Wicked Christmas Nights: It Happened One Christmas. Leslie Kelly
Full, pink-lipped mouth.
Then there was the perfect, heart-shaped face. And oh, that hair. Thick and shining, with soft brown waves that framed her face, and curls that tumbled well down her back. There wasn’t a guy alive who wouldn’t imagine all that hair being the only thing wrapped around her naked body; well, except for his own naked body.
He stared, unable to do anything else. She’d been pretty from across the room. Up close, she was beautiful enough to make his heart forget it was supposed to beat.
“Excuse me?” she said, shaking her head lightly as if she couldn’t figure out what was happening. “What did you say?”
He cleared his throat. “I said, you need to use the right tool for the job. Electric knives are for cutting meat. Now what is it you were thinking about cutting through?”
“Meat,” she replied, then quickly clamped her lips shut.
He laughed, admiring her quick wit. “Beef or pork?”
“I’d say pork loin,” she replied, her mouth twisting a bit. “But I was joking. I definitely don’t need to cut any meat.”
“I figured,” he said. Without waiting for an invitation, he walked around the table and sat in the vacant chair, facing her. He told himself it was because he’d promised her friend he’d offer her some construction advice. In truth, he just wanted to look at her a little more. Hear her voice. See whether she had a personality to go with the looks.
Most guys his age probably wouldn’t care. Ross, though, did.
He might be young, but he wasn’t inexperienced. And he’d learned very early on that a pretty face and smoking-hot body were enough before hitting the sheets. But after that, if there wasn’t a great sense of humor, big heart and a brain to go along with the sexiness, he just couldn’t stay interested. Some of his old college buddies used to joke about being happy with tits-on-a-stick. Ross preferred a real woman, from top to bottom.
She seemed like she had a brain. Right now, though, he was wondering about that whole personality thing. Because she just kept staring at him, her face turning pink, as if she didn’t know what to say.
Or she was embarrassed.
Hmm. So maybe this wasn’t about some mystery project. Because the way she was blushing made him suspect she’d had something wicked on her mind.
More interesting by the minute.
“So, what is this big project?”
“Project?”
“Yeah. Your friend came over, told me you needed some advice on tools for a project you’re doing.”
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and closed her eyes for a second, then whispered, “I’m going to kill her.”
“Maybe that’s why she left—she needed a running start.”
“She left?”
“Yep. Right after she came to ask me to help you.”
Groaning, she shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”
“So, she was trying to set us up?”
“I think so.”
“What kind of friend does that?” he asked. “She doesn’t know me—what if I’m some kind of serial killer or panty thief?”
Her brow went up. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Either of those things?”
He grinned. “No on the first. I’ll take the fifth on the second until we get to know each other.” Certain he wanted that—to get to know her—he stuck out his hand. “I’m Ross.”
She eyed it, then reached out and shook. Her hand was small, soft. Fragile against his own. Having worked only with his hands for months, he knew he had calluses on top of blisters, but she didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, she was the one who held on for a moment, as if not wanting to let go.
Finally, though, she pulled away, murmuring, “Lucy.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucy.”
“You, too. Especially now that I know you’re not a serial killer.” She flashed a grin. “As for the other, remind me not to walk into Victoria’s Secret with you…wouldn’t want to get arrested as an accomplice.”
“What fun would there be in stealing brand-new panties?” Then, seeing her brow shoot up, he held up a hand. “Kidding. Believe me, stealing underwear isn’t my thing.”
“Helping mystery girls with mysterious projects is?”
“Uh-huh. Now, mysterious girl, back to the mysterious project.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Your friend made it up?”
She shifted her gaze, those long lashes lowering. “Not exactly. I was, um, wondering which tool to use to, uh, remove something. And she obviously thought it would be fun to bring you into my fantasies.” She gasped, staring him in the eye. “I mean, I wasn’t…it’s not that I was fantasizing about you!”
“Aww, I’m crushed.”
“If you knew the fantasy, you wouldn’t be,” she said, her tone droll.
“So why don’t you tell me?” he asked, only half-teasing. What did a beautiful young woman fantasize about? More importantly, who?
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
“Oh, trust me on this, I definitely do.”
She studied him for a moment, eyeing him intently as if to see if he was serious. Then, apparently realizing he was, she came right out and told him.
Now
Chicago, December 23, 2011
JUST BECAUSE ROSS Marshall hadn’t seen Lucy Fleming for six years did not mean he didn’t instantly recognize her. It did, however, mean his heart literally thudded in his chest and his brain seemed to flatline. The huge, open reception area of his office—decorated with lights and greenery—seemed to darken. It also appeared to shrink, squeezing in tight, crushing his ribs, making his head throb, sending him off-kilter. He couldn’t form a single coherent thought.
Well, maybe one. You cut your hair? He had the presence of mind to notice that the long, riotous curls that had once fallen well down her back had been tamed and shortened. Then everything just went blank.
She couldn’t be here, right? Could not possibly be here. This had to be a dream—he was still sleeping and she was visiting his nighttime fantasies, as she so often had over the years.
He couldn’t resist, needing to grab the moment before he woke up. He lifted a hand, put it on her shoulder, felt the solid, real person beneath the elf costume. She didn’t immediately pull away, and he leaned a little bit closer, breathing deeply, recognizing the scent that was uniquely Lucy. Not a perfume or a lotion or her shampoo. Just something distinctive and evocative that called to his memories, reminding him that she had been the one.
And he’d let her get away.
“You’re not dreaming,” she told him, her tone dry.
He dropped his hand and stepped back, needing to get his head back in the game. “Guess that means you’re not, either.”
“That thought did cross my mind,” she said, her big brown eyes inquisitive. “I certainly never expected to run into you, today of all days.”
He