Robyn Carr - My Kind of Christmas

“I finished college. It’s a postgrad thing. But… How old do I seem? Because you undress me with your eyes. Skillfully. And at a great distance, too.”

He leaned toward her. “How old are you?”

“Almost twenty-six,” she said, straightening, sitting tall.

“How almost?” he pressed.

She took a breath. “Twenty-three.”

He groaned and looked down, shaking his head. “God. You’re younger than you look.”

“So how old are you?” she asked. “Forty?”

“Hey,” he said. “I’m thirty-three.”

She leaned her head on her hand, elbow braced on the bar. “Had a hard few years or something?”

“Whoa! You’re brutal!”

But Angie was really starting to enjoy this adventurous, flirty side of herself. This was certainly new territory for her, but she suddenly had the urge to explore it. “The way you look at me should at least be considered a misdemeanor. Or a proposal, I’m not sure which. But it didn’t feel that bad and I thought maybe if we talked…”

“What? You thought I’d ask you out on a date or something? Sweetheart, this is Virgin River. If we sit here and talk for even five more minutes, everyone in town will put us together.”

“Let’s take a chance,” she said, amazing herself. But then, she was on a mission. She wanted to know someone who she could relate to. Who could relate to her. And it sure didn’t hurt that Patrick Riordian was smokin’ hot. “Talking isn’t against the law.”

“What if I don’t feel like talking? You don’t want to mess around with the big bad wolf.”

“Do you feel like listening? Because I can always talk. And we have things in common, you and I.”

“I don’t feel like fighting off the vigilantes who’ll come down on me to protect your honor, so I think me going home right now is a better idea.”

At that, Angie smiled so big that Patrick actually leaned back slightly. “So!” she said. “You do like me!”

“How the hell would I know?” he barked at her. “I don’t even know you!”

“Then why do you watch me? Stare at me? Get mad when I suggest we spend a little time talking?”

“Because you’re a cute little sexpot, and while you might be old enough for this flirtation, I can tell you’re way too inexperienced for it, and you have a posse in town looking out for you and I don’t need any trouble! Believe me, I have enough trouble!”

She glanced down at herself. Old jeans with a torn knee, a pair of battered cowboy boots that she’d been attached to for years, khaki canvas jacket and an oversize white sweater—and no makeup.... She looked up at him and laughed. “Sexpot? Jesus! Are you serious?”

He pursed his lips and put his hands in his jacket pockets. “Serious,” he hissed.

“Well, holy shit, if this gets your motor running, I’m not going anywhere!”

“Angie…”

“You should see me when I get dressed up! I can look damn good.”

“Angie…”

“Patrick,” she mimicked.

Suddenly Brie was standing on the inside of the bar holding the coffeepot. She wordlessly refilled their cups without making eye contact and disappeared back to her table. Angie knew they were talking about her. She knew it and didn’t care.

“I have an idea,” Angie said. “Let’s just have a cup of coffee. Then we’ll reassess things. However, I have to warn you, I kind of like that you find me irresistible.”

“Did I say that?” he asked, a slight tint creeping up his stubbled cheeks. “I didn’t say that! I find you completely resistible.”

“Touchy, huh? Maybe you should have something a little stronger than coffee.”

He gave her a slow look, a full appraisal that made her warm, a feeling she couldn’t remember having before, and she liked it. She was growing more bold by the minute. Then with his eyes narrowed he said, “All right, we’ll have a cup of coffee. You’ll talk. Then I’ll head home and you’ll stop looking for trouble.”

She stared at him levelly. “Do women actually find you scary?” she asked.

* * *

Patrick couldn’t remember ever treating a woman like that, rudely looking her over, trying to make her uncomfortable to scare her off, running roguish eyes up and down the length of her. Especially a sweet young thing like Angie. In fact, he had always been the complete opposite, a gentleman to the core. Present circumstances had put a rough edge on him. Plus, his instincts told him it would be practical if not wise if she just didn’t get too close. He was a wreck without much to offer. The only woman who had his attention right now was his best friend’s widow, that’s how sad his life had become.

But Angie wasn’t easily discouraged. With a cup of coffee in front of him he said, “No young woman should come on to a man she doesn’t know, especially after being warned away from him by her protectors. That sort of thing could get you hurt.”

“Oh, stop,” she said. She took a sip of her coffee. “Jack and Preacher and Mike said they know you a little bit and are friends with your brothers. They all said you were troubled by something but no one ever suggested you were dangerous—I made that up to flatter you. So guess what? I might be troubled, too. You might think I’m a little nuts, but the truth is I wouldn’t mind having a friend who also has some things to sort out.”

He just stared at her. “And what might be troubling you, miss? Dropping out of some cushy college program?”

“Exactly right,” she answered. “But not because I was bored or disillusioned. I was in an accident and had to take leave. It was a medical leave.”

He was startled and it showed in his eyes. He might’ve overheard something about a hospital at the bar, but the details were vague right now. “What kind of accident?”

“The kind that means having rods and pins put in you and lands you in physical therapy for a few months.”

An image of Patrick’s brother, Colin, lying unconscious in a hospital bed, barely alive after a Black Hawk crash, came to his mind. He shuddered involuntarily. “What happened?”

“Well, I had to learn to walk, of course, but—”

“No, what kind of accident?” he asked, genuinely interested.

“Oh—a car accident. Three cars, actually. And what happened is still being disputed—the driver at fault was killed. She lost control of her car, jumped the median on the freeway and hit two oncoming cars, the one I was in and another. There was a witness who said she was cut off by a speeding car that didn’t stop. It was raining and the roads were slick. Another witness said there was no speeding car and that it looked like her car suddenly hydroplaned, like she lost control because of a flat or broken axel or something. Someone suggested she might’ve fallen asleep, but it wasn’t like she’d just come off a twelve-hour shift or anything—she was on her way out to meet a date for dinner and hadn’t driven far. I don’t remember much. I remember lights, sirens, my girlfriend crying—she had a broken ankle, a couple of broken ribs and a really badly shattered wrist, plus lots of bad bruises and cuts. They had to pry both of us out of the car. She remembers that—the sawing and crunching of metal—but I don’t.”

He was quiet for a moment, in something of a trance. “Man,” he finally said in a whisper. “One killed?”

“Yes, and the third car was a family with little kids, but thankfully they didn’t have any critical injuries. The kids were in their safety seats and they were in a big SUV. I feel terrible about the lady driver, though. There were no drugs or any alcohol involved. I think, in the end, what we have here is an accident.”

“And you were badly hurt,” he clarified.

“All banged up. I was in L.A. at the time, a student at USC, and my parents live in Sacramento so they jumped in their car right away. My dad drove like a bat out of hell so they could be there when I got out of surgery. My mom stayed with me for two months, until I could be moved home to complete my checkups and therapy. The whole time I was in L.A. there was a steady stream of aunts and uncles and cousins visiting to see how I was doing even though some of them had to travel a ways. I come from a big family and I’m the oldest grandchild. My grandpa was there several times. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the experience of looking like absolute shit and feeling even worse and having thirty or so people stare at you....”