by Score, Lucy
“Don’t you need to deliver your husband’s coffee?” Sammy stared pointedly at the cup in Eva’s hand.
Ryan frowned. “You don’t by chance have a daughter who hangs out in liquor stores? She’s about this tall,” Ryan said, holding up a hand.
“Ah, you met my niece Aurora. She belongs to my sister, Gia.”
“Strong family resemblance,” Ryan said, eyeing Eva’s pajama pants.
“There is, isn’t there? Now, tell me, when you seduce a woman, are you a flowers-and-wine kind of guy or do you get more creative?”
Sammy clamped a hand over her friend’s mouth. “Please excuse my inappropriate friend. Eva is a romance novelist, and she’s definitely leaving.”
“I don’t do flowers and wine,” Ryan said, looking amused. “I find it more helpful to solve a problem. Like get her car detailed or do something for her that she hasn’t had time to do. Pick up dry cleaning. Make dinner. Shred old documents.”
Eva pried Sammy’s hand off her mouth. “Hmm, useful romance. Interesting,” she mused. “I may want to pick your brain about that more, Ryan.”
“Too bad he’s leaving town,” Sammy said, doing a terrible job at feigning disappointment as she steered Eva toward the door.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” the redhead said, grinning mischievously, “I’ve got a coffee to drop off for my real-life hero and a surly fictional one waiting for me on the page.”
“Happy writing,” Sammy said, propelling her out the door.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” Eva called from the sidewalk. “Donovan and I would love a wreath with a navy bow and gold balls.”
Sammy was going to need a workshop of elves to help her with the damn wreaths. “Navy. Gold balls. Got it,” she said weakly.
“It was lovely meeting you, Ryan. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again,” she said before disappearing down the sidewalk.
“You have interesting friends,” Ryan observed. “Did you find Rainbow?”
She winced. “Here and gone unfortunately. But I do have a lead on where she’ll be at lunch.”
Ryan sighed. “Dammit.”
Sammy patted his shoulder. “It’s a small town. We’re bound to run into her sooner or later.”
“I’m starting to think there is no Rainbow. Like this entire town is in on some cosmic joke and I’m the only one who hasn’t heard the punchline yet.”
“Relax,” Sammy said. “There’s no conspiracy or convoluted inside joke. Why don’t you call the bank on the way to the next stop and see if there’s anyone else there you could meet with. You might luck out and get on someone’s calendar today.”
“Fine,” he said grudgingly as he held the door open for her.
She started the vehicle and turned on his seat warmer while he paced on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear. Judging by the pantomime of drop-kicking his phone into the street, she guessed it wasn’t going well.
“Good news?” she joked when he got in.
Ryan tossed his phone over his shoulder into the back seat. “Great news,” he said, the words dripping with sarcasm. “Apparently Rainbow Berkowicz is the only bank employee who can help me. No one else is authorized to talk about it.”
Which meant she was most definitely still stuck with him. They both sighed. He turned to glare at her. “I don’t know what you’re sighing about. You get a delightful companion for your morning and I’m the one hung out to dry.”
“I don’t think you know what ‘delightful’ means,” she pointed out. “Besides, it’s not a contest to see who is most inconvenienced.”
“Well, if it were, I’d win since I flew across the fucking country.”
“Yeah, yeah. Christmas in Blue Moon. Worst day ever. Buckle up, grump.”
He dragged on his seatbelt and clutched his coffee. “What’s the next stop? More baby goats to examine? Perhaps a problematic pony?”
“Nice try. Next up is llamas.”
He blinked. “Llamas?”
“Llamas.”
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Marsha McCafferty: Old Man Carson’s nephew is the Liam Neeson of accountants! He just saved me from an IRS scam! If you see him around town, give him a hug, buy him a drink, and ask him for accounting advice!
12
“Llamas are stupid animals. Why do they even exist?” Ryan groused, shoving Sammy into the passenger seat.
