Julianna Morris - Callie, Get Your Groom

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 drew a deep breath. “That must be Donovan. I’d better go out to meet him.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t wait up for me.”

A bleak, frustrated anger filled his eyes. “Not a chance, doll.”

“Well…I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Whatever.”

Mike watched Callie leave, feeling like the ground had been ripped from under his feet. He didn’t know the woman who had just walked out of his house. She was a stranger in a black dress, high heels, and scented with the seductive fragrance of an expensive perfume.

Her legs couldn’t be as long as they looked—her head didn’t even reach the top of his shoulder. She had a body that wouldn’t quit, fiery green eyes and a set of wonderfully kissable lips.

A stranger.

“God, I’m losing it,” Mike muttered and grabbed his tea, draining the bottle. For the first time in his life he really needed a drink. He tried to remember if there was any alcohol in the house. Not being much of a drinker, he couldn’t remember.

None in the pantry.

And none in the refrigerator—not even beer. Mike slammed the door shut and scowled. A vision of Callie bending over and searching the interior made him choke. He backed away from the appliance.

Wait a minute.

He still had the bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch Ross had given him for his birthday. It was a shame to use fine whiskey for the sole purpose of getting smashed, but what the hell—it was medicinal.

The last time he’d gotten drunk was the traditional blowout after college finals. His last finals. Graduation. Freedom from cracking the books. Sometime in the middle of that evening he’d kissed the hottest girl on the face of the earth. He couldn’t remember her name, her face or where she’d come from, but he remembered that kiss.

That’s why he hadn’t gotten drunk since. Too many questions. Too much wondering if she was as hot as he’d thought, or if it was an alcohol-induced fantasy. A fantasy lady for a fantastic kiss.

Mike dropped onto the couch in his living room and poured himself a shot of the Scotch. He wasn’t “waiting up” for Callie, he was just enjoying a pleasant drink as he watched the view. He’d paid a lot for that view and was entitled to watch it anytime he wanted. For that matter, Callie had been awfully impressed with the entire house.

His eyes narrowed. She’d made it clear she didn’t want his protection, but if she came in crying, he’d make Donovan pay.

Hours later Mike was still “not waiting up.” The sun had set shortly after 10:00 p.m. They hadn’t reached the summer solstice yet, but it wouldn’t be long. A wide yawn split his mouth and he realized he was dead tired. They’d been pulling double shifts lately, trying to cover the office and fly and run the business at the same time.

“Mike, why are you sitting in the dark?” Callie asked from behind him.

The question made him jerk upright. He’d fallen asleep and hadn’t heard her come in. Mike lifted the bottle and blinked at it. Almost full. That’s right, he’d only had two drinks. Unfortunately the alcohol had gone straight from an empty stomach to his weary head.

“Just watching the view, doll.”

“In the dark?”

He tried to shake himself wider awake, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. “I’ll do it my way, and you do whatever you want. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”