Julianna Morris - Callie, Get Your Groom

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 best for her date with Donovan. Mike mustn’t suspect she had anything on her mind but having a great time with his partners in Triple M Transit.

Besides, if nothing else, she was going to have a great time. They were terrific guys—Mike wouldn’t 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.