her choices as he stood there between the box and the bookcase, breathing in the steamy scent of her, wishing she would move closer so he could smell her better.

  She chose a thriller and a love story set in the Second World War. “Okay, then,” she said finally. “Anything else I can do before I go upstairs? Shall I unplug the tree?”

  “Nope. I’m almost done here. Then I’ll lie down, I promise.”

  “Fair enough.” Both books tucked under one arm, she turned for the stairs.

  He bent to grab another volume, shelved it, bent to grab the next.

  “Matthias?” He straightened and turned. She’d made it to the top. “Merry Christmas.”

  He stared up at her, aching for something he didn’t want to name, feeling equal parts longing and gladness.

  “Merry Christmas, Sabra.”

  She granted him a smile, a slow one. And then she turned and vanished from his sight.

  THE BRAVOS OF VALENTINE BAY:

  They’re finding love—and having babies!—

  in the Pacific Northwest!

  Dear Reader,

  I’ve always loved the basic premise of that old play and later movie Same Time, Next Year. Just the idea of two people agreeing to meet for an annual fling—well, it makes the author in me start asking questions and the reader in me want to know how that could ever realistically happen.

  Unfortunately, in that old movie, the two people in question were married to other people. Their marriages constituted the “conflict” that kept them from ever making any real, lasting commitment to each other. For me, that simply did not fly and never would. Cheating is a total deal breaker for my romance-reading heart.

  However. What if those two people were both single? What if there was something—or a series of somethings—in each of their life stories that made them unwilling to try again at love and commitment? What if their powerful attraction to each other had them mutually agreeing to be together at a level that both were ready for?

  Count me in on that idea. And of course, being a romance writer, my mind and heart instantly moved on to how, in the end, they might come to discover that they are each other’s happily-ever-after.

  In Same Time, Next Christmas, ex-soldier Matthias Bravo arrives at his rustic getaway cabin deep in the Oregon forest two days before Christmas during a doozy of a storm. Imagine his surprise when he finds farmer’s daughter Sabra Bond already inside seeking refuge from the torrential downpour...

  I hope Matt and Sabra’s story warms your heart and reaffirms your belief in love and forever-after. Merry Christmas, everyone. May your New Year be filled with joy and good books.

  Yours always,

  Christine

  Same Time, Next Christmas

  Christine Rimmer

  Christine Rimmer came to her profession the long way around. She tried everything from acting to teaching to telephone sales. Now she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly. She insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine lives with her family in Oregon. Visit her at christinerimmer.com.

  Books by Christine Rimmer

  Harlequin Special Edition

  The Bravos of Valentine Bay

  Almost a Bravo

  The Nanny’s Double Trouble

  The Bravos of Justice Creek

  Married Till Christmas

  Garrett Bravo’s Runaway Bride

  The Lawman’s Convenient Bride

  A Bravo for Christmas

  Ms. Bravo and the Boss

  James Bravo’s Shotgun Bride

  Carter Bravo’s Christmas Bride

  The Good Girl’s Second Chance

  Montana Mavericks: The Lonelyhearts Ranch

  A Maverick to (Re)Marry

  Montana Mavericks: The Great Family Roundup

  The Maverick Fakes a Bride!

  Montana Mavericks: The Baby Bonanza

  Marriage, Maverick Style!

  Visit the Author Profile page at www.Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  For MSR, always.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from A Ranger for Christmas by Stella Bagwell

  Chapter One

  December 23, four years ago...

  Even with the rain coming down so hard he could barely make out the twisting gravel road ahead of him, Matthias Bravo spotted the light shining through the trees.

  The Jeep lurched around another twist in the road. For a few seconds before the trees obscured his view, Matt could see his getaway cabin in the clearing up ahead. Yep. The light was coming from the two windows that flanked the front door.

  Some idiot had broken in.

  Swearing under his breath, Matt steered his Jeep to the almost nonexistent side of the road and switched off the engine and lights.

  The rain poured down harder, pounding the roof, roaring so loud he couldn’t hear himself think. Out the windshield, the trees with their moss-covered trunks were a blur through the rippling curtain made of water.

  Should he have just stayed home in Valentine Bay for Christmas?

  Probably. His injured leg throbbed and he was increasingly certain he’d caught that weird bug his brothers had warned him about. He had a mother of a headache and even though he’d turned the heater off several miles back, he was sweating.

  “Buck up, buddy.” He slapped his own cheek just to remind himself that torrential rain, a sliced-up leg, a headache and a fever were not the worst things he’d ever lived through.

  And at the moment, he had a mission. The SOB in his cabin needed taking down—or at the very least, roughing up a tad and kicking out on his ass.

