A/N: I discovered Hart of Dixie just a few months ago (thanks, Netflix!) and raced my way through the series. Zoe and Wade have some of the best onscreen chemistry I've seen in awhile, and I just love the feel-good vibe of the show. I may have watched the end of In Havoc & In Heat a few dozen times, until a story started spinning itself in my head...hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Of course I own nothing pertaining to Hart of Dixie, or a certain Christmas classic.

Christmas in July

Chapter One

It wants just a few ticks to midnight when she shows up at his door, Cinderella in a little black slip…and damn if the sight of her through his old blinds doesn't make his blood race.

His instinct is to grab her, pull her inside, and take off that silky slip as fast as he possibly can (which, considering that feminine clothing removal is a particular talent of his, is pretty fast). But he doesn't. So far, he's been enjoying the spectacle of her calling the shots: "Your place. 11:30." Lord above, he'd never closed up so fast in all his time at the Rammer Jammer.

Zoe Hart, lured out of her comfort zone of "calculated risks" by the Alabama heat, is the sexiest thing he's seen in a long time.

So he opens the door, steps outside, and waits. Stands just close enough that she doesn't have to come too far. She looks up at him from under those lashes—there's a little smirk on her face that says she knows exactly what she's doing to him right now, but somehow he holds himself almost still, and she leans in…he comes a fraction closer and those bee-stung lips are parted and ready. The electricity that always hums between them is at full voltage now—crackling and popping, a fusebox full of sparks, and there's barely a breath between his mouth and hers—

The first drop of rain crashes down on him like a tolling bell, and he stands there and watches the flame in her eyes sputter, replaced by cold doubt and "consequences."

Dammit.

In two seconds, she'll be gone, so he reaches out one finger and curls it around hers, just to keep her from running. He knows the moment is over, but something in him is resisting the inevitable.

"Heat wave's broke," he remarks, tightening his grip, just a little. "Doesn't mean you can't come inside." He's not even suggesting a hookup now—he just wants to keep her here, a step away from him, a little longer. But she doesn't know that.

"Actually it does…I'm just not a one-night-stand kind of girl." She sounds almost as regretful as he feels, and the thought of her trudging back to the carriage house through the rain and laying in her lonely bed pushes him to do…something.

So he shrugs. "Well…are you maybe a watch-a-movie kind of girl? 'Cause we could get outta this rain…" At her skeptical look, he lets go of her and raises his hands high. "Nothin' else. I swear."

She tilts her head, considering, and it's ridiculous because they are both getting soaked, but suddenly he is grinning like a fool because she says, "O.K."

They duck inside. She shakes her hair and water droplets fly everywhere.

"I'll get you a towel. DVDs are over there." He points to a basket by the TV.

Going into the bathroom, he strips off his drenched flannel, throws on a fresh t-shirt, and swipes enough detritus into the garbage to take the bathroom from "disgusting" back to "bachelor." Then he grabs a towel, shirt, and sweats for her.

"Here…in case you want to change…" his voice trails off.

She sits barefoot and crosslegged in front of the basket, her hair running in damp waves down her back, one strap sliding down her shoulder, and her slip just kissing the smooth skin of her thighs…sweet Jesus. He swallows and focuses on her amused smile as she holds up a DVD with a black-and-white cover.

"Wasn't expecting to find this," she grins.

He rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah—Frank had it on sale at the Dixie Stop last year. It…was my mother's favorite."

A lifetime ago, when the little shack on the lake was still a home, when his dad still made jokes and didn't reek of old malt liquor, when the house smelled of gingerbread and the colored lights twinkled outside and he checked his stocking every day (just in case), his mother would pop corn and make cocoa and they'd settle into the worn sofa and watch.

Now, here, the doc stands before him, her brown eyes soft. She doesn't know much about his family, but she can feel the emptiness radiating off of him.

"It hasn't been opened," she comments quietly.

"Guess I haven't had anyone to watch it with."

"Well, I know it's July, but I've never seen it," she says hopefully. "I'm half-Jewish, but the holidays were never a big deal in my house anyway. We usually took a cruise." Her tone is offhand, but clearly she feels she's missed out on something. They share that, at least.

"OK, Doc, Jimmy Stewart it is. You go dry off and I'll make the popcorn."

Ten minutes later, they're on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between them. Zoe is not so much wearing his clothes as engulfed by them: his favorite blue flannel flops over her hands and she's rolled up the sweats to avoid tripping on them. There's hardly an inch of her honey skin to be seen, and Wade thinks of the little black dress in silent regret. Even so, she's adorable, one hand in the bowl and eyes rapt on the screen. He feels an unexpected tightening in his chest, and his mind spins a quick fantasy of more nights like this, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her…he leans over to whisper in her ear and she turns to him, eyes dancing…

What in the actual hell?

He should be feeling disappointed right now. He was expecting to be several minutes into Round 1 of their "free pass"—his lips ghosting over her delicate jawline, fingers skimming over her curves, tongue finding its way into the soft hollow of her collarbone...her eyes widening and her breath hitching…

The point is, they should both by rights be naked in his chocolate-colored sheets, instead of covered to the chin in flannel, and yet somehow he is settling for cozy domesticity of a sort that Wade Kinsella simply doesn't do. Particularly since, in actual fact, they're not even touching. He might as well be watching a movie with Lavon for all the action he's likely to get tonight.

