Callie, Get Your Groom. Julianna Morris
have gone into business with them if they weren’t.
Still, Mike was her reason for coming to Alaska, and she was gambling a lot on the plot she and Elaine had hatched—her heart most of all.
It was late in the afternoon when Mike sank his ax into the chopping block and decided to call it quits. Summer in Kachelak was pleasantly mild at best, yet perspiration had soaked his hair and body from the long hours of work.
Stopping at the refrigerator, he grabbed a bottle of iced tea and took a long swallow, then stuck his head under the faucet in the sink. Though chilly, it felt good. He scrubbed his upper body, sluicing water over his arms and chest.
“Mike?”
He jumped, bumping his head on the tap and swearing under his breath.
Jeez, he’d almost forgotten about his “houseguest.” A memory of round curves, faithfully outlined by fire-engine-red cotton, rose instantly before his eyes and he groaned. Well, he hadn’t exactly forgotten. But it was tough, reconciling his lifelong image of Callie with the woman who’d hugged him at the airport.
The clothes were a shock, yet the hug had been all Callie. Sweet, affectionate Callie, with the softest heart on the West coast, though as a kid he’d thought it was dumb and disgustingly mushy.
“Mike?” she called again. “Are you here?”
“In the kitchen.” He turned the water off and wiped his face with a dishcloth before turning around. Callie was standing in a pool of gold sunlight only a few feet away. “My God, what the hell are you wearing?” he demanded harshly, forgetting his earlier resolve to watch his mouth around her.
“A dress.”
“That isn’t a dress. It’s another tube top,” he snapped, slapping the towel onto the counter.
She ran the palms of her hand over the clinging black knit. Like the red top, it stayed in place with some kind of invisible magic—no straps, just a sheath of black that exposed her shoulders and a startling expanse of silky thigh encased in sheer black stockings.
“You’re exaggerating,” Callie said, undaunted by his frown. “This is a very stylish dress.”
“Take it off.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Donovan said I didn’t have to dress, but I’d rather have clothes on when he gets here. I don’t want him getting the wrong impression.”
“I…” To his amazement, heat crawled up Mike’s neck and he gritted his teeth. “That’s not what I meant. Go put on something else.”
“Why?”
Why?
What a dumb question.
His gaze traveled over the black “dress.” The fabric was so soft that anything beneath it would be outlined—like the lacy edge of a bra or panties. And except for a faint line about her waist, it was perfectly smooth, which meant she was only wearing those stockings. Mike broke out in another sweat.
No bra. No slip. No panties.
Though she still seemed to be waiting for an answer, Callie opened the refrigerator and bent over, examining its contents. Mike’s lungs froze as he imagined what he’d see if the skirt inched up another two inches. Or what Donovan might see…and touch.
Damn. He was losing his mind and it was all Callie’s fault. He’d been handed a stick of dynamite to protect. Why weren’t her brothers here, guarding her virtue? It wasn’t his job, yet he was stuck with it just the same.
“Do you mind if I have some milk?” she asked, straightening and holding up a carton.
“Sure. After you put on something decent.”
“This is decent,” she said coolly.
“It’s trashy,” Mike shouted furiously.
“Why you narrow-minded chauvinist jerk,” Callie hissed. “You’d think it was perfect if your date wore a dress like this, but it’s unacceptable for me. What a stupid double standard. I won’t be ordered around, not by you or anyone else.”
Mike already regretted his rash words. He knew better than to insult a woman’s clothes. And Callie didn’t look trashy; that was the problem. With her rich abundance of chestnut hair and that creamy complexion she looked like a dream. Classy and sultry at the same time—a combination unsettling to his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean that. But your father—”
“I’m thirty-one, Mike,” Callie said curtly. “Not a child. My father wouldn’t think of telling me what clothes to wear.”
“Yeah, but…”
Callie’s high heels clicked on the floor as she walked to the cupboard she’d examined earlier. She took down a glass and tried to control her temper. At the moment she was reconsidering the plot she’d hatched with Elaine.
Get married to Michael Fitzpatrick?
Right now she didn’t care if he dropped off the face of the earth, never to be seen again.
Trashy.
Ugh.
He had a lot of nerve. Was he forgetting she’d seen the type of girl he’d dated in high school? Granted, teenage boys weren’t usually attracted to “good” girls—and by all accounts his tastes had improved since then—but that wasn’t the point. If she went stark naked, it wouldn’t make her trashy. That came from the type of person you were.
“For your information,” she said, pouring the milk, “Elaine has practically this same dress, only it’s royal blue. She wore it to your parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary party two years ago. I don’t recall you throwing a fit over her looking trashy.”
“I don’t remember.”
From the expression on Mike’s face, she knew he was lying.
“Really?” Callie prompted. “You said she looked great. And my dad thought she looked charming. You seem to be more judgmental than he is.”
“I said I was sorry,” he muttered. “You don’t have to rub it in.”
Callie had every intention of rubbing it all over him. He wanted to keep seeing her as the prim preacher’s daughter, not as a woman. But she was unmistakably dressed like a woman, so she didn’t fit into the neat little role he’d cast for her to play…just like everyone else in Crockett. It was hard enough exploring the real Callie without him fighting her every step of the way.
She took a swallow of milk. “I just want things to be clear between us.”
“How clear would you like them to be?”
Mike crossed his arms over his stomach and stared at her grimly. His shoulders were broad, tanned and intimidating. A dark whorl of hair descended down his chest, narrowing until it was a thin line, disappearing beneath the top button on his jeans. Abruptly the muscles in Callie’s throat had trouble working, so she set the glass on the counter.
“You’re not my brother, Mike. And I stopped needing a guardian a long time ago.”
From the flicker of his eyes she knew she’d hit pay dirt. As long as he could object to her clothing like a brother, he was safe. He didn’t have to see her as anything but his sister’s friend—the preacher’s daughter who was expected to act and dress in a certain fashion.
Criminy. Mike had moved away from Crockett sixteen years ago to attend college and he still had the same ideas as the ninety-year-old widow who always sat in the same pew every Sunday. This was going to be even tougher than she’d thought, and a flutter of uncertainty hit her, stronger than before.
The sound of a vehicle driving up the hill only increased the tension in the air.
Callie