Marriage Under the Mistletoe. Helen Lacey
A long, leisurely look that made her toes curl. For one ridiculous moment she wished she’d paid more attention to her appearance that morning.
“Hey, I guess you’re my ride?”
The soft, deeply resonant American drawl struck her low in the belly. She stuck out her hand. “Hi,” she said, aware her voice sounded unusually high pitched. “I’m Evie—Noah’s sister.”
His hand was big and easily wrapped around hers. “Scott,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
Scott Jones aka The Most Gorgeous Man She Had Ever Laid Eyes On.
And about a generation too young for a thirty-six-year-old woman.
She cleaved her dry tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Did you have a good flight?”
“Reasonable. I had a three-hour stopover in Sydney after getting through customs.”
Evie ignored the rapid pump of her heart behind her ribs. “You can sleep some on the drive back if you like.”
He shrugged lightly. “I appreciate the lift.”
“No problem.”
“I guess I should collect my luggage.”
She nodded. “Sure. But first I think I should see your identification?”
“Huh?”
Evie squared her shoulders. “I need to make sure you’re who you say you are,” she said, ever cautious, always responsible.
He smiled and exposed the most amazing dimple in his cheek. “Okay,” he said, and reached into his back pocket.
Evie didn’t miss the way his biceps flexed as he moved. He pulled his passport out and handed it to her. She read his name—Scott Augustus Jones—and wasn’t surprised to see he was photogenic, too. Evie returned the document to him.
He smiled again. “Do you want to frisk me now?”
Evie nearly burst a blood vessel. “I don’t...I don’t think so,” she spluttered, feeling embarrassed and foolish. He was joking, of course. However, out of nowhere came the idea of running her hands across that chest and those thighs, and it made her hot all over. “Let’s go to baggage claim.”
He continued to smile and followed her down the escalators and she became increasingly aware of him behind her. And mindful of how dowdy and plain she must look to him in her faded denim skirt and biscuit-colored blouse. She smoothed her hands down her hips and tilted her chin.
It took about three minutes to find his bag and another five to reach her car. She was glad she’d borrowed her brother’s dual-cab utility vehicle instead of driving her own small sedan. She couldn’t imagine Scott Jones spending lengthy hours cramped up in her zippy Honda. Not with those long, powerful legs, broad shoulders, strong arms...
She sucked in a breath. Get a grip. And fast.
It had been forever since she’d really thought about a man in such a way. Oh, there’d been the odd inkling or an occasional vague and random thought. Mostly memories of the husband she’d loved and lost. But that was all. Acting on those thoughts was out of the question. She was a widow and mother, after all.
Ten years. The words swirled around in her head. An entire decade of abstinence. That would almost give me a free pass into a convent.
She looked at him again, as briefly as she could without appearing obvious.
Young came to mind immediately. And Callie’s brother. And only here for three weeks. And not my type.
Gordon had been her type. Strong and sensible. Her first and only love. They’d been happy together. But dealing with his senseless death had been hard. After that, she buried herself along with her husband. Buried the part of her that screamed woman and got on with living.
Or so she thought.
“Thank you for the ride.”
Evie didn’t budge her eyes and drove from the car park. “You said that already.”
He shifted in his seat and stretched his legs. “So, what happened to the kid?”
“Matthew fell off his bike two days ago and broke his arm. He’s out of hospital, but Callie didn’t want to leave him.”
Evie admired her brother’s fiancée. Callie had embraced her role as mother to Noah’s four children and had quickly become the tonic the family needed. When four-year-old Matthew had his accident, Evie had quickly stepped in to taxi Callie’s brother from Brisbane to Crystal Point. With her wedding only weeks away, the home she was selling in the middle of renovations and Matthew needing attention, Callie had enough on her plate without having to worry about her younger brother being stranded at the airport.
Only, Evie hadn’t expected him to look like this.
And she hadn’t expected her skin to feel just that little bit more alive, or her breath to sound as if it couldn’t quite get out of her throat quick enough. Okay, so that only proves that I still have a pulse.
“So,” she said, way more cheerfully than she felt, “what do you do for a living?”
He looked sideways. “I work for the Los Angeles Fire Department.”
Evie’s heart stilled. A firefighter? A hazardous occupation. Exactly what she needed to throw a bucket of cold water over her resurfacing libido. “That’s a dangerous job?”
“It can be.”
Evie’s curiosity soared. Ask the question. “So why do you do it?”
“Someone has to, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” He had a point. But it didn’t stop her thinking about the risks. She’d had years of practice thinking about risks, about dangers. A decade of thinking. Since the rainy night Gordon had donned his Volunteer Emergency Services jacket and left her with the promise to return, but never did. An awful night long ago. The night she’d shut down. She wondered about Scott’s motives. “But why do you do it? Are you an adrenaline junkie?”
He chuckled. It was such an incredibly sexy sound that Evie’s cheeks flamed.
“I’m sure my mom and sister think so.”
“But you don’t?”
“I do it because it’s my job. Because it’s what I’m trained to do. I don’t think about the reasons why. Do you sit down and analyze why you’re doing what you do?”
No. Because a shut-down person didn’t question herself. A shut-down person was all about control, the now. But she didn’t admit that. It was better to sound like everyone else. “Sometimes.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“I run a bed-and-breakfast.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I think Callie told me that. And you’ve got a kid?”
“Trevor,” she replied. “He’s fifteen.”
Although she remained focused on the road, Evie felt his surprised stare.
“You must have married young.”
Evie pushed her hair from her face. “By some standards, I suppose. I was nineteen.”
She could almost hear him do the math in his head and felt about one hundred years old. While he, she knew, was just twenty-seven.
She pushed the CD button on, waited for music to fill the cab and resisted the urge to sing along.
“Do you want to share the driving?”
Evie looked sideways. “We drive on the other side of the road.”
“I have an international license.”
Of course he did. He was young, gorgeous, fearless and accomplished. “I’ll let