“They’re actually domesticated South American pack animals that can carry up to thirty percent of their own body weight. And I am perfectly capable of driving,” Sammy chirped. He found her enthusiasm while she bled from a wound on her arm irritating.
“Stop being so cheerful. You’re injured. You were violently attacked,” he insisted, opening the glove box and digging out a wad of fast food napkins. He pressed them to her forearm, where only moments ago, one of the disgusting beasts in the backyard of the green cottage had sunk its huge teeth into her.
“Bet you’re glad now that I made you get new clothes,” she mused. He glanced down. They were both covered in green, frothy liquid. It smelled like fresh-cut grass and bile.
Ryan’s New Plan
1. Track down Rainbow.
2. Solve Carson’s problem.
3. Shower for at least an hour.
4. Nap.
5. Book plane ticket home.
6. Never get within twenty feet of a stupid llama again.
He applied more pressure. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time, Sparkle.”
She snorted. “You’ve never spent a morning getting spit on by bad-tempered llamas before? You are missing out, my friend.”
“I refuse to believe it’s still morning. I feel like I’ve been awake for a week straight. Does it hurt?”
The woman had taken him to a relatively normal-looking house on the outskirts of town. The lots were bigger, but there was a sidewalk out front, for Christ’s sake. That was supposed to mean civilization. Not near-death experiences with farm animals.
Apparently, Blue Moon had no town ordinance about housing violent, flesh-eating woolly mammoths, since Charisma Champion with the Cher hair and gypsy stylings—he didn’t need a palm reading, thank you very much—had two of them in her backyard. Oh, sure, they’d looked harmless. Who would be afraid of a giant pipe cleaner with legs? But those two-inch long buck teeth were capable of inflicting serious damage.
The male, Fernando, had waited until Sammy was paying attention to the girl, Abba, before trotting over and sinking his yellow fangs into her forearm.
“It was a love bite,” Sammy scoffed. “Besides, you’re the one who got kicked.”
When Sammy and Charisma hadn’t appeared properly concerned over the blood spurting from the wound, Ryan had yelled. Then grabbed Fernando the Beast’s bridle, looked it in its stupid, glassy eyes, and told it if it ever bit anyone again, he’d fly across the country and give the stupid thing a mohawk with hedge clippers.
Fernando had backed off, prancing across the yard to glare at him from the safety of the shed. But Abba had taken offense to Ryan insulting her boyfriend and kicked him right in the thigh. Those dainty little devil hooves carried a wallop. His leg was still throbbing. And then the spitting had happened.
“She’s lucky I didn’t decide to kick and spit back,” he muttered. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
Sammy pointed to the back seat. He limped around and found it in a neatly organized duffel bag tucked between a change of clothes, extra medical supplies, and a stash of protein bars. Ryan approved the orderly provisions. To some men, all it took to get turned on was a low-cut shirt and a pair of big… eyes. He certainly had nothing against those things. But he was more attracted to someone if she had labels in her pantry or a color-coded filing system. Or, apparently, a neatly organized go-bag.
Ripping open an alcohol swab, he returned to her.
She grinned up at him. It felt like he was staring directly into the sun. Thawing something inside him that felt like it had been fr
ozen for a long time. Because what kind of an idiot stared directly into the sun?
“What?” he asked gruffly.
“You were very heroic prying Fernando’s jaws open. For a big city guy, you sure catch on quick to small-town farm life. Ouch! Bedside manner, buddy,” she complained when he swapped blood-soaked napkin for alcohol sting.
“Don’t be a baby, Sparkle. It’s your fault you have a job where you get bitten for a living. I don’t like the idea of you doing this on your own.”
“My vet tech is on vacation. He’s usually the one Fernando bites. Besides, it keeps things interesting.” She hissed out a breath through her teeth as he cleaned the wound. “I bet there are parts of your job that seem masochistic to an outsider.”
“Paper trails,” he said, shredding the packaging of a gauze pad and placing it firmly over the wound.
“Paper trails?”
