Not for long, he vowed to himself, but then she leaned in just so. Her sweet breath rushed against his lips and his heart pounded in anticipation.
“Whew.” She jerked her head back, fanned her face and the moment was lost.
Thankfully, because despite his screaming conscience, Trace Honeycutt had been this close to kissing Winnie Becker.
“It’s hot out here.”
“Too hot,” he agreed.
“Way, way too hot.” She tugged at the top button on her sweater. “I’m burning up.”
“That makes two of us.” He tugged at the neckline of his Santa suit.
“And I feel sort of…” Her words trailed off as she swayed. “Dizzy,” she finally murmured, her eyes glazing as she clutched the edge of the picnic table. “I—I think I need to sit down.”
“Darlin’, you are sitting down.”
“Then I think I need to lie down.” She eased herself down until her back met the table. “Oh, God, my head is pounding. And spinning.” She clamped her eyes shut “Does everybody’s head spin after Myrtle’s eggnog?”
“Everybody whose claim to drinking fame is two glasses of watered-down champagne at a wedding.”
“I guess my liquor tolerance is kind of low.”
He had to smile at that one. “Try nonexistent”
“Are you saying I’m a lightweight…” The question faded into a soft moan as she clutched her stomach. “Ugh, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Just take a deep breath and count.”
She sucked for air. “One, two, three…” The words faded into a deep, less frenzied gasp.
“Better?”
“A little.”
“Good.” He smoothed the hair from her forehead. “Close your eyes and I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t leave me.” She clutched at his hand. “Please.”
As if he could. Not with her lying there looking so sweet and delectable and…needy. Yep, the needy part was the kicker. Strange, considering Trace had always been a man moved by sweet and delectable far more than needy.
He slid the thong into his pocket, draped the lacey bra over his shoulder, then picked her up. Her arms snaked around his neck and her head nestled in the pillow of his Santa beard as he started walking.
“Where are we going?” she murmured.
“Home.”
TRACE LOADED WINNIE into the front cab of Spunk’s pickup before going inside and pushing his way through a crowded dance floor to retrieve the keys from his friend. After making arrangements for Spunk to hitch a ride with one of the hands, pick up Trace’s downed Chevy and get the tire changed, he left the noise and chaos and headed back out to the parking lot. He climbed behind the wheel, Winnie sprawled on the seat next to him, and started the long drive home.
Long because she smelled so good.
And looked so damned sexy, her freed breasts swaying ever so gently beneath her sweater.
And cuddled just a little too close, her head resting on his thigh, her flaming hair spilling across his lap.
But what got him more than anything was the way she held one of his hands as if it were her lifeline. As if she trusted him.
Crazy. She didn’t even know him, and he was damned sure going to keep it that way. And he wasn’t—no matter how sweet-smelling or sexy or close—going to kiss her.
He kept that vow in mind as he finally hefted her into his arms and carried her inside Ezra’s old house.
“Where are we?” she asked as he laid her down in the bedroom and pulled off her shoes. He tossed her red bra he’d been hanging on to at a nearby chair.
“Home.”
“Mmm…” She snuggled into a pillow. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” No. Not yet. But if he fiddled with the buttons on her sweater—
He jerked the blanket up and tucked it beneath her chin. His fingers accidentally brushed her soft-as-silk skin and a jolt went through him, sending heat pulsing to places that hadn’t pulsed in nearly two damn years.
As if she sensed the turmoil, her eyelids popped open and she stared up at him through the darkness. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Sure you do, darlin’. Red suit. White beard. Black boots.”
“Saint Nick?”
“That would be me.”
“Mmm…” She smiled, a slow, lazy smile that paused the air in his chest. “I’ve never kissed a saint before.”
Kissed? Whoa, who said anything about—
The thought shattered as her tiny pink tongue darted out to sweep her bottom lip.
Just say no. The mantra echoed in his head and he opened his mouth. It was all about willpower, all about sticking to his guns and holding tight and—
“That’s a coincidence, darlin’.” It was his voice, but not his brain driving the voice. Nope, the pilot was a damn sight lower. “I’ve never been a saint before.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to soil your image.”
