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The next sound he made was a husky groan, and as if they’d been doing this for years, he took hold of the back of her head and brought her even closer to him. And with that maneuver, he fulfilled a whole lot of Emmy’s fantasies. Confirmed some things too.
For instance, he tasted as good as he looked.
Another for instance, he was really good at this.
His mouth moved over hers, taking, taking, and taking until reality must have set in and given him a knock upside the head because he stopped and eased back. Emmy saw the heat in his eyes. Felt it. But she also saw and feltsomething else.
The instantwhat the heck did we just do?regret.
Chapter 3
Well, hell,” Calen grumbled as he sat in his home office and debated if he should call the number he’d jotted down.
He repeated his grumble even as he was very much aware he’d been saying that phrase a lot in the past twenty or so hours. However, he figured there’d be at least a few morewell, hells before this situationfinally ended.
Or rather, thesesituations.
Because it wasn’t just one thing onhis plate now.
At least he didn’t have to go into work this morning, where he’d have to deal with a flood of calls from those worried about the mail. Instead, he was home, where he was ignoring the flood of calls and trying to decide if he should make a call of his own.
The toppled cowboy Santa, wet tourists, downed disco balls, and a mayor’s injured butt now seemed like annoying specks in the grand scheme of things. There was no way for such bad news specks to compete with Emmy kissing him or finding 212 letters and cards and thirteen packages that his father should have butdidn’t deliver.
Yes, Emmy’s kiss definitely ranked high up in the breaking news of the past twenty hours.
Not a bad thing, exactly, but not good either. After all, she hadn’t kissed him because of the relentless heat that they generated anytime they were together but because she’d been pissed at Sasha.
Too bad his body hadn’t gotten the memo that it was a kiss all for show, because certain parts of him had reacted. The brainless part of him behind the zipper of his jeans had thought it was the best idea ever and had urged him to dive back in for more kisses. He hadn’t, thank goodness. He hadn’t jumped headfirst right into that stupid pool and kissed Emmy as if there was no tomorrow.
Because therewas a tomorrow.
And he was darn sure he was going to need his best friend to get through all the stuff that was going on. The stuff that included him making this call and dealing with the cards that Vanessa Bozeman had sent Waylon.
Or rather,sent toDaddy.
There were twelve of them, and from what Calen had been able to tell by the postmarks and the occasional enclosed pictures, Vanessa had sent the first one when she’d been about six. The last had come two years ago, right before Waylon had died froma heart attack.
Calen wasn’t sure it was technically legal for him to open his father’s mail, but he’d justified it because he was Waylon’s next of kin. He’d also justified running a background check on Vanessa since she, too, might be next of kin. He’d discovered she was twenty-four, twelve years younger than he, and that she lived in San Antonio, where she worked in a bakery. She was also a widow, having lost her husband in a construction accident sixmonths earlier.
Before Calen could disgust himself with any more debates, he pressed in the number he’d gotten from Vanessa’s background check. It was nine in the morning, so he figured she’d be up and about.
His gut tightened while he waited. And waited. And waited. After six rings, the call went to voicemail, and he heard the recorded greeting.
“Hi, this is Nessa. I can’t take your call right now because I’m probably mixing up some sugary-sweet goodies that’ll double the size of your thighs and make you saymmm. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you. Happy holidays.”
The entire message was coated with plenty of glee, but the last two words were especially glee filled. So, this woman who was possibly his sister was a holiday lover. Strange, since she had to be going through her own crap anniversary. This was the first Christmas since her husband’s death.
He settled for saying, “Uh, this is Calen Jameson. Call me if you want to talk,” and clicked off.
Calen frowned, added anotherwell, hell, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the call because there was a knock on the door. A frantic one. Since he didn’t live in town but rather on the outskirts, it meant someone had driven out to his horse ranch, no doubt to ask him about the blasted undelivered mail. Cursing his father and everything else going on, he went to the door, prepared to tell whoever it was to get the helloff his porch.
But it was Emmy.
Emmy wearing snug dark jeans, boots, and a red sweater beneath her equally Christmassy-colored coat. Colors not chosen because of her fondness for the holiday but because the tourists preferred to buy books from someone who looked the part in ’Twas the Night before Christmas.
Bringing in the cold morning wind with her, she rushed in the moment he opened the door and then quickly closed it behind her. She peered out one of the sidelight windows.
“Someone might have followed me,” she muttered, shrugging off her coat.
