Mistletoe in Paradise

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Jill Shalvis

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Christmas, twelve years ago

  Fourteen-year-old Hannah Banfield stood at the very edge of a cliff. Not a mental cliff, which would have been less terrifying. Nope, she was stupid enough to be standing on an actual rocky bluff, toes hanging off as she stared down at the Caribbean blue-green sea swirling hundreds of thousands of feet below her.

  “Twenty,” came the amused male voice at her side. “It’s twenty feet.”

  She slid her gaze to James Webber, ancient and full of wisdom at age fifteen. “We’re going to die.”

  Tall, gangly, his messy dark brown hair weeks past needing a cut, he flashed her his crooked smile. His board shorts hung nearly to his knees, one of which was scraped and bleeding from when she’d accidentally tripped him on the hike up here. “We’re not going to die,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I won’t let it happen.”

  She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath at his low but firm tone of confidence, letting it fill her. When the humid, salty sea breeze warmed her, she opened her eyes and stalled by looking around her at the small private island where their families always spent at least one day of their Christmas getaway. She took in the bright white sand, palm trees, and lush green bluffs, all of which were just about as far away from her snowy mountain view at home in the California Sierras as she could get.

  James nudged her. “You know how I know we’re going to live? Because Jason did. Look.”

  They both eyed James’s brother in the water below, waving wildly up at them. A year older than James, Jason was their fearless leader, and as such, he’d jumped first.

  Their moms were BFFs. The women had grown up together, but as adults now lived on opposite coasts in the United States. Since Hannah’s stepdad, Harry, was a year-round captain of a charter yacht, the two families booked the ship before Christmas every year to be together. They had what was called a bareboat charter, meaning they did all the work of the crew to make it affordable, not that any of them had ever minded. Well, except maybe her mom, who didn’t like to cook and clean off the boat, much less on it.

  For James and Jason, the annual trip was a chance to get away from the cold New York winters. But for Hannah, it was so much more. The weeklong cruise from Miami to St. Thomas and back was a place where she could be a kid, since her life in Real World was very different from that in Vacation World. For this one week she got to be . . . well, free. Happy. Plus, she considered the Webber brothers her two closest friends, trusting them more than anyone else.

  “You’ve got this, Hannah Banana,” James said softly.

  He might be the wildest, most adventurous person she knew, but he’d never put her in danger. So she drew a deep breath and stared down at the water one last time. She wanted to do this, wanted so much to show that she could be spontaneous and fun, too, though she wasn’t. Were there sharks in the Caribbean Sea? There were, right? She swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can,” she whispered.

  “Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” His bigger, warmer hand slid into hers and squeezed. “But you know I’ve got you, though, right?”

  She looked into his warm blue-green eyes, the same color as the sea below, and just like that, she believed. He always had her. Maybe all of the other people in her life had let her down, but never him. Not once.

  So she gave a slow nod.

  Smart enough not to give her another second to think about it, he simply jumped, tugging her with him into the balmy Caribbean air.

  Chapter 1

  Four days before Christmas, present-day

  Hannah stood on a dock in Miami in front of the ship aptly named The Therapist. The seventy-foot motor yacht, a good decade past its prime, was decorated for the holidays within an inch of its life. Staring at it with dread, she wished she hadn’t chosen this month to cut back on wine. Because she’d taken two planes, a train, and an automobile to get here, and worrying about blood pressure and heart disease was taking a back seat to what she was going to face on the ship.

  Unfortunately, she was on a mission, and sucky as that mission was, she owed it to the man who’d raised her to do this in person, even if her palms were sweating.

  And the backs of her knees.

  The mission—tell her stepdad, Harry, that her mom wanted a divorce, and by the way, the papers were right here in her bag for him to sign. Oh, and Merry Christmas.

  Easy peasy.

  Except she loved Harry. He was the only dad she’d ever known. He’d brought fun and adventure and humor into her life when there’d been so little before him. She loved his slightly run-down but beloved yacht, the one she’d spent every Christmas on for as long as she could remember to escape winter by sailing through the Caribbean.

  At least until six years ago.

  “Ahoy, Smalls!” came Harry’s booming voice from the boat deck. He stood there in Bermuda shorts, a brightly flowered short-sleeved shirt, and a Santa hat on his Albert Einstein hair, looking like . . . home. “Come aboard,” he called out, “this baby ain’t going to sail herself.”

  Knowing the truth of that, Hannah laughed, then opened her purse and pulled out a big red bow, setting it on top of her head as proof she’d come through on her word that this year, her holiday gift to him was her presence on The Therapist.

  She headed up the passerelle, the platform from dock to ship, which in itself felt odd. For all the years she’d come here, she’d never once walked onboard. Nope, she’d flat-out run, racing to pick out her cabin in order to get the one she wanted—the one with the porthole—before it was snatched up by James and Jason.

  But that was then. Things had changed.

  In a big way.

