Barbara Dunlop - Hitched For The Holidays - Hitched For The Holidays / A Groom In Her Stocking

“He’s staying until Christmas!”

He heard the distress in her voice and forgot his own petty annoyance.

“What?”

“You heard me.” She finally took the flowers out of his still outstretched hand, but made no move to do anything with them.

“Now what do we do?” he asked.

“I have to tell him the truth. It was bad enough deceiving him when he was halfway across the country and too busy to poll everyone he’s ever known for potential husbands. I can’t keep it up another…”

She used her fingers to calculate.

“Another five and a half weeks, longer if he doesn’t leave right after Christmas.”

“He won’t be happy when he hears it.” In the short time he’d known Wayne Ryder, even he could be sure of that.

“No.”

She stared at the bouquet in her hand as though just noticing it.

“Thank you for the flowers.”

“You’re welcome, but maybe it would be better if I leave now.”

Surprisingly, he didn’t want to go, but didn’t know why, even though the situation was definitely getting complicated.

“Stay. Please. Dinner’s nearly ready. All I have to do is cook the pasta.”

“If you’re sure…”

He tried to conceal his relief at not being sent on his way. Later he’d try to understand it.

“Anyway, you haven’t told me what I need to be doing for your mother’s fund-raiser committee.”

“So far I’m supposed to pick up donations the merchants have promised. Prizes, food. Mostly last-minute stuff. But if you’re going to tell your father about us, you don’t have to help.”

“Let’s talk about it later.” She managed a weak smile. “Sorry we can’t eat outside. I had to bring the patio table into the living room to use as a computer table. I’m doing my work after he goes to bed. I’ll get the noodles started now.”

“Can I help?”

“You can set the table. Plates and stuff are in the dishwasher. I haven’t had time to unload it.”

He took two heavy white stoneware plates with green bands from the dishwasher and arranged them on opposite sides of a small kitchen table. Trying to keep his mind on his task, he arranged flatware on either side of each plate and folded yellow paper napkins from a basket on the counter.

Without looking at her, he was fully aware of everything she did. He could track her by scent alone, a delicate floral fragrance that somehow permeated the garlicky smells in the kitchen.

She walked over and inspected the table, making it impossible not to notice her eyebrows. They were thin but angled in an impish way, well worth the time her father claimed was spent on them.

“We could renegotiate our deal after dinner,” he suggested cautiously.

“No, don’t even think about keeping up this charade. I don’t want you to keep pretending because you feel sorry for me. I got myself into this mess, and I’ll get myself out.”

“Without hurting your father?”

“Low blow.”

She was gorgeous when her brows arched and her lips formed a pouty little scowl.

Face it, he thought with irritation, she was gorgeous all the time. He’d noticed that the first time she walked into his office with Peaches.

“None of my business,” he mumbled by way of apology. “Remember the first time you brought Peaches for a checkup? You gave me a hard time about stepping onto the scale with her. I still remember what you weigh.”

“You don’t!” She stopped, dropping dry pasta into boiling water before facing him with pursed lips.

“One hundred sixteen pounds.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“It’s a perfect weight for you. You’re only five feet tall.”

“Five-foot-three,” she said indignantly, then quickly reacted to his teasing with a broad smile. “You’re not exactly a basketball prospect yourself. What are you? Five six or eight?”

“Six foot even.”

“With platform soles.”

“Never wear them. Barefoot.”

“Hair standing up straight?”

“No, my usual baby blond curls.”

They both laughed. At least their silly argument had broken the ice. They could talk about something other than her father over dinner.

By her own admission, the spaghetti sauce came from a glass jar, the salad from a cellophane bag and the lemon bars from a package mix, but it was arguably the best dinner he’d had in years.

“How do you make canned sauce taste like this?” he asked. “When I use it, it’s like lumpy tomato sauce.”

“I add fresh green peppers, mushrooms and onions plus my secret seasonings.”

“Which you’re not going to share with me?” He pretended to be mad.

“Maybe, but it’ll cost you.”

There it was again. Even when they were kidding, everything between them was a deal. Just once he’d like to have a real date with her, the kind that ended in some serious smooching, some passionate petting…

He watched her nibble at her lemon bar, breaking off tiny bites with a fork and slowly savoring the tangy-sweet morsels. He finished his, decided against seconds although he was tempted, and kept his attention riveted on her mouth. It was small, but her lips were naturally pink and full. Could they possibly feel as sensual as they looked? He’d like to kiss her for real, nuzzle the lobe of her ear below her silky dark hair, and find the spots where she’d subtly splashed perfume.

She put the fork down with a small segment of lemon bar still on her plate. Why did women do that, leave the final bite when they’d already consumed enough calories to tweak the scale the next morning? Why not go all out and lick the plate clean?

“Are you going to waste that?” he asked, staring at her plate.

“Not if you want it.”

She speared it with the fork tines and held it out like a lure. He rose slowly from the chair, leaned across the table, opened his mouth and snapped it shut on air. She’d snatched it away with the quickness of a blinking eye.

“Tease!” he accused.

He walked to her side of the table. She stood up still tempting him with the bite of lemon bar.

“Do you really think you need more?” she asked.

He’d never seen this flirty side of her, and he liked it.

“Are you my calorie counter, my nutritionist, my mother?”

“Definitely not your mother. I just don’t think that little bulge of yours should get any bigger.”

“What bulge?”

He looked down even though he knew his waist and belly were lean and hard from lots of running.

She laughed, a ripple of pleasurable sound.

“You’re an evil girl.”

“Twenty-eight is hardly a girl.”

“Still a child.”

“Like you’re an old man!”

“Thirty and then some.”

“Aside from one bad engagement, why are you still available, Dr. Kincaid?”

“I’m not.”

He enjoyed the flicker of disappointment in her eyes.

“I’m seriously seeing a hot little number who likes to reform men.”

“Do you need reforming?” She backed away, bumping into the refrigerator and could retreat no farther.

“No, I’m pretty much perfect.”

“No ego, either.”

“Humble to the core.”

Placing both hands on the fridge, he hemmed her in. The white door was cool, but he wasn’t.

“I was only kidding,” she said softly.

“Kidding is good. Kissing is better.”

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and he took that as a yes.

He’d kissed her for show, for her father’s benefit, but this one was all for him, slow and soft until she leaned forward and melted into his arms.

“I didn’t expect…” she murmured as he slid his lips to the skin below her ear.

“I didn’t plan…” she whispered a tad breathlessly.