  Matt kept his rifle in a hidden safe at the back of the Jeep. Unfortunately, the safe was accessed through the rear door.

  “No time like the present to do what needs doing.”

  Yeah. He was talking to himself. Kind of a bad sign.

  Was he having a resurgence of the PTSD he’d been managing so well for over a year now?

  No. Uh-uh. Zero symptoms of a recurrence. No more guilt than usual. He wasn’t drunk and hadn’t been in a long time. No sleep problems, depression or increased anxiety.

  Simply a break-in he needed to handle.

  And going in without a weapon? How stupid would that be?

  He put on his field jacket, pulled up the hood, shoved open his door and jumped out, biting back a groan when his hurt leg took his weight.

  The good news: it wasn’t that far to the rear door. In no time, he was back inside the vehicle, sweating profusely, dripping rain all over the seat, with the rifle in one hand and a box of shells in the other.

  Two minutes later, rifle loaded and ready for action, he was limping through the downpour toward the cabin. Keeping to the cover of the trees, he worked his way around the clearing, doing a full three-sixty, checking for vehicles and anyone lurking outside, finding nothing that shouldn’t be there.

  Recon accomplished, he approached the building from the side. Dropping to the wet ground, he crawled to the steps, staying low as he climbed them. His leg hurt like hell, shards of pain stabbing him with every move he made. It was bleeding again right through the thick makeshift bandage he’d tied on the wound.

  Too bad. For now, he needed to block the pain and focus.

  As he rolled up onto the covered porch, he swiped back his dripping hood and crawled over beneath the front window.

  With slow care, he eased up just enough to peer over the sill.

  He got an eyeful.

  A good-looking brunette—midtwenties, he would guess—sat on the hearth, warming herself at a blazing fire. She wore only a bra and panties. Articles of clothing lay spread out around her, steaming as they dried.

  Was she alone? He didn’t see anyone else in there. The cabin was essentially one big room, with bath and sleeping loft. From his crouch at the window, he could see the bathroom, its door wide open. Nobody in there. And he had a straight visual shot right through to the back door. Nada. Just the pretty, half-naked brunette.

  She looked totally harmless.

  Still, he should check the situation out from every possible angle before making his move.

  Was he maybe being a little bit paranoid? Yeah, possibly.

  But better safe than sorry.

  He dragged himself over beneath the other front window. The view from there was pretty much the same. The woman looked so innocent, leaning back on her hands now, long, smooth legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. She raised a slim hand and forked her fingers through her thick, dark hair.

  Grimly, he pulled up his hood and crawled down the steps into the deluge again. Circling the cabin once more, close-in this time, he ducked to peer into each window as he passed.

  Every view revealed the leggy brunette, alone, drying off by the fire.

  By the time he limped back to the front of the building and crept up onto the porch again, he was all but certain the woman was on her own.

  Still, she could be dangerous. Maybe. And dangerous or not, she had broken in and helped herself to his firewood. Not to mention he still couldn’t completely discount the possibility that there was someone upstairs.

  He’d just have to get the jump on her, hope she really was alone and that no damn fool hid in the loft, ready to make trouble.

  Sliding to the side, Matt came upright flush against the front door. Slowly and silently, he turned the knob. The knob had no lock, but he needed to see if the dead bolt was still engaged. It was. He took the keys from his pocket. At the speed of a lazy snail, in order not to alert the trespasser within, he unlocked the dead bolt.

  That accomplished, he put the keys away and turned the knob with agonizing slowness until the door was open barely a crack. Stepping back, he kicked the door wide. It slammed against the inside wall as he leveled the barrel of his rifle on the saucer-eyed girl.

  “Freeze!” he shouted. “Do it now!”

  * * *

  Sabra Bond gaped at the armed man who filled the wide-open doorway.

  He was a very big guy, dressed for action in camo pants, heavy boots and a hooded canvas coat. And she wore nothing but old cotton panties and a sports bra.

  No doubt about it. Her life was a mess—and getting worse by the second.

  Sheepishly, she put her hands up.

  The man glared down the barrel of that rifle at her. “What do you think you’re doing in my cabin?”

  “I, um, I was on my way back to Portland from my father’s farm,” she babbled. “I parked at the fish hatchery and started hiking along the creek toward the falls. The rain came. It got so bad that I—”

  “Stop.” He swung the business end of his rifle upward toward the loft. “Anyone upstairs? Do not lie to me.”

  “No one.” He leveled the weapon on her again. “Just me!” she squeaked. “I swear it.” She waited for him to lower the gun. No such luck. The barrel remained pointed right at her. And, for some incomprehensible reason, she couldn’t quit explaining herself. “I was hiking and thinking, you know? The time got away from me. I’d gone miles before the rain started. It kept getting worse, which led me to the unpleasant discovery that my waterproof jacket is only water resistant. Then I found your cabin...”