“It would take a whole lot more than a kiss to do that.” He grinned. “But it’s a start.”
Her lips parted. His lips parted. And then Trace did what he’d been wanting to do since he’d first set eyes on her.
He kissed her.
Softly, sweetly, quickly.
And smack dab in the middle of her forehead.
All right, it wasn’t exactly what he’d been wanting to do, but there was no way he could have felt those full lips against his own and stopped himself before…
He pulled away just as she sighed and snuggled into the pillow, and then he made a quick getaway, pausing only to lock the door behind him.
Thattaboy, his conscience whispered as he climbed into Spunk’s truck. But Trace wasn’t congratulating himself just yet. So he hadn’t kissed her lips. He’d still kissed her. He was just lucky she hadn’t taken the initiative, wrapped her arms around him and demanded more, which he feared she would have done if she’d been at full capacity.
Once the eggnog wore off and she realized he was every bit the rough-and-tough wrangler she’d been dreaming of her entire life, she’d be even more hell-bent on dragging him to the altar.
As much as Trace didn’t want to get married, he’d learned tonight that determination wasn’t enough when faced with a delectable piece of womanhood like Winnie Becker. Her undies, still deep in his pocket, burned through the material and it was all he could do not to sneak his hand inside and cop a quick feel of silk and lace.
Yep, he needed reinforcements. A plan.
The evening replayed in his head—Winnie’s outpouring about Arthur and her past and what she really wanted in a man—and Trace smiled.
If he couldn’t avoid her, he would just have to scare her off.
5
IF TRACE WAS really going to pull this off, he was going to need a lot more help.
He came to that conclusion early Saturday morning as he stood in his bathroom and surveyed an hour’s worth of handiwork in front of the mirror.
While he wasn’t an expert when it came to hair gel—he usually went for the tousled look or just shoved it all up under his hat—he was pretty darned sure it wasn’t supposed to smell so…funny.
Of course, brand had to count for something and about the only thing Trace had been able to find in the bunkhouse was a small pint of Crisco and some WD-40. Since he hadn’t been able to decide, he’d used a little of both.
He stared at his reflection. His hair was slick, all right. But smelly was definitely not good. After all, his livelihood was at stake, since Winnie Becker was a mite too pretty for his peace of mind. Arthur had dibs on the freebies from Saks, which meant Trace needed a decent fragrance. One that wasn’t a cross between the Michelin Man and Julia Child.
For the first time, he wished he’d paid more attention to all that stuff Darla had always piled into the cabinets. Not the makeup, but the trillion hair care products that curled and flipped and waved and slicked.
Then there was the little matter of cologne. Namely, he needed some and no
t the no-name brand from the sundry section at the Piggly Wiggly. The real, expensive, top-of-the-line stuff guaranteed to kill the smell of horse and leather and clean air and remind Winnie Becker of the man she didn’t want.
He eyed his present choices. A bottle of vanilla. A leftover can of citrus air freshener he’d fished out from beneath the sink. And some PAM.
Yep, he definitely needed help.
Luckily, Trace hadn’t won five rodeo championships on his athletic ability alone. A man had to be cunning. Smart. Resourceful. And know just where to look when it came to getting all slicked up.
“OKAY, YOU’VE GOT your standard Dippity-Do.” Shermin motioned to one of the tubes sitting on his desk. “Then there’s the top-of-the-line grocery store brand. And this twenty-five-dollar salon stuff one of the tellers is always leaving in the unisex bathroom.”
“This situation definitely calls for Dippity-Do. Winnie mentioned it by name.”
“She really wants to marry you?” Shermin asked.
“I thought Ezra might be exaggerating, but then I heard her myself. She’s been dreaming of a cowboy. A salt of the earth, good ole boy, Little Joe type. Not that Little Joe ever pressed his luck on the back of a two-thousand pound bull, but it’s the principle of the thing.” Trace shook his head. “She wants a cowboy, so I’m going to give her the opposite just as soon as “you show me what to do with this stuff.” He eyed the hair gel, the shaving mirror and the small grooming clippers Shermin had pulled from his top drawer.