"Wade? Earth to Wade…"

He realizes that he's hunched over, arms crossed, one lip curled in frustration. Not a good look for charming a lady.

Apparently, Zoe agrees. She pauses the movie. "If you're not into this, I could just go—"

"No!" Too loud. Get out of your head, idiot. He stretches his arm along the back of the couch. "I'm definitely into this."

She glances at his hand, now resting a couple of inches from her shoulder. "O…kay. So, that George—he's kind of a dark horse, huh?"

No sex. And now, they're talking about goddamn Tucker. Maybe I'm not so into this after all.

"I dunno." He tips his beer back and takes a long swallow. "He always seems about as straight as the arrow he has up his ass—"

"Really? But the way he kissed Mary just now—so much passion—I mean, where did that come from?" she wonders.

"Wha—" Just in time, he realizes she's talking about George Bailey, not Golden Boy. Relief flows through him. "Oh—right—well, what's that thing they say? Still waters run deep, or somethin'?"

Zoe looks at him for a long moment. "Yeah, I guess love can make perfectly sane, steady people do crazy things."

Wade grins. "Love—or a Bluebell heat wave." He pulls a lock of her hair playfully and she bats his hand away.

"Shut up," she says, turning the movie back on. "Don't distract me—I want to see how this turns out."

"Me too, Doc." He's not talking about the movie.

Later, after George has made his triumphant return to Bedford Falls, and Clarence has gotten his wings, he turns to see her swipe a lone tear from her cheek. She smiles over at him a little sheepishly. "I can see why your mom liked it."

"Yep, she was always one to believe that we should all be lookin' after each other. Before she died, she told me not to worry, because I'd have plenty of mamas in Bluebell to keep me straight."

"And did you?"

He laughs shortly. "I had plenty of mamas, all right—and Crazy Earl and I, between us, disappointed every one of 'em."

She's facing him over the popcorn bowl now, and her hand reaches toward him, then stops. "You talk a big game, but I bet you weren't that bad. Lots of those mamas still have a soft spot for Wade Kinsella, if the bench ladies are any indication."

"Well, it wasn't for lack of trying. Still, I was lucky to have grown up here… You'll find out—they'll take care of you, too."

Her eyes fall and she sighs, playing with the edge of his shirt cuff. "Somehow, I think that if I disappeared from Bluebell, everything would stay exactly the same. Except that Brick would order a bonfire in celebration."

"C'mon, Doc..give yourself some credit. I think you've had a profound effect on this town—it never occurred to anybody before you came that short shorts were appropriate office wear!"

She rolls her eyes and throws a piece of popcorn at him, but the gesture is half –hearted. "Seriously." Her voice is small, and Wade's heart squeezes painfully again. "I'm never going to get thirty percent of Brick's patients. I let Old Man Jackson run over George and I misdiagnosed Cole Maleska and on top of that I ruined the Founder's Day parade—"

"You also delivered a baby in the Breeland's front room and saved Oscar Valderrama's life. And you did pretty good work today—" He grabs her hand, puts it over where the bandage crinkles under his shirt—"I'll let you stitch me up anytime."

A half-smile, one that doesn't reach her eyes, appears briefly. "Thanks, Wade." She pulls her hand back to cover a sudden, enormous yawn. "I'd better go."

Somehow he knows that when she walks out the door, the temporary truce that's held between them the last two hours—that's allowed them to be almost human to each other, instead of keeping one another at bay with barbs and sarcasm—will disappear, too. He points to her shoes, abandoned by the door. "You'll ruin those Manolowhatevers walking back—it's gonna be messier than Burt Reynold's breakfast out there. Lemme see what I got for you."

He heads back to his closet, rooting around until he manages to uncover a pair of battered slippers, possibly relics from a long-ago fling. Not great, but they'll do. On his way back, he stops in the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Halfway through, he looks up at himself in the mirror, and wonders for the third or fourth time that night why his brain seems to exit stage left whenever Zoe Hart is around.

What exactly does he think is going to happen here? He'll walk her back (which is, to be fair, just common decency on his part. It's coal-dark out there, and the path is cratered with mucky, ankle-turning holes)…and then, what? A sweet kiss on her front porch? Gee whilikers, maybe he should ask her to the prom!

This is so not Wade Kinsella. Wade Kinsella, who doesn't do "courting," who would never demand, but isn't above a little persuasion (another of his special talents). Wade Kinsella, who was propositioned no less than three times at the Rammer Jammer tonight, and who accepted the only offer that wasn't a surefire, done-deal horizontal tango.

He spits out the toothpaste in disgust, grabs the slippers, and walks back out to the living room. "All right, Doc, let's go," he says tersely.

She's not there.

Damn that New York, I-can-do-it-myself cussedness—now I'll have to find her in the dark. He stomps to the front door and yanks it open, ready to call out to her to wait, when he hears a soft little sigh behind him.

She's curled up, knees to her chest, tiny palms under her cheek, looking like she's twelve years old. Completely asleep, and if her slight smile is any indication, already dreaming.

Wade blows out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and grabs a blanket. Tucking it around her, he drops a whisper of a kiss on her hair. He falls into bed, expecting to toss and turn with the consciousness of her so near, but instead he is asleep immediately.

And she's not the only one who's smiling.

TO BE CONTINUED

Thanks for reading! Reviews much appreciated, especially since this is my first HoD story. :)