  “And you broke in,” he snarled.

  Had she ever felt more naked? Highly unlikely. “I was just going to stand on the porch and wait for the rain to stop. But it only came down harder and I kept getting colder.”

  “So you broke in,” he accused again, one side of his full mouth curling in a sneer.

  Okay, he had a point. She had broken in. “I jimmied a window and climbed through,” she admitted with a heavy sigh.

  Still drawing a bead on her, water dripping from his coat, he stepped beyond the threshold and kicked the door shut. Then he pointed the gun at her pack. “Empty that. Just turn it over and dump everything out.”

  Eager to prove how totally unthreatening she was, Sabra grabbed the pack, unzipped it, took it by the bottom seam and gave it a good shake. A first-aid kit, an empty water bottle, a UC Santa Cruz Slugs hat and sweatshirt, and a bottle of sunscreen dropped out.

  “Pockets and compartments, too,” he commanded.

  She unhooked the front flap and shook it some more. Her phone, a tube of lip balm, a comb and a couple of hair elastics tumbled to the floor. “That’s it.” She dropped the empty pack. “That’s all of it.” When he continued to glare at her, she added, “Dude. It was only a day hike.”

  “No gun.” He paced from one side of the cabin to the other. She realized he was scoping out the upstairs, getting a good look at whatever might be up there.

  Apparently satisfied at last that she really was alone, he pointed the gun her way all over again and squinted at her as though trying to peer into her brain and see what mayhem she might be contemplating.

  Hands still raised, she shook her head. “I’m alone. No gun, no knives, no nothing. Just me in my underwear and a bunch of soggy clothes—and listen. I’m sorry I broke in. It was a bad choice on my part.” And not the only one I’ve made lately. “How ’bout if I just get dressed and go?”

  He studied her some more, all squinty-eyed and suspicious. Then, at last, he seemed to accept the fact that she was harmless. He lowered the rifle. “Sorry,” he grumbled. “I’m overcautious sometimes.”

  “Apology accepted,” she replied without a single trace of the anger and outrage the big man deserved—because no longer having to stare down the dark barrel of that gun?

  Just about the greatest thing that had ever happened to her.

  As she experienced the beautiful sensation of pure relief, he emptied the shells from his rifle, stuffed them in a pocket and turned to hang the weapon on the rack above the door. The moment he turned his back to her, she grabbed her Slugs sweatshirt and yanked it on over her head.

  When he faced her again, he demanded, “You got anyone you can call to come get you?” She was flipping her still-damp hair out from under the neck of the sweatshirt as he added, “Someone with four-wheel drive. They’ll probably need chains or snow tires, too.” When she just stared in disbel ief, he said, “That frog strangler out there? Supposed to turn to snow. Soon.”

  A snowstorm? Seriously? “It is?”

  He gave a snort of pure derision. “Oughtta check the weather report before you go wandering off into the woods.”

  Okay, not cool. First, he points a gun at her and then he insults her common sense. The guy was really beginning to annoy her. Sabra had lived not fifteen miles from this cabin of his for most of her life. Sometimes you couldn’t count on the weather report and he ought to know that. “I did check the weather. This morning, before I left on my way to Portland. Light rain possible, it said.”

  “It’s Oregon. The weather can change.”

  His condescending response didn’t call for an answer, so she didn’t give him one. Instead, she grabbed her still-soggy pants and put them on, too, wishing she’d had sense enough to keep driving right past the sign for the fish hatchery. A hike along the creek to the falls had seemed like a good idea at the time, a way to lift her spirits a little, to clear her troubled mind before going on back to Portland to face finding a new apartment during the remaining two weeks and two days of her vacation from work—a vacation that was supposed to have been her honeymoon.

  The big guy grunted. “And you didn’t answer my question. Got anyone you can call?”

  “Well, let me see...” Her mom had been dead for six years now. Her dad was three hours away in Eugene until New Year’s. Five days ago, on the day before she was supposed to have gotten married, she and her ex-fiancé had called it quits for reasons too upsetting to even think about at the moment. And she just wasn’t ready to ask any of her Portland friends to drive eighty miles through a blizzard on the day before Christmas Eve to save her from a stranger with a bad attitude in an isolated cabin in the middle of the forest. “No. I don’t have anyone to call.”

  The big guy did some swearing. Finally, he muttered, “Let me get my tree in here and I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”

  Get outta town. Mr. Grouchy Pants had a tree? She was almost as surprised as when he’d kicked open the door. “Uh, you mean you have a Christmas tree?”