“Well, first off, your hair’s a little too long—”
“Good morning to you, good morning to you.” The singsong voice preceded a sixty-something woman with dyed orange hair, a flower print dress and black orthopedic shoes who pushed open the office door. “Good morning, dear Peanut, good morning to You!”
Shermin flushed a beet red and rushed to close the door on a few snickering tellers gathered out in the hallway. “Missy, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call me Peanut when we’re at work. It usurps my authority.”
“Sorry, Lambchop. But I’ve got a surprise.” She held up several folders. “I found the files you wanted.”
Trace grinned and eyed the old woman. “Why, Miss Missy, you’re looking even prettier than the last time I saw you.”
“Trace? Trace Honeycutt?” She shoved her hornrimmed glasses on for a closer look. “Why, that is you. I didn’t see you come in.”
“Trace slipped in the back way. This is an unofficial visit.”
“Shermin told me you were in town, but that was a few months back. Hardly anyone ever sees you around. Why, I thought you’d hightailed it off to some rodeo by now.”
“In a few weeks. In the meantime, I’ve been training at the Broken Heart, helping Spunk out with his breeding stock. That pretty much takes all my time.”
“How’s Ezra? He still having himself a good time at that retirement ranch down in Houston?”
“Last I heard. Say, aren’t you supposed to be enjoying a life of retirement yourself?”
“I was, but I couldn’t refuse my Shermin in his hour of need.”
“My secretary went home to Tennessee to see her folks for Christmas,” Shermin explained. “I was going to call that temp service over in Ulysses, but Mom suggested I ask Aunt Missy to help out.”
“I’m an organizational whiz.”
“I thought you were a hairdresser.” Trace said.
“I was, but I was also in charge of all supplies, including numerous boxes of hair color and permanents. I had an intricate stocking system that I’m proud to say no one’s been able to duplicate since I retired from the Cut-N-Curl five years ago.” She sighed, a deep sad sound that told Trace she was definitely regretting giving up her life’s work. “Boy, I used to love mornings at that place. The smell of coffee and perm neutralizer.” She sniffled. “I get all teared up just thinking about it.”
“Missy,” Shermin eyed her, “do you have something for me?”
“What?” She glanced down at her arms. “Oh, yes.” She smiled. “Here you go, Peanut.”
Shermin stared at the stack of folders she handed him. “This is the Merrimon account.”
“Just what you asked for.”
“Last week. I need the Callaghan stuff today. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour and these are not the reports I need.”
“Lemme see those.” Missy shoved on the hornrimmed glasses suspended from a chain around her neck. “Why, you’re right. Never fear. I’ll just cancel my midmorning coffee break and get right on it.”
“Good.” Shermin steered her toward the door. “You get right on it while I finish up here. Okay,” he turned back to Trace, “since your hair’s so long—”
“—and I’m not cutting it,” Trace cut in.
“We’ll just slick it all back and trim your sideburns afterwards. Now, you put a quarter-sized amount of gel in your palm, rub your hands together and then—”
“You’re doing it wrong,” Missy said, dumping the folders and snatching the tube from Shermin’s hands. “You can’t just squirt and rub and slap. And what is this?” She sniffed the hair gel and made a face. “And this?” She eyed the clippers. “Why, in my day we didn’t go for any funny-looking devices or all this fancy schmancy processed stuff. All you needed was a vegetable peeler and a jar of mayonnaise.”
“You’re joking, right?” Trace asked.
“Or a steak knife and some Worcestershire sauce.”
“Shermin?” Trace cast a panicked gaze on his friend.
“She’s joking—about the steak knife part, anyway.”
“Ah, the good old days,” Missy went on as she covered her palm with nearly half the tube of hair gel. “We’d all gather, fix hair and talk. Woman to woman. Why, I haven’t had a really good talk since Terry Simmons confessed she’d gone to Austin to have her thighs liposuctioned. Now.” She wiggled her glistening fingers. “Let’s get to work.”
