Christine Flynn - Her Holiday Prince Charming

“I have a friend on the way to help with the heavy stuff,” he announced. “You and I can take care of the rest of it.” Pushing up his sleeves, he motioned to an overstuffed, roll-armed, oatmeal-colored chair blocking a bedroom set. “Where does that go?”

Beneath a dusting of dark hair, his forearms were roped with sinew and muscle. They looked every bit as strong as she imagined them to be, but it was his left arm that had her staring. A silvery scar, hook shaped and wide, slashed from wrist to elbow.

“Just part of a collection. Caught a jib line when it snapped,” he said, seeing what had her attention. “It couldn’t be helped.” His glance slid pointedly to the sore spot on her arm. “Unlike banging yourself up trying to move something you had to know was too heavy for you.

“So where do you want it?” he asked. “The living room?”

His presumption made her let the table reference go.

“You don’t need to do this.” Part of a collection, he’d said. He had more injuries like that? “And you definitely didn’t need to call your friend.”

Unease over what he’d done had collided with a hint of concern for the scar. Or maybe what he saw was embarrassment warring with interest. Whichever it was, he could practically see her struggling to decide which should take precedence as she moved with him toward the chair. The process, he thought, was rather fascinating.

“Yeah,” he muttered, undeterred. At least she now had some color in her cheeks. “I did. I can’t get those dressers up the stairs by myself.”

“I meant, you didn’t need to impose on him at all. I can’t ask you to do this,” she stressed, only to have him hand her the chair’s seat cushion.

“You didn’t ask,” he pointed out.

“You know what I mean,” she muttered back, arms wrapped around the awkward bulk.

“What I know is that there’s no way to go over the inventory when we can’t even get to it. So, yeah. I do need to do this.” Challenge lit the chips of silver in his steel-gray eyes as he pulled one of her arms free and handed her the wide back cushion, as well. His glance slid to her biceps. “You’re skinny, but you have more muscle than I’d thought. This’ll go faster if you help.”

Over the tops of the pillows, Rory could have sworn she saw challenge shift to a smile. Too disconcerted by him and what he’d done to stand there and make certain of it, she turned with the cushions and headed for the door.

She’d admit to having lost a couple of pounds in the past year or so, but no one had called her skinny since sixth grade.

“Which room do you want the twin bed in?” she heard him call.

“The one next to the master,” she called back.

She had no intention of arguing with him. Not just because she didn’t want to appear difficult. Or because he had a valid point about not being able to get to the inventory. As unsettled as her life felt—would always feel, she feared—getting the visible chaos under control would be huge. Tyler having his own bed that night would be nice, too.

Focusing on her son distracted her from the man carrying up her little boy’s bed. For all of five minutes. The moment Tyler saw his bookshelf going up the stairs, he wanted to help. Wanting to keep him out of Erik’s way, since she was trying to stay out of it herself, she waited until the piece was in place, then put him to work filling the shelves with his toys. While Erik moved on to tackle the living room furniture, she carried in lamps, pictures and, now that she could get to it, her box of potted herbs for the kitchen windowsill.

They didn’t work together so much as they worked around each other. Erik clearly just wanted to get the job done so he could get on with the job he was there to do. Hating how she’d inconvenienced him, she just wanted to get it done, too.

* * *

An hour later, she’d returned to the base of the stairs for the rolled-up dinosaur posters she’d left there when muffled male voices drifted from inside the store.

“No way is this thing going up the stairs,” she heard Erik insist. “Not without a saw.”

“She might take exception to that,” came the sensible reply. “How about through the bedroom window? Aren’t there picture windows on that side of the house?”

“We’d have to take the window out and bring over a crane, but it might be doable. The boys could load the EZ-Rig on a trailer and one of them can drive it over.”

“That would do it.” The unfamiliar voice paused. “There just isn’t enough time to do it today. Not if you want the rest of this cleared out. That party starts at six.”

Not totally sure what had the men talking about bringing in heavy equipment, equally concerned by mention of a prior obligation, Rory left the posters and poked her head inside the store. In the bright overhead lights, she saw Erik facing the large cherry armoire that blocked one of the grocery aisles. He stood in profile to her, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his wide brow furrowed.

He seemed totally occupied with logistics. She just couldn’t see whom he was talking with. Whoever it was remained hidden by the sizable piece of furniture.

Needing to remove the apparent complication, she scooted past the checkout counter. “If it can’t be carried up, just leave it. Or move it out of the way if you need to. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.”

Erik’s glance caught hers as an athletic-looking male in worn denims and a plaid flannel shirt stepped from behind the armoire. The man had a scant inch on her mentor in height, which put him in the range of six-three or so, and the same imposing, broad-shouldered, leanly muscular build that spoke of intimate familiarity with hard physical work. Or a gym.

Beneath his wavy, wood-brown hair, his eyes narrowed an instant before he smiled. That smile seemed as easygoing as the man himself when Erik introduced him to her as Pax Merrick.

“My business partner,” Erik added.

Pax reached out. “And partner in crime.”

Shaking her hand, he gave her a quick once-over, the kind men who enjoy women often do, along with a rakish wink. “We go back a long way. You’re Rory,” he said, sparing his partner the introduction, along with whatever he could have added about their apparently extensive history.

Her glance bounced between the two unquestionably attractive, undoubtedly successful, probably rather fearless males. With the sense that their history might be rather intriguing, she offered Pax an apologetic smile of her own. “I’m really sorry to cut into your day like this.”

“Not a problem. He’d do the same for me,” he admitted, eyeing her with no small amount of curiosity. “You’re really taking over this place?”

Something in the man’s tone gave her pause.

“I am,” she replied. “Why?”

“It’ll seem really different, is all. I used to hang out here with Erik when we were kids. We built our first boat in Gramps’s garage down there. And this store... It was just the Sullivans here all those years. They had sort of a mom-and-pop thing going,” he explained, looking her over as if to verify some preconceived impression. “Down-to-earth. Comfortable, you know? I never thought about it being run by someone...”

Like you, she was sure he’d been about to say, only to be cut off by the quick-but-subtle slicing motion Erik made across his own throat.

“...else,” he hastily concluded. “But if Erik’s going to teach you the ropes,” he hurried to add, “I’m sure you don’t have a thing to worry about. The guy’s got the patience of Job.”

Meaning he thought she was going to require...what? she wondered, swinging her glance to Erik. Patience of biblical proportions?

Erik pointedly ignored her. “Are you going to help me move this, Merrick?”