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“You’ve said.”
My face feels like it’s on fire despite the cold. “You see, I’m supposed to be spending the holiday with a Lucy Emerson.” His face gets tense, and I feel hope rise inside me. “Do you know Lucy?”
“You’re supposed to spend Christmas with Lucy Emerson?”
“I am.” I nod. “Is she perhaps a neighbor of yours and her driver mistakenly dropped me at your door instead?”
His mouth twists into a deeper scowl, and I’m pretty sure he grinds his teeth before he pitches forward to grab for my bags, dragging them roughly into his house. My heart lurches as he pins that dark, harsh gaze on me again. “Come in. Not gonna sort this with you standing on my porch in this blizzard. I’m losing heat.”
“Oh.” I step quickly inside. “Of course.”
He closes the door behind me, and I feel—things.
His home is lovely.
If I could paint myself a dream, it would be this house in these mountains right here. I would change not a single thing.
And, oddly enough, the man scowling down at me with his large arms folded over his large chest makes me feel things too.
Fear? Definitely.
Curiosity? Most assuredly.
Interest? Possibly.
Attraction?Absolutely.
Even through all of that, I sense thathedoes not likeme.
Not at all.
ChapterTwo
Nick
Lucy Emerson is a meddling wench. She's also my mother. I should have known when she appeared with the groceries. All the stuff I would never buy, like chocolate chips and flour, icing sugar and a waffle iron. What did I need a waffle iron for? She even had bricks of cream cheese. They're stacked in my fridge, more than I’ll ever eat in a year. She bought wine, not that I didn’t have wine. I did. Both red and white. But she bought pink shit. Bubbly shit. Shit I’d never drink. Not ever.
I should have known when she arrived with the feminine sheets printed with watercolor roses for the bed in my guest bedroom. And the new duvet, currently sitting on the guest bed like a cloud covered in a warm cream cover. I should have known then. I’d even had the sense to question her as she fluffed the pillows, the bed magazine ready. She’d declared with a hand to my chest that she was tired of sleeping on worn flannel when she visited. Not that she visited often. And what the hell was wrong with flannel? She’d never complained before.
I should have known. Should have suspected something was off, that she was up to something. Something I wouldn’t like. And I don’t like this. Not at all.
I’m not a man of conversation. I’ve never been a man of conversation. Not even before the accident, but especially not now. I bet Dad knew about this. I bet he knew just what she was up to, and he didn’t bother to tell me. To warn me.
I bet he knew this woman would be dropped on my doorstep like a lamb brought to the slaughter, and he did not a thing to stop it.To save her.
I’m not a man women are comfortable around. I haven’t been for three years. After the accident—after I was deformed—I’ve kept mostly to myself. If Patricia, a woman who’d accepted my ring on her finger, a woman I’d been planning the rest of my life with, a woman who claimed to love me couldn’t handle looking at me, why would I think any other woman would?
Thinking of Patricia makes me feel sick. Now, I'm pissed.
I’m pissed because this woman is here. This tiny woman with that mass of brown hair that shines like molasses in firelight, with her rosy, red cheeks and bright, caramel brown eyes has been dropped on my doorstep and I don’t know what to do with her.
I know what I want to do with her. I know what any red-blooded man would want to do with her.
I also know that the sight of me sickens her.
Jesus, having her here is going to be painful. It’s already painful. And that pisses me off more.
What am I supposed to do with her?I can't send her away. Not in this blizzard. She doesn't even have a car. Mom made sure of that, having Bruce drop her off.