Trace eyed her hands. “That looks like an awful lot.”
“Just enough,” she assured him. “Now, Peanut, I’ll need your help. Grab that towel over yonder and, if you’ve still got that butter knife from this morning’s muffin—”
“That’s it.” Trace stiffened and started to rise. “I’ll take my chances with the WD-40.”
“You can’t,” Shermin snapped. “Missy, why don’t you get the towel while I have a word with Trace?”
The woman moved toward the desk and Shermin appealed to Trace. “We’ve got a deal. I help you send Winnie Becker running for the hills, and you help me transform into a real cowboy in time for the hoedown next week.”
“I struck a deal with you, not your aunt.”
“Who do you think taught me everything I know?”
Trace eyed Shermin’s slicked-back do. Oldfashioned. Severe. Greasy. Semirepulsive.
“Or we could forget all this nonsense and you could let me know what you and the little woman want for a wedding gift.”
Trace eased back into the chair.
“Now,” Missy said as she moved in for the kill. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
WINNIE WAS NEVER drinking eggnog again.
She made the vow as she forced her eyelids open against a pounding onslaught of bright light. Ugh. Her gaze snapped closed. There. That was better.
Sort of.
Her head still pounded, haunted by visions of Santa with a red satin thong and a cowboy with smoky bedroom eyes. Or was that Santa with the smoky bedroom eyes and the cowboy with the red satin thong?
No. Cowboys definitely didn’t wear Tiny Hineys. At least, she didn’t think they did. Of course, she’d never taken a peek beneath a pair of Levi’s—
Peck. Peck Peck
“Ssshhh,” she moaned, as if the bird on the front porch could actually hear her. As if he’d even care. When he wasn’t bombing her front porch, he was setting up camp in the rotted rain gutter, plotting his next offensive. “You’re not driving me away. This is my house.”
Okay, so technically i
t wasn’t quite a house. She had the floor, the walls, but no roof. Not yet. Not until she met with Shermin this morn—
One eyelid cracked open. Sunlight streamed through the blinds. Way too bright given the fact that she wasn’t facing east.
Her blurry eye swiveled toward the alarm clock.
Bright red numbers glittered back at her. No. It couldn’t be ten. The bank closed at eleven. She was twenty minutes from town. A full two hours shy of a face full of makeup. Not to mention she had to squeeze herself into the push-up bra draped over a nearby chair and another thong—
Her undies.
A memory rushed at her and she saw herself lying on the picnic table, relaxed and free because she’d shed the blasted underthings and… No!
She couldn’t have given her underwear to…to… No. A hallucination. An alcohol-induced nightmare. Like the time she’d had the champagne at her cousin’s wedding and dreamed she’d danced naked on the buffet.
First off, they’d had a sit-down, not a buffet. That ice sculpture of the Marlboro Man had been a complete figment of her imagination. And what he’d done with that six-shooter had been straight out of her wildest fantasy…
No. The word echoed in her head as she crawled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom.
She was never having eggnog again. Never looking at it, smelling it. She wasn’t even thinking about it—yikes!
A puffy pair of bloodshot eyes, rimmed in smeared mascara stared back at her, begging for cucumber slices and more sleep. The rest of her face alternated between splotchy and pale. And then there was her hair… Oh, God, her hair.
On a good day, Winnie was lightly frizzed. On the other 364 days of the year, she looked as if she’d touched a live wire and fried herself with a few hundred volts. From the looks of things, she’d doubled her electricity bill last night.
Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them back. Vixens didn’t cry. They met challenge head-on, which was exactly what she intended to do. She would pull herself together, throw on some makeup and get herself into town before the bank closed. She reached for her compact—
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Her first thought was that Birdie had figured out how to knock. Her second was that Big Jim had changed his mind about working on Saturdays. Despite her panicked state, hope flowered. Compact in hand, she belted her robe and went to haul open the front door. In the process, she dropped the makeup.
Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style Page 21