  At the end of the passerelle, she kicked off her boots and dropped them into the waiting shoe basket. As was traditional on boats like this, shoes weren’t allowed, and as she stood there in her bare feet, taking it all in, a pit grew in the bottom of her stomach. It’d been this very boat that had eventually caused the split between Harry and her mom, almost ten years ago now. Harry had been gone almost all the time on charters, and finally her mom had said, “It’s me or the boat.” Harry had chosen the boat.

  By the time he’d realized his mistake, her mom had moved on.

  Hannah had worked hard to not judge Harry for picking the boat over his family. Her mom was a difficult woman. Hannah got that. Well, mostly she got that.

  Seen from the perspective of Hannah’s adult eyes, The Therapist was a little rough around the edges now, but was still pretty amazing, with its five-foot cockpit extension, huge teak-top deck half-covered and half-open to the warm Caribbean air, large galley, and four cabins besides the captain’s chambers.

  She dropped her duffel bag just as Harry pulled her in for a big, warm hug. She sighed out some of her tension and held on tight as memories filled her—his teaching her to drive a boat before she could even ride a bike; his showing her fun and adventure for a week every Christmas, joy that’d had to last her the whole year . . .

  Harry pulled back and grinned at her. “You’re the best Christmas present I’ve ever had. It’s been too long. The last time I saw you wa
s this spring, when I was off for a week and we went fishing.” He looked past her to the busy port. “Where’s your mom?”

  Hannah blinked. “Um . . . what?”

  “You know, the woman who birthed you? She said she was coming this year and traveling with you.”

  Thanks, Mom. “She . . .” Suddenly Hannah’s purse, the one that held the divorce papers for Harry, weighed heavily on her shoulder. “So as it turns out, she’s—”

  “Hold on. I just got a text from her. She’s going to meet us in the port of San Juan on our Puerto Rico stop, and then be with us on the last leg to St. Thomas and back home,” Harry said, reading from his phone. “She got held up at work.”

  Hannah’s mouth tightened at the lie. Her mom’s, not Harry’s. Since the separation, her mom had still occasionally joined them—in between boyfriends, that is—just enough times to keep Harry’s hopes up. But now her mom wanted to marry her latest boyfriend. She’d told Harry she’d come on this trip, but she’d lost her nerve and had planned to pay a courier to do her dirty work.

  Hannah couldn’t let a stranger serve Harry the papers, she just couldn’t. So here she was, facing more than a few ghosts of her own past as well as her mom’s.

  Harry was smiling warmly at her. “I’m so glad you showed up.”

  She forced a smile. “When have I ever broken a promise or let you down?”

  Guilt flashed across his craggy, been-in-the-sun-for-fifty-plus-years face because he knew he couldn’t say the same. “You’re as sweet as you are dependable.”

  Right, just what every woman wanted to hear, a description of herself employing the same adjectives as those applied to a golden retriever.

  Harry pulled off his hat and dropped his phone into it. “No more of this on vacay. All it does is bring bad news.” He held out the hat. Guess he could hear her phone, which had been buzzing since she’d boarded. Work, no doubt. She could tell by the sheer level of annoyance in the vibration. Pulling it from her pocket, she eyed the screen. Yep. Her boss, Cynthia, aka the Tyrant, as the office often called her. Cynthia thought it was a compliment.

  “Come on now, Smalls,” Harry said. “Drop that evil ruination of modern society into the hat. You’re my gift this year, and I don’t plan on sharing you with your job 24/7 like usual.”

  “Okay, but, Dad, remember, I did warn you that I’d have to work some. That was the only reason I got the time away from the office for this trip.”

  Harry didn’t say anything to this. Instead, he turned to the woman who’d just come from the bridge to stand at his side. Sally, his longtime stewardess and self-appointed cruise director, handed Hannah what looked like a frothy eggnog and a festive elf headpiece, complete with a little green hat.

  Sally laughed at the look on Hannah’s face. “I know. But Harry insisted. All passengers-slash-coworkers have to be in the proper festive spirit this week.”

  The thing about boating with Harry this week was that he didn’t make money, so he gave his crew the time off, which meant it was all hands on deck. “Just how many others are we talking about?”

  “Well, Susan and Dan, of course,” Harry said, referring to the Webbers. “And you and your mom, and—”

  Hannah’s phone rang again.

  “Nope,” Harry said and jiggled his hat. He always collected cell phones at the start of a trip, mostly because Harry had never met a responsibility he couldn’t put away, not to be seen until it suited him.

  “Dad—”

  “Nope. And I’m doing you a favor, trust me.”

  She grimaced in apology but answered the phone. “Hannah Banfield.”

  Harry rolled his eyes.

  “So you do live,” Cynthia said in her no-nonsense, perpetually irritated voice. “Is there a reason you’re not checking your damn phone in the middle of a very important week when you’ve got a very big case being decided upon?”

  Three years ago, the woman had taken a chance on Hannah, teaching her the ropes when Hannah had started with no specific experience, only her painful ambition. Hannah was now a successful health care advocate, working for the hospital in her hometown and fighting on behalf of insurance rights for terminal patients. She was incredibly proud of the work she was doing. But because she’d made the mistake of asking her dad what he wanted for Christmas, and because his answer had been only one thing—her—she was here, and Cynthia was going to get heartburn and the chance to take Hannah’s case in front of a judge. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve emailed you several files. I’ve marked my questions. The last thing we want is the judge to postpone until after the holidays.”

