Her Mistletoe Husband. Renee Roszel
cushions from the sofa, preparing to open it up into a bed. Elissa watched him, noting the play of muscles along his arms and shoulders, the tautness of his belly as he bent over. Not an ounce of extra flesh bulged over the elastic waistband of his shorts. Blast him! As her mind began to wonder about how many sit-ups it might take to create a belly like his, he straightened. Holding a cushion, he gave her a rather amused, speculative look. She frowned. What had he asked?
Laying the cushion aside, he indicated the sofa. “I bet you stayed to help me open the bed.” His eyes were challenging.
Her emotions jangling with embarrassment and indignation, she planted her hands on her hips. “Mr. D’Amour, the only thing I’d care to help you open is an artery.” She jerked her head toward the bathroom. “There are clean sheets and blankets in the linen closet.” In an icy monotone, she added, “Just so you’re perfectly clear on this, I do not consider you a guest, I consider you an intruder.”
His unwavering gaze disconcerted her. After a few ticks of the clock he nodded, then bent to tug open the bed. With a high-pitched creak, it unfolded revealing the thin mattress that covered the springs. When he straightened and looked at her again, he propped his fists on his hips in a gesture that was plainly mocking. “And just so you’ll be perfectly clear, Miss Crosby, I do not consider myself a guest, either. I consider myself a property owner who is being very lenient with a squatter.”
She gasped, horrified. “Squatter!” The suggestion was so outlandish it was laughable. She only wished she could laugh. “If I were you, Mr. D’Amour, I’d watch who I called a squatter. You’re sleeping on my sofa, remember.” She wheeled around toward her bedroom.
“Then maybe you should call me Alex.”
She had taken hold of the doorknob when she started to turn back, then decided against it. She might not be able to keep herself from hurdling the sofa bed and strangling him. How dare he bait her. She was no hypocrite. She didn’t intend to call her worst enemy by anything as intimate as his first name, and he knew it. Especially not after he had suggested it. Too angry to trust her voice, she squeezed the doorknob until her knuckles whitened.
The silence between them grew heavy with tension. “Mr. D’Amour,” she managed to say at last, “don’t ever again wander around my inn—naked.”
Elissa couldn’t recall a time when her luck had been worse. As she opened her door the next morning, she found herself facing the obnoxious Alex D’Amour. His bed had been folded into a sofa again and he was dressed in a pair of jeans, work boots and a burgundy turtleneck sweater. He didn’t look much like a high-powered California lawyer, today. When he noticed her, he spread his arms, palms up. “Okay?”
She frowned, puzzled. “What?”
He grinned. “I’m not naked.”
Her cheeks blazing, she broke eye contact and barreled toward the stairs. “Mr. D’Amour will you please stop harassing me?”
“Harassing you?” He fell into step beside her. “I thought I was making a joke.”
She reached the door at the bottom of the stairs before giving him a look that would ignite coal. “I don’t want to joke with you, Mr. D’Amour,” she said determinedly. “I don’t want to speak to you. I don’t want to see you. Does that make our relationship quite clear?”
His pleasant expression fading, he watched her for a strained moment before he took hold of the doorknob and turned it. “Quite clear, Miss Crosby.” Stepping back he allowed her to precede him. “I’m going to need a table. My contractor is coming by this morning with the remodeling plans.”
Much to Elissa’s dismay, he kept up with her on the stairs. Her shoulder brushed his arm several times and his scent was hard to miss in the confined stairway—something like tobacco with a trace of cedar. She inhaled deciding the scent was pleasantly manly. What a shame it was wasted on Alex D’Amour.
“Miss Crosby?” Hearing him speak pulled her back. She glanced his way as they reached the top of the stairs. “A table?” he repeated.
She was startled that she’d let her mind drift away. With a disgruntled exhale, she faced him. “In the parlor there’s a bridge table in the comer that isn’t used often.”
He nodded. “I’m sure I can find it. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Don’t worry.”
They were in the short hallway where the basement staircase faced the back door. To their left was the kitchen, to the right was the staircase hall and dining room.
“Something smells good,” he said.
Ignoring him, Elissa turned into the kitchen where every burner on the stove held a steamy pot or pan. Somehow, Bella managed to feed twelve to fifteen guests breakfast every day and still keep the kitchen spotless. Elissa glanced around at the familiar Monday morning fare: blueberry waffles, sausages, scrambled eggs, choices of juices, coffee or tea. It smelled like heaven in the homey kitchen. Elissa greeted the plump cook with as carefree a wave as she could manage. “How’s it coming, Bella? Full house?”
Bella chortled, swiping her forehead with the hem of her starched apron. “Yes, ma’am. You know how it is here at Christmas. So much to do, everybody wanting to get up and out and about.”
Elissa knew all too well. In Branson the Christmas season was their busiest, next to summer. By many it was considered the best time to visit, with their Ozark Mountain Christmas and spectacular Festival of Lights. And with two hundred factory outlet stores, the Ozark’s “Little Las Vegas” was a Mecca for Christmas shoppers. Elissa had grown to love the holidays in Branson, with its quaint, country appeal. The idea of having to leave tore at her.
Bella said something, and Elissa tried to refocus on business. “Yes?”
“I said half the guests were waiting for me at seven. So most everybody’s already eaten.”
Elissa glanced at her watch. “Really? It’s only seventhirty now.”
Bella’s lilting chortle filled the warm kitchen. “I guess we don’t have any late-sleepers this week.”
Elissa managed a smile. “Then, you’ll get a nice long break this morning.”
Bella nodded. “I plan to put my feet up, have some coffee and daydream.”
“Have any of the guests signed up to be here for dinner tonight or are they all staying in town?”
“Town,” Bella said with a smile. “Except for that charming Mr. D‘Amour. He’ll be here.” Shuffling to the stove, she stirred a fresh batch of eggs. “Nice intimate dinner, just you two. A pleasant way to get to know your neighbor, don’t you think?” Shifting back, her expression grew expectant. “Fine looking man, that Mr. D’Amour. And so rich. You two make a handsome couple, I’d say.”
Elissa blanched, peering over her shoulder to see if the “fine looking” man in question was standing there. For once luck was with her. Apparently he’d gone to join the others in the dining room. Breathing a sigh, she glanced at her cook, trying not to show her aversion to the idea of eating alone with the man. “Oh—Mr. D’Amour is just a—a—new neighbor, Bella. That’s all there is to it.”
The cook didn’t appear convinced, but glanced away as the waffle iron light indicated another batch was done. “Of course, Miss Elissa, now you go on and have yourself some breakfast.” She waved a spatula toward the dining room. “There’s only that cute Thoron couple and the Parracks left. And—” Bella shambled over to get the waffle serving plate off the kitchen table, glancing at Elissa “—and your new neighbor.” She smiled shrewdly, and Elissa didn’t like the look of it. Clearly the fact that Mr. D’Amour was sleeping in the basement had started the gossip going among the help. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Did they think she was having a quickie affair with a man she’d just met? Well, that couldn’t be helped. She supposed it was better than having them panicking