Christine Flynn - Her Holiday Prince Charming

She wouldn’t look at him again. She seemed to know what he’d seen, and felt totally embarrassed being so exposed. A huge burden was being lifted from her slender shoulders, but she wasn’t letting herself feel the relief of that weight. It appeared that admitting the scope of that relief would be admitting how truly desperate she’d begun to feel. So she just kept it all in, as if that was what she’d become accustomed to doing anyway, and turned to the women.

With a choked little laugh, she said she had no idea how to thank them.

Leaving her to figure it out, he looked to the matriarch running the show, thanked her for the coffee and headed for more familiar territory.

He’d given his word that he’d help. And he would. He never promised anything he didn’t intend to deliver. But when he showed up for the meeting Phil arranged for him with Rory the following Wednesday, he discovered something about his charge that he hadn’t anticipated.

The young widow with the sweet, sharp little boy might have looked as fragile as sea foam, but she had a stubborn streak as wide as Puget Sound.

Chapter Three

Erik hesitated at the store’s front door. For years he’d simply walked in when the business had been open. After his grandparents had moved, he’d let himself in with his key. Since the sale had closed two days ago, he no longer had the right to come and go as he pleased from a place that had been part of his life for as long as he could remember.

The odd sense of having been displaced lingered as he rapped his knuckles on the frame of the screen door, and promptly disappeared the instant the inside door swung open. Even with her pretty features schooled into a smile of greeting, the unease in Rory’s guarded expression made him suspect she was already having second thoughts about what she’d taken on.

Or so he was thinking when she let him in and his glance cut from the black hoodie and yoga pants molding her curves to the furniture behind her.

It looked as if every possession she owned sat piled in the interior of the market. Bedroom sets, tables, chairs, boxes.

“You said you didn’t need any help moving in.”

Good morning to you, too, Rory thought. “I didn’t think I did,” she said, stepping back for him to pass.

Deliberately overlooking the accusation shadowing his rugged features, she crossed her arms over her hoodie and the teal turtleneck and thermal undershirt layered beneath it. She wanted to believe her shiver had more to do with the chill in the large space than with the big man in the waffle-weave pullover and charcoal cargo pants. After all, the thermometer by the dairy case did read forty-nine degrees.

The man should wear a coat, she insisted to herself. It was easily ten degrees colder outside.

She turned on her heel to lead him inside where it was warmer. “The college kids I hired were only available long enough to drive the U-Haul over and unload it into the market,” she explained, heading between the packing boxes that formed an aisle to the interior door. “It wasn’t until we got here that they told me they wouldn’t have time to carry everything to the rooms. They did take one of the beds upstairs, though.” The thud of heavy hiking boots echoed behind her. In running shoes, her footsteps barely made a squeak. “A mattress, anyway,” she qualified. “And a box of bedding.” That had been huge.

Spending the past couple of nights on a hard floor would have guaranteed even less sleep than she usually managed. Even with a reasonably comfortable place to rest, she’d spent most of both nights trying not to disturb Tyler and listening to the building’s unfamiliar creaks and groans while hoping to heaven she could make this store work.

“They’ll come back to finish sometime next week,” she continued, “so I’ve been taking in what I can by myself. Tyler’s helping.” Boxes too heavy to carry she’d emptied one armload at a time. The method wasn’t the most efficient, but she now had one bathroom in order and the kitchen organized, except for the table and chairs. The old refectory table weighed a ton. She knew—she’d tried to move it last night.

She chafed her arms along her sleeves, winced a little when she rubbed a spot above the elbow that now sported the bruise she’d earned in the attempt. She had a matching one on the back of her shoulder. No longer hearing Erik’s footfalls, she glanced around to see that he had stopped.

Across ten feet of worn plank flooring, she saw his dark eyebrows merge. “Isn’t the furnace working?”

“It’s working just fine.”

“Then why is it so cold in here?”

“Because I’m not heating this big space until I have to. Fuel’s expensive. By the way,” she added, gratitude slipping into her voice, “thank you for having the tank filled. You saved me from running out of oil.” She’d always had electric heat before. Not accustomed to an oil furnace, she hadn’t realized the need for fuel until the man who’d performed the building inspection Sunday had showed her the tank and pointed out the gauge.

“The driver of the truck wouldn’t leave an invoice,” she told him. “So if you’ll tell me what I owe you, I’ll give you a check.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No,” he insisted, “you don’t. Just think of it as a move-in present.”

He obviously considered the matter settled. There seemed no doubt of that as he turned away to ponder the height and breadth of the obstacles blocking his view of the back of the store.

As appreciative as she was for his thoughtfulness, she couldn’t accept his gift.

“Look.” Hugging her arms a little tighter, she stepped in front of him. “I’m already not sure how I’ll repay you for helping me get to know the store. I know you agreed to do it to help your grandparents sell this place,” she conceded, which meant his benevolence definitely wasn’t personal, “but I’d rather not be any more obligated to you than I already am. Or will be,” she qualified, because other than make her acutely aware of his reluctant and very male presence, he hadn’t done anything yet. “Okay?”

For a moment, he said nothing. He just let his deceptively easy glance slip over the quiet determination in her eyes before he headed to the checkout counter.

“Then don’t accept it as a gift. Accept it because I’d rather work out here with heat.”

Confusion preempted further defense. “I thought we were going to go over the inventory.”

“That’s the plan.”

He carried a briefcase. A rather hefty one of scarred butterscotch leather and straps with buckles that had far more character than the sleek, unscuffed ones carried by other men she knew. As he set it on the scratched counter, she could see his burnished initials, worn shiny in places, above the equally worn lock. A section of stitching on the side looked new, as if it had recently been repaired. The case was old, she thought. It had history. And part of that history seemed to say that he’d rather keep and care for what he had than replace it.

Not appreciating how he’d dismissed her attempt to establish an understanding, she didn’t bother to wonder why she found that so appealing.

“I thought we’d work where it’s already warm. Inside,” she pointed out, ever so reasonably. “We can sit at the island and go over the books in there.”

“I meant the physical inventory. The stuff that’s on the shelves and in the bins back there.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I have a printout of what came with the sale, but those items have been sitting around for a year. You’ll want to discount some of what you have and replace it with new merchandise. Things like sinkers, bobbers and leaders are fine, but creels and some of the stock that isn’t packaged looks shopworn.”