Michele Dunaway - The Christmas Date

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Tyler Nichols was a man used to being stared at.

At six foot three, with dark brown hair and a cheeky smile that some women claimed was almost as sexy as Brad Pitt’s, Tyler attracted the ladies the way nectar drew honeybees.

But the leggy brunette giving him the once-over didn’t have a chance of holding his interest this morning. Nor did a redhead as he strode on by, his expensive, though well-worn, leather camera case slung over his shoulder.

Tyler grimaced as a burly man brushed by him and bullied his way to the front of the line, as if being first meant he would get to the baggage-claim area faster. Perhaps the guy hadn’t learned everyone waited for the people movers at Orlando International Airport.

Welcome back to America, land of the Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, It’s All About Me mentality. Tyler glanced at his watch and grinned. Maybe the man had an early meeting and his flight had landed late. Tyler was actually ahead of schedule; no one expected him until December 3.

“That guy was pushy, wasn’t he?”

Tyler turned around, letting his brown-eyed gaze rove over the striking redhead who had followed him into the train. She smiled, shooting him all the right signals, but then again, she didn’t know she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Any unmarried man would be interested, but unfortunately for her, romantic dalliances weren’t anywhere near the top of Tyler’s list today. He’d spent the past three months in Iraq, and today he had places to go and work to attend to—like the stacks of mail that had piled up during his overseas assignment. So he gave the redhead a nonchalant shrug and gripped the steel pole as she moved away, quickly masking her disappointment in his lack of interest.

Moments after announcements in both English and Spanish told passengers to stay clear of the closing doors, the train whisked passengers toward their luggage. Tyler took a moment to reflect on the work he had done in Iraq. Maybe a Pulitzer Prize awaited him for his photographs from Iraq. Perhaps this upcoming year he would receive the accolades that had so far eluded him.

In the more than eleven years he’d been a news photographer, Tyler had been through wars, natural disasters and presidential elections. He’d covered coups, uprisings and Oscar celebrations. He’d crawled on his belly through underbrush, gone without bathing for days and even once trekked into the heart of the South American rain forest, as mysterious as ever but unfortunately, rapidly disappearing.

Women were drawn by his exotic job, until they realized that he wasn’t the type to settle down. He kept no pets or plants, and rented a one-bedroom apartment.

Well, he used to rent an apartment. Now, thanks to his twin sister, Tyler was a home owner. He’d bought the place sight unseen two months ago, giving his sister power of attorney to make the purchase. She’d sent him a text message once the deed was done.

He hadn’t really wanted the responsibility of a house. To him, owning one reeked of permanence. But his accountant and his lawyer sister had insisted that Tyler needed the mortgage-interest deduction for his taxes. They’d convinced him that buying a home was a better long-term investment than buying a condominium.

His twin must have done a good job, because Tyler’s mother had e-mailed him that she’d found his new place charming. Of course she added that she hoped it was a “step in the right direction”—in other words, that he was settling down.

The train came to a smooth stop and Tyler allowed the others to exit first, including the redhead, who gave him one last glance. He readjusted his camera bag and once again ignored her, too busy contemplating the tasks ahead.

KATE MERRILL was running late. Since her boss would be in court all morning, Kate had set her alarm for an extra half hour of sleep. What she hadn’t intended was for the alarm clock to malfunction and not ring at all. She’d woken up more than an hour late, showered and thrown herself together in less than twenty minutes. The moment she’d turned the key in her car, she’d remembered her fuel gauge was on empty.

She pulled into a gas station and her compact car sputtered to a stop. She glanced at the clock on the dash before hopping out. Nine-fifteen. She was supposed to pick up those depositions at the opposing counsel’s law firm at nine-thirty. If the traffic gods were kind, she just might make it.

She swiped her credit card, cursed that even bottom-grade unleaded gas was up ten cents for the third time in two weeks, and wondered how the guy in the Hummer on the other side of the pump could afford the behemoth he was driving.

And didn’t he know how bad those vehicles were for the environment? Sighing, Kate positioned the hose in the gas tank and went to clean her windshield. Her wiper blades needed replacing and last night’s winter rain had been mostly drizzle, meaning her windshield was dusty. The temperature had been wacky lately, as well, likely due to global warming caused by whoever was driving the beast on the other side of her. He or she probably got only fifteen miles to the gallon, whereas Kate averaged at least twenty-five on a good day—which this was turning out not to be. At least she didn’t have too far to go to reach the other lawyer’s office. Of course, after that she’d have another half-hour drive back to the law firm of Murray, Evans and Jasper, where she’d been working as Marshall Evans’s paralegal since graduating from college five years ago. She hoped no one had noticed she hadn’t made it in this morning as she had been scheduled to.

Kate resisted the urge to curse as she found an empty container where the squeegee should have been. She glanced over to the next bucket. Nothing in that one, either. Great. She stepped between the pole and the pump, checking to see if the Hummer’s driver had the windshield-cleaning wand. He did, and as he turned from lowering his driver’s-side wiper blade, Kate froze.

The man in front of her was tall—at least six feet to her five foot five. His closed lips were full and perfect. His hair was dark and silky and curled at his nape. He needed a haircut, but like a rock star, he could get by without one—the shagginess added character. His chest, under a short-sleeved maroon polo shirt, was broad and toned. Light hair dusted his forearms. He was, as the girls in the office would say, to die for.

He seemed to sense she was staring, because he frowned and said, “Uh, can I help you?”

Kate cringed. She knew what he saw: pale skin lacking any natural Southern suntan, dark blond hair confined in the tight knot she always wore to work. She was nothing special at all.

Unlike him.

She gathered her composure, determined to show him how unaffected she was. After all, he probably had the ego to match his looks. Guys like him always did.

“Are you done with that?” She arched an eyebrow and pointed to the black plastic object in his hand.

“Yeah. Sure.” He gave her a bemused look and held out the handle. Kate’s fingers accidentally brushed his as she took the squeegee from him.

“Thanks.” She turned to dip the sponge in the washer fluid then began to clean her front windows.

In the meantime, the pump clicked off, signaling her tank was full. She hadn’t heard the Hummer’s pump shut off, but she assumed it had, since the man had disappeared into the gas station, presumably to pay.