  “I’ll take a look,” Hannah promised and disconnected.

  Her dad wriggled the hat for her cell phone. “This is vacation.”

  “Come on, Dad, I’m turning twenty-seven years, not twelve. And who’s the other guest?”

  Harry just smiled, giving her a very bad feeling. But it couldn’t be. Her mom had told her James was in Belize with a girlfriend, which suited her just fine.

  Totally, one hundred percent fine.

  Fine.

  His parents were no problem, she loved them. But when it came to James, her feelings were . . . complicated. That’s when she realized Harry was smiling at someone just behind her, and then a long arm reached around her to drop a phone into the Santa hat.

  Slowly she swiveled and came face-to-face with a blast from the past. The kind of blast that stole her breath away and rendered her stock-still. The kind of blast that was sexy and familiar at the same time, and brought both the best and the worst memories of her life slamming back into her.

  James Webber, who was clearly not in Belize.

  Her dad grinned at him. “Hey, WK! Good to see you, kid.”

  WK was short for Wild Kid, and there’d been plenty of years when James had merited the nickname. He was a grown man now, but Harry still saw both of them as kids.

  Not looking bothered by the handle at all, James exchanged a warm, back-slapping hug with Harry. Then he looked at Hannah, and the result was good news and bad news. The good news—she managed to keep her cool and give him an “I’m totally okay that you’re here” smile. The bad news—his crooked smile was still a killer, and those warm blue-green eyes still promised fun and trouble that she knew he could deliver on. Suddenly needing that hopefully strong eggnog, she took a healthy swallow, then promptly began to choke up a lung.

  James patted her on the back until she waved him away and glared at her father. “Virgin?”

  “I always serve you virgin.”

  “Yeah, when I was a kid.”

  “You’re still a kid.” He spread his arms. “Because I’m only twenty-nine.”

  “You’ve been twenty-nine for twenty-nine years.”

  “Hey, knock that off. Reality doesn’t have a role here in Vacay Land.”

  James accepted a glass from Sally. He drank, and then his eyes were flat-out laughing.

  Clearly not virgin.

  “Wow,” she said to her dad, looking away from James, because it’d been a huge mistake to look directly at him. How was it that he looked even better now than he had back then?

  Especially because back then he’d been naked.

  At the memory of the last time she’d seen him, she reached over the bar against the back of the deck, grabbed the bottle of dark rum, and poured it into her glass.

  James looked amused.

  “You should both go get settled before I put you to work,” Harry said. “There’s a storm brewing, so as soon as Dan and Susan arrive, we need to get ahead of it.” He nodded at Sally to follow him to the bridge.

  When they were gone, Hannah let out a slow breath. Great. A storm on the horizon, and another in her stomach. She took another sip of her eggnog, knowing it was going to help when it burned all the way down.

  James stood there, eyes amused. She couldn’t stop herself from looking right back. Barefoot, he was wearing jeans that fit him in all the right spo
ts, an untucked thin army-green T-shirt tight across his chest and loose across his abs. Damn. Why did he still appeal to her? Not that it mattered—he was most definitely not on the menu for the week.

  Been there, been destroyed by it.

  “Hannah Banana in the flesh,” he said. “Been a while.”

  She added another dollop of rum, and he laughed softly.

  She took a big gulp before meeting that gaze of his, the one that tended to make her stupid. “Thought you were going to be in Belize with your girlfriend. Hope you didn’t get dumped.”

  He smiled. “The trip got moved up. I got back last week, but Candy and I had a great time, so thanks for your concern.”

  She refrained from rolling her eyes. Probably Candy was a perfectly nice person. She wasn’t annoyed by Candy. She was annoyed by the man standing there looking better than anything she’d seen in a long time.

  James picked up the duffel bag he’d dropped at his feet. “And while you finish up that drink that you look like you really need, I’m going to grab the good cabin.”

  Oh hell no.

  Their eyes caught and held, and then they each took off running at the same time, and for a moment it was like they were kids again.

  Until James stopped short and pointed starboard. “Hey, what’s that?”

  Like a sucker, she skidded to a halt and looked.

  Nothing.

  And James was running again.

  “Cheater!” she yelled, running after him.

  He just laughed, moving with the easy grace of a lifelong athlete.

  Something no one had ever accused her of being.

  Pushing herself to catch up, she accidentally—sort of—knocked him into a wall. Still laughing, he snagged her arm, yanking her behind him, and kept the lead.

  So she pulled out the big guns and fought dirty. She hit the floor with a soft, pained gasp.

  “Oh shit,” he said. Whipping back around, he dropped to his knees at her side. “What is it? Your ankle?”

  “Nope!” She was on her feet and running, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. She had this! She was going to get the cabin with the porthole. Already grinning in triumph, just before she got to the door, she turned and sent him a smug smile over her shoulder.