The Majors' Holiday Hideaway. Caro Carson
countryman without hearing their accent first. She herself was rarely mistaken for any other nationality anywhere she went, although she couldn’t say what, exactly, made her look American.
In short, he was perfect, this Nicholas. When Helen had said your man, this guy had been who India had imagined. Helen had also said, It’s like fate.
India felt her stomach twist.
She needed food. There was half a loaf of bread in the ginormous new pantry. She put a couple of slices in the toaster and pressed the lever. She glanced around the brand-spanking-new kitchen with its brand-new appliances, then she turned back to the toaster and stared at the bread. There was nothing else to do, nothing to distract her from her thoughts.
From thinking about the way he’d laughed. That wink.
Her stomach twisted a little more.
Fate seemed kind of heavy. It was more like a wish that had come true. A fantasy had materialized in her friend’s garage. A sexual fantasy, no mistake about it, which had awakened parts of India’s body and brain that she’d been content to let hibernate while she’d fallen into an undemanding, platonic routine with Gerard-Pierre.
Her body was making demands now. She wanted to see Nicholas again.
And then what?
Good question. She was only here for a week. On Christmas Eve day, she was going to drive three hours to San Antonio to a bed-and-breakfast. Helen had booked it for herself and Tom, and she’d insisted India use their reservation. San Antonio was a great little tourist town, Helen had assured her, with the Alamo to visit and the River Walk to mosey along for shopping and dining. The morning of the twenty-fourth, the contractor was having some polyurethane work done on the floors and grout, and they’d need to leave the windows open to let out the noxious fumes, even though it was winter. India would be warm in the B&B instead.
India would be stir-crazy after a week of isolation, anyway, and Helen had known it.
But first, India would be here for a week. A week wasn’t long enough to develop a relationship with a man. India didn’t sleep with a man unless she was in a committed relationship.
Really? Because you were in a committed relationship, but you still weren’t sleeping with Gerard-Pierre.
Things had cooled off with Bernardo after she’d met his family, too. And Adolphus? They’d slept together, of course, after a few months of coffee conversations in bookstores. He preferred Saturdays, when he could spend the night without worrying about making it on time to work the next day. They’d had some nice Saturday nights, but frankly, he’d been more excited about exploring the possibility that she was his intellectual soul mate than he’d been about actually being a bedmate.
It had been okay. Sex was not the most important part of a relationship. India was certain that was true, but...
She’d had enough relationships without any sex. What would it be like to have sex without a relationship?
Knock first. I’ll let you in.
Promise? He’d winked at her, six feet of masculinity with a wicked smile.
India stared at the toaster for a few more seconds before she realized it wasn’t toasting anything. Feeling ten kinds of stupid, she plugged in the toaster.
Nothing happened. She moved the toaster to the other side of the stove, where there was another outlet. That one was dead, too.
She went into the garage and took a quick peek at the fuse box. None of the switches had been tripped. That meant the electrical outlets were dead for some other reason, and the problem was going to require a professional to take a look at it. Like, say, the general contractor.
What a perfect twist of fate.
India went back into the kitchen and dialed the contractor’s number. Oh, Nicholas? Come over and knock on my door.
A woman answered, but she sounded like a secretary. Please be a secretary. “Could you ask Nicholas to stop by 490 Cedar Highway today? The electrical outlets in the kitchen are dead.”
Then India abandoned the cold bread in favor of a hot shower and fresh clothes and a touch of makeup, because her outlets might be dead, but her libido no longer was.
* * *
Fabio was trying to kiss him.
No—he was trying to make out with him, hot breath and slobbery tongue dragging Aiden out of his sleep.
Aiden pushed away the dog’s head. “No means no, Fabio.”
The dog backed up a step on the mattress but kept staring at him, panting.
“Don’t look so hopeful. I’ve never had a thing for blondes.” Hadn’t he been dreaming of a brunette? Aiden squinted at the clock by his bed. Nine o’clock?
He stared at the numbers a moment, as if they couldn’t be right. Aiden hadn’t slept until nine o’clock in...hell, in at least four years. Even when he was stationed stateside at a staff job, as he was now, the army required him to be up at an earlier hour. He was awake, dressed in his PT uniform and ready for PT—physical training—by six on most mornings. If there was no PT, he was in the office by seven. On the days he was off, Poppy and Olympia were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed by seven o’clock, too, clambering onto his bed and chattering about whatever they were thinking about that minute, perhaps wondering if a teddy bear could be rainbow-colored or if Daddy could make pink grapes instead of green grapes. I don’t decide what color grapes can be.
Why?
They grow on vines. Daddy can’t make vines do things.
Why?
Because I’m not the boss of plants. Let Daddy brew some coffee.
Nine o’clock.
He’d forgotten about sleeping in. He hadn’t known his body was still capable of it—but it sure was. He rolled onto his back and ruffled the dog’s ear. It was the first silver lining of this week of enforced bachelorhood: sleeping late. He wouldn’t set an alarm for a week. He’d take the dog back to the neighbors’ house today and see if he slept later than nine tomorrow.
The neighbors’ house. India. Beautiful, gray-eyed India.
An awareness traveled over his skin, crossing his chest, his stomach, lower. He could call it lust, but it wasn’t anything as base as simply getting hard. It was a sense of electric anticipation, a sizzle of energy washing over all of his skin, waking up every inch of his body—his fingertips, his eyelids, his scalp. It was as if the image of her in his mind’s eye had all his senses reaching out, all the cells in his body searching for her.
He caught his breath at the foreign sensation. Too electric. Too aware. He sat up and pushed off the sheets.
The dog jumped off the bed and faced him, tail wagging in excitement.
“Let’s just call it lust, okay?”
Aiden could handle that. That, he remembered how to do. He’d taken a woman he’d known for a while to Dallas for a weekend...when? Months ago. She liked to say they were friends with benefits, but he’d still insisted on paying for the tickets to the Aerosmith concert. The dinner. The hotel room. Lust was basic—he could definitely handle that.
The dog barked once in approval. Aiden had sat up, so the dog wanted him to stand up. “I hear you, boy. Let’s get you fed and walked, and I’ll take you to meet your new house sitter.”
If anticipation prickled down his spine, touching each and every vertebra, it was simply lust.
He could handle it.
* * *
India was beside herself with anticipation.
She was on alert, ears