“I love taking fifty pounds of paperwork and digging through it to find answers.”
Hell, he didn’t just love it. He lived for it. Knowing that everything he needed was boxed up in front of him and all he had to do was methodically work his way through each and every scrap of paper? It was gratifying in a “what kind of weirdo enjoys this?” kind of way.
So was being this close to her. In this light, her eyes were an almost depthless sky blue.
The llama kick must have dislodged something in his brain. He had never given a woman’s eye color more than a passing thought.
They were looking at each other. Measuring each other. Gazes locked. Breath synced. He studied every inch of her face for the reason for his interest. Was it the smattering of freckles across her nose? The dimple in her chin? That mouth of hers?
Or was it the way she looked at him, really looked at him? As if she were peeling back the layers of responsible accountant down into areas that hadn’t seen the light in years.
It was terrifying. Annoying. Exhilarating. And for some reason, the endless morning didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.
With a heroic effort, he dragged his attention back to the task at hand. But he let his fingers linger longer than necessary on the tape as he smoothed it over the gauze.
“You’re an interesting guy, Ryan. Where’d you get so good at first aid?”
He couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or not that was making her sound a little breathy. Was it possible she was as affected by the proximity as he was? Of course not. Women didn’t get breathless over the responsible, good-ish guy. He was the smart choice, not the “swept off her feet, love defies all logic” pick.
He was too grouchy. Worse, he worshipped organization, planning, efficiency. None of those ranked on the romance meter with women or led to the aforementioned sweeping of feet.
“I was nominated emergency director for my floor in the office,” he told her. “We have—had—three floors in a building downtown. Each floor has a director trained to take charge in the event of an emergency.”
“You’re so responsible,” she said with that bright smile that made it impossible for him to look away from her mouth.
“I can be irresponsible if I want to be,” he insisted.
That was probably a lie. He always paid his property taxes within twenty-four hours of receiving the notice. He kept an up-to-date pantry inventory that made grocery shopping for the eight meals he regularly rotated through on his menu a breeze. Monday was dry cleaning drop-off day because it was cheaper than Fridays. Thursdays, he ran his robot vacuum cleaner. Saturday was leg day at the gym so his co-workers wouldn’t see him limping around the office the next day.
Sure, he’d never forget a birthday or an anniversary. But he also wasn’t the bad boy who would push a woman up against a wall to kiss her without being 100 percent certain that’s what she wanted first.
Great. He was boring himself again.
Not that he was trying to impress the wounded Sammy. It wasn’t like he had a reason to. He wasn’t going to be here long enough to start a relationship or even some bizarre, short-term friendship.
“I’m sure you can,” she said, patting his arm.
Patronizing, smug, pretty pain in his ass.
“Dr. Sammy! Ryan!”
They both looked up as Charisma trotted down the driveway toward them. “You forgot your biscotti!”
“I forgot? Silly me. Thanks,” Sammy said with forced brightness as she accepted the folded bakery box. Something in those guileless blue eyes told Ryan she had definitely not forgotten.
“I packed an extra box for you, Ryan. Consider it an apology for the spitting and the kicking and a thank you for the recommendations on llama insurance,” she said, whipping a two-foot-long section of dark hair over her shoulder. He wondered if she noticed that it wrapped around the mailbox post behind her.
“It’s not necessary. Happens all the time,” he said.
Sammy snorted, then covered it with a cough.
“I insist!” Charisma said, shoving the second flimsy cardboard closer to his nostrils. To prevent her from inserting the biscotti directly into his nasal cavity, he accepted the box.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You are so welcome. And Sammy, don’t forget. I’d like a wreath with pine cones, jingle bells, and fake snow.”
“You got it,” Sammy said, sounding even more strained.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my baking. Ta-ta!”
“Toodle-oo,” Ryan said.
Sammy elbowed him.
“Ow. What?” He rubbed his ribs
“Toodle-oo? Seriously?”
“I was speaking her language.”
With an eye roll, she swung her legs into the vehicle.
