Callie, Get Your Groom. Julianna Morris

      Chapter Two

      Enough?

      What did she mean by that?

      Remembering Callie’s old-as-Eve smile, Mike was afraid he knew. She hadn’t come to catch him as a husband; she’d come to spread her wings. It was natural, really. He’d never realized it before, but Callie was rather attractive. And thirty-odd years of living in Crockett as “the preacher’s daughter” would have been frustrating for anyone.

      Swell. Now he’d have to spend his summer making sure she didn’t do something he knew she’d regret. It was instinctive to protect her. Even the toughest kids in Crockett had watched their mouths around Callie. He’d seen street toughs pummel their buddies for stepping out of line around Preacher Webster’s daughter.

      Don’t say that. She’s holy, you jerk.

      And there was Callie…looking utterly disgusted at being called holy.

      Mike had to grin, remembering those days. He’d done it, too, cleaning up his language, making sure nobody stepped out of line with little Callie, and lumping her into the same category as kid sisters who were more trouble than they were necessarily worth.

      He could strangle Elaine for doing this to him. He’d phoned her right after getting back to the house, and received an innocent “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Callie is doing us both a favor. And this way she gets to see part of Alaska.”

      Favor?

      Right. His baby sister was matchmaking and he didn’t want any part of her little plan. Of course…it was nice that Callie could have a trip. She probably didn’t get a chance to travel very much.

      Sighing, Mike continued working. He’d been cutting the next winter’s supply of firewood before leaving to meet Elaine…and getting Callie instead. He would have flown to Anchorage himself, but Donovan had been returning from a hop to Fairbanks, so it hadn’t made sense to make an extra trip. Now he wished he’d gone. He could have turned Callie around and put her on a flight back to Seattle. But no, instead she was here, taking a nap in one of his bedrooms.

      Mike positioned a section of log on the chopping block and lifted his ax. It took a lot of wood to get through an Alaskan winter, though the weather wasn’t as harsh in Kachelak as it was farther north.

      Thwunk.

      The piece split in two, one of which was still too large to fit into the woodstove. He took the larger half and positioned it again, wishing his other problems were so easily solved.

      Sending Callie back to Seattle still seemed desirable, except there wasn’t much hope of replacing their office manager. Kachelak was a great location, but the population was small and already dedicated to their own pursuits; individuality flourished in the frozen north.

      He’d jokingly suggested that one of his partners get married and solve their labor dilemma that way. They hadn’t been amused, since they felt the same about marriage that he did.

      He swung the ax down.

      Thwack.

      The wood divided neatly and Mike tossed the two pieces onto a pile, then heaved another log to the block. He hammered a wedge into the grain and used a maul to do the initial split. The physical effort of cutting firewood usually helped focus his thoughts. Only, it wasn’t helping this afternoon.

      Callie Webster in a tube top.

      His mind still had trouble working around that one. It was blasted inconvenient having her stay in his house. A sister was one thing, an unrelated woman was another. He’d have to watch his mouth, put the lid down on the toilet and be pleasant in the morning.

      Mike hated mornings.

      He’d rather fly through an ice fog than get up and talk to anyone before 10:00 a.m. On the other hand, Callie probably made delicious coffee. She belonged to that incomprehensible species who rose at the crack of dawn and loved it. And from what Elaine had said, she was a terrific cook, one of her specialties being caramel pecan pancakes.

      Caramel pecan pancakes sounded very tasty, and they’d be even better for dinner, than breakfast. Maybe having Callie stay at the house wouldn’t be so bad. Lately he’d gotten real tired of his own cooking.

      Callie stepped onto the porch off her bedroom and took a deep breath. The air was fresh, redolent with the scent of the sea and whispering hemlock forests.

      Soon after they’d arrived, Mike had gone outside to work, muttering something about her taking a nap. She’d watched him chopping wood from the kitchen window…all masculine grace and power, muscles working fluidly beneath skin slicked with sweat. She still heard the solid thunk and whack of the ax striking, and Callie moaned softly, a restless ache in her breasts and stomach.

      Don’t think about it.

      Right. Like it was possible to think about anything else. She ought to be asleep, but her mind was too active. And her body…She shivered.

      Mike always did that…made her feel things, hot and fast, spinning inside like a whirling top. Inevitably Callie had compared every man to him. They’d always come up short.

      “Open your eyes, Michael Fitzpatrick,” she breathed. “You never really came back, so I came to you.”

      Finally.

      Everything had finally come together like the pieces to a murder mystery—means, motive and opportunity. And a dash of courage, because she’d been raised with the traditional idea that a woman didn’t chase a man; she waited demurely until he noticed her.

      Blying Sound glimmered in front of the house, which was perched high above the water out of sight from the town. It was a lovely place—the house old and solidly built, with at least five bedrooms.

      Perfect for a family.

      Callie smiled and leaned on the railing. Cool air brushed her arms and bare midriff, reminding her of Mike’s reaction to the provocative outfit.

      “Serves him right,” she murmured.

      It was about time he saw her as a woman, though the tube top might have been a little much. She’d shocked herself when she bought it. Maybe it wasn’t any more revealing than a bikini, but she’d never worn a bikini, either.

      She’d expected to blush like crazy the first time she was seen in public, yet it hadn’t worked out that way. The unadulterated male attention had been worth every embarrassed prickle. Not that she wanted to dress like that all the time—just for special occasions.

      It had taken her a long time to reach this point. Years of being the sweet-little-girl-next-door, of feeling guilty because she’d never loved Keith the way he deserved. She’d been cast in the role of a tragic, grieving not-quite-a-widow, returned home to care for her father because she had nothing else to live for. Her grief had been genuine, but not the shattering devastation her friends and family supposed.

      Another yawn widened her mouth and she strolled inside to inspect the big, comfortable bed. Maybe she should try to sleep. She wanted to look her