Christie Ridgway - Can't Fight This Feeling

“Plan fund-raisers?” At his nod, she shook her head. “I was actually an international finance major in college. I had the mistaken idea that studying the subject might win my father’s approval and that he’d then bring me into his business.”

Somewhere along the line, Brett had learned her father was a well-known and wildly successful hedge-fund manager, whatever the hell that was. “But he dashed your hopes?”

“All for the best,” she said, waving a hand and directing her gaze back to her drink. “I’m not suited for that kind of risk, and it turns out I like to keep myself busy with more tangible activities.”

“I have a degree in landscape architecture,” he heard himself say. “But I can’t stand being cooped up in an office for so much of the day, sitting at a desk. So I don’t design landscapes as much as put my hands on them.”

She looked up, her eyes widening. “Oh.”

His voice turned dry. “Not quite the uneducated country bumpkin you thought, huh, uptown girl?”

Her brows slammed together. “It wasn’t that. I was surprised you managed to share three sentences about yourself.”

God, there he went again. If he could manage it, he’d kick his own ass. “I—”

“And that we might actually have something in common.”

That shut him up. All he’d been doing since the moment he’d caught sight of her the very first time was telling himself they were opposites in every—wrong—way. He’d used that thought as a wedge, a shield, an impenetrable wall that prevented him from eating her cookies, from asking her out to dinner and from doing what he really, ultimately wanted—taking her into his bed.

He rubbed his hand over his hair, aware she was studying him. Suppressing the urge to touch his scars, he wondered what she thought of them. What she’d think if she knew that he liked them as a reminder of important lessons learned.

“So...” she said now, a thread of amusement in her voice. “That’s quite a filing system you have.”

Glancing up, he enjoyed the way her small smile curved her lips. “You’d think six years in the army would have drilled organization into my marrow, but the minute I got out, I went back to sloppy paperwork.”

“You were in the service?”

“Tenth Army Mountain Division.”

“Mountain,” she said. “That must have significance.”

“It was formed during World War II for warfare in the Alps. The civilian ski patrol was used for recruiting purposes, and they found soldiers on the slopes and in ski clubs all over the States. Those same soldiers developed skiing as a vacation industry after the war.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do.” He sipped at his chocolate. “Our grandfathers came back and laid out the ski runs and designed the lifts and operated the ski schools that this area became known for. So when mountain kids join up, the Tenth is tradition.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“Fort Drum, New York. But I spent time in Florida and a year in Afghanistan.” Just saying the word brought the whop-whop sound of choppers into his head, the taste of red dust to his tongue, the pungent scent and the oily feel of blood onto his skin. Pushing it from his mind, he rubbed his hand over his hair and switched subjects. “When my time was up, I was ready to come home.”

“No career as a military man for you?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to get away for a while, save some money. But my life is here in my mountains with my family. So I started my business, thus giving birth to my really lousy filing system.”

“You can get help for that, you know.”

“Yeah. And I’ll have to hire someone and a crew eventually, after I sweat out a bit more of my restlessness and start soliciting design work. Maybe next year.”

“Until then, paper chaos.”

He shrugged. “I had a part-timer working in my office at the end of the summer. But then high school started and she’s much too busy for me now.”

At her raised brow, he added a little more. “Kid’s a whiz with just about everything. She’s my sister Shay’s stepdaughter-to-be.”

“Your sister’s getting married?”

“Two out of the three of them. Both Shay and Poppy.”

She opened her mouth, but he pointed at it before she could get a word out. “Don’t ask me a damn thing about the weddings. I make it my job not to absorb a word they say about them.”

“You don’t approve?”

“The men they’re marrying, Ryan and Jace, are great. It’s the constant chatter about dresses, rehearsals and seating arrangements that make me want to bash my brains in with a shovel.”

“Something else we have in common. I’m not a big fan of weddings, either.”

Okay, now she surprised him .

“Don’t look so shocked. Not every woman dreams of that big day. Between them, my parents have been married seven times. For all but the first, of course, I’ve been standing by in something itchy or ugly, pretending I believe they’ll have a happy-ever-after.”

“Seven divorces then?”

“Six. My mother’s still married to her current, though I doubt they’ll last.” She gave a little shrug.

The small, indifferent gesture felt like a punch to the gut. For some reason he’d assumed she was like his little sister Poppy, who walked through life with stars in her eyes. She wore her open heart and her belief in happy endings right there on her sleeve.

But Angelica had a more jaded view and it wasn’t sitting well with him. Just as he’d felt compelled to chase away her chilled hands with hot chocolate, now he wanted to gather her up and soothe those old hurts he sensed.

It was a damn dangerous urge, because going soft for a woman was a sure way to get himself crushed.

Had that T-shirt.

Brett looked down at the table. Their cups were drained, meaning it was time to move on and move her out of his life. He hitched back his chair and she immediately took the hint and rose from her own. He stood, too, and they were close enough that if he had all the time in the world he could count each one of her luxurious lashes.

We’ll likely never see each other again.

With that in mind, maybe he could kiss her.

His hand drifted toward her. He snagged an errant lock of hair with his forefinger and brushed it away from her cheek. Her color heightened and he saw her fight a shiver—and lose.

Hell. He closed his eyes a moment, willing himself to keep still. But her visceral response to his touch only made him want more...more access to her hair, her skin, her body. More opportunities to watch her react to his hands on her, his mouth on hers...

Opening his eyes, he saw she was staring at his shirt buttons, hard. Her fingers were curled into fists and as he watched, she swallowed. “Time to go,” she said.

Neither of them moved. That weight was back, anchoring him to the floor, slowing his heartbeat to a funeral dirge. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” She edged back, now far enough away that it would take effort to claim that kiss he shouldn’t be thinking of. Smart girl.

He cleared his throat. “That ghastly pile of paperwork is waiting for me.”

She glanced up. Their gazes caught. “You know, maybe I could...” Her voice trailed off.

The sentence didn’t need to be finished for him to understand the half-spoken offer. And why she’d stopped herself. Unless they went separate ways, their certain collision wouldn’t end pretty. Yes, a very smart girl.

“No,” he said. “You’re not suited for that kind of risk, either.”

Brett might as well have been saying those words about himself.

* * *

ANGELICA WALKED WITH Glory from the parking lot to the headquarters, and museum, of the Mountain Historical Society. It was a stucco bungalow seated among tall pines and partnered by the blacktop parking area made bumpy by roots that had caused deep ruts and sudden swells. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be very much fun this evening,” she warned her friend. “I should have stayed home.”