“Where to next?” he asked, sliding the seat back a good eight inches and opening his box of biscotti.
She consulted her watch. “We should be able to catch Rainbow at Villa Harvest restaurant. And I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she warned as he plucked a chocolate-covered chunk out of the box.
“Why?” he asked.
“Charisma is gluten-free and vegan. And a terrible baker.”
“I’m starving. How bad could it be?” he scoffed.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He bit into the baked good and had immediate regrets. “Dear God. Is that concrete? Did she bake concrete?” It was gritty and crunchy. And the brown stuff was most definitely not chocolate. “Why does the chocolate taste so bad?”
“She makes it with black beans, prunes, and cocoa powder,” Sammy said, grinning.
“This is worse than the hangover. I might actually vomit in your car,” he said.
She dove for the glove box and pulled out the last of the napkins. “Here.”
He spit out the masticated disaster, then scraped his tongue clean. “No one is that bad at baking. That kind of horror has to be on purpose. I think I taste rubber cement and construction paper. It’s an act of aggression.”
She was laughing at him. “I warned you.”
“I thought it was hyperbole. Like ‘watch out for Tina, she’ll bore you to death with stories about her guinea pigs.’ No one actually dies from a conversation with Tina. But this poison masquerading as biscotti should come with an FDA warning label.”
She held up his coffee, looking amused. “Drink and try to forget it. And maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”
He washed down the remaining grittiness with a hit of coffee. “Please tell me Villa Harvest is a restaurant. I need something else in my mouth to block out the memory of that.”
“It is. Since you were such a good sport about the spitting and kicking, I’ll buy.”
She directed him through town. Block after block of tidy houses with festive exteriors. He was getting a wrist cramp from acknowledging all the bundled-up pedestrians who insisted on waving at him like they knew him. It was a weird town full of weird people. But the friendly, kooky kind of weird. Not the starting-a-militia-in-the-backyard kind of weird.
Sammy was lookin
g at him again like she was considering something. He wondered if she was going to ask him for tax advice.
“You’re definitely leaving soon, right?” she said, biting her bottom lip.
“First chance I get.”
“And you won’t be back?”
“Nothing could drag me back to this holiday hellmouth,” he promised.
“Interesting,” she mused. “I imagine losing a job like that can do a number on a guy’s stress level.”
“What are you getting at?” he asked with suspicion.
“I was thinking. Since you’re obviously attracted to me, and since I don’t find you physically repulsive, we could have sex.”
A fine mist of coffee coated the dashboard.
“Jesus, Sam,” he choked. “Warn a guy before you’re about to proposition him.” He pulled over in front of a rambling Victorian home with porches and windows everywhere.
“Good sex is a great stress reliever.” She said it like she was lecturing a high school health class. “As long as you’re still getting on that plane, things wouldn’t have the chance to get awkward.”
Carefully he put the coffee back in the cup holder and picked up the wad of napkins. He smeared coffee and half-chewed concrete around on the dashboard as he drove. “Let me get this straight. You’re offering to have a one-night stand with me so I can blow off some steam? How altruistic of you.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Okay. Fine. So maybe it would also scratch an overdue itch of mine. It’s a win-win. As long as you put forth a solid effort in bed, of course. You do, don’t you?”
He stopped swiping at the windshield. “What am I supposed to say to that?”
“You’re supposed to say something like ‘I’m freaking great in bed, Sammy. I’ll leave you walking like a bowlegged cowboy.’ Or maybe ‘I’m extremely thorough in bed.’”
He opened his mouth to say something, anything. But words failed him.
He was bombarded with images of a naked Sammy writhing under him, looking at him with those blue eyes gone glassy. There was no chance of him not getting hard. It was a foregone biological conclusion.
The breath he’d been holding left his lungs slowly like a deflating balloon. His silence had stretched on too long. Now it was weird. He was making it weird. Well, she’d made it weird first with her “hey, wanna have awesome sex with me?” query.
