When Snowflakes Fall

by Tara Wyatt

  Dammit. She’d come to Cheyenne to forget, to move on, forward, upward, whatever direction it was that caused her the least amount of pain. Running from the kind of humiliation no woman should ever have to endure.

  Refusing to wallow in shame and self-pity, she squared her shoulders and grabbed a cart, eyes glued to her list. Just past the Christmas trees, another display caught her attention, and she pointed her cart in the direction of the shovels.

  Half an hour later, as she hummed along to “The Little Drummer Boy,” her cart was nearly full to bursting with a shovel, batteries, a step stool, a dust buster, light bulbs, a welcome mat (more for wiping snowy boots than because she was expecting any visitors), a furnace filter, and a garbage can. Almost finished, she turned down the hardware aisle and paused in front of the rows of door-related hardware: strike plates, knobs, and hinges, all gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. Nearly every door in her cute little bungalow had something wrong with it. Some didn’t close quite right, and others were in need of either new hinges or strike plates. A couple were missing doorknobs altogether. She’d phoned her landlord to complain, but as usual, had only gotten his voice mail.

  She frowned and picked up a hinge, scrutinizing it. It looked . . . similar to the rusted-out one that was barely keeping her bathroom door attached. She picked up another, comparing them. It also looked . . . similar. Maybe.

  Shit. She’d need a drill to do any of these repairs, assuming she’d managed to find the right frigging hinge. She didn’t really know how to use a drill, and had no idea what to buy. Dejectedly, she tossed the hinge back onto the shelf and huffed out a breath.

  “Christie?”

  She spun at the low, male voice. Luke stood a few feet away, wearing a dark blue long-sleeved Henley, worn jeans and work boots, a tool belt slung around his lean hips. He clutched a small, circular saw in his large hands. He was like a blue-collar fantasy come to life. Dear Lord, he was gorgeous.

  Don’t be a dork. Don’t be a dork. Don’t be a dork.

  “Luke, hi,” she said, offering him a wide smile. “How’s Ethan?”

  He smiled at the mention of his son’s name, dimples flashing, and the skin around his blue eyes crinkled. “He’s fine, just like you said he’d be. Thanks again for looking after him.”

  “You don’t need to thank me. I’m glad he’s okay.”

  He tipped his head toward the hinge she’d just tossed back. “Did you need a hand with something?”

  “Oh. I, um . . . No. It’s fine. You look . . .” Sexy. Hot. Delicious. “Busy.”

  He took a step toward her and set the saw down on the floor. “Not too busy to help you.” His eyes flicked down to her lips, just for a second, and her cheeks burned.

  Oh, no. This was trouble. Because she liked him, and if she was reading him right, he liked her. Granted, if he actually knew the truth about her, about why she’d left her life in Tulsa behind, he’d probably want nothing to do with her.

  “Really, it’s fine.”

  “Let me help you. As a thank-you for taking care of Ethan.” He smiled again, and damn if those dimples weren’t killing her, just a little.

  “Like I said, you don’t have to thank me. I was just doing my job.” She shrugged, and he took another step toward her, erasing any remaining space between them.

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Trust me, there’s a difference.” Leaning in close enough that she could feel the warmth coming off of him, could smell his clean scent of soap and freshly cut wood, he reached behind her and picked up the discarded hinge. “What are we fixing, Christie?” His eyes caught hers, and a searing bolt of lust zapped through her.

  An image of Luke with his son flashed through her mind, and a wave of shame and regret crashed through her. She was damaged goods, and she had no right wanting any part of that wholesome image.

  She knew that. She did. And yet she couldn’t ignore the slow burn warming her insides under Luke’s gaze.

  “The, uh, see, most of the doors in my house, they . . .” She swallowed. She was having a hard time thinking standing so close to him. “Have various issues. Some don’t close properly, others are missing knobs, and some need new hinges.”

  He smiled down at her. How had she not noticed how broad his shoulders were the other day at the hospital? If he took her into his arms, he’d enfold her completely, sheltering her in that strong, masculine frame. She shook her head against the feeling that she’d waded into a swamp filled with quicksand, and the harder she fought, the quicker she’d get pulled under.

  “Anyway, I should let you get back to—”

  “Tell you what,” he said, cutting her off. “Why don’t I come by later? I’ll take a look at your doors, see what I can do.”

  Her hormones overruling any shred of sense she possessed, she found herself nodding. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.” And she really did need help with the repairs. Really.

  He shook his head slowly. “I don’t.”

  “I don’t know what to buy.” She gestured at the rows of hardware.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m a carpenter. I have plenty of hinges and strike plates. Just pick out the doorknobs you want. Where do you live?” He pulled a phone from his jeans pocket and stupidly, foolishly, she gave Luke her address.

  * * *

  “Do you want something to drink? I could make some coffee, or I have some juice . . .”

  Luke peered up at Christie as she returned from the kitchen, and he smiled around the screw clamped between his teeth. He shook his head, and then drilled the screw into place, securing another new strike plate. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

  “All right, then.” She crossed her arms in front of her, pushing her full breasts up into the V-neck of her pink sweater. She’d swept her hair up into a high ponytail, leaving an extremely tempting amount of skin exposed. With a vivid flash, he imagined trailing his mouth down her slender neck, over her delicate collarbone, across the rounded peaks of her breasts, and making her moan his name in that sweet accent.

  Whoa.

  He normally had better control over himself, but damn if he wasn’t half-hard just looking at her, listening to her soft lilting voice. And that was a bad thing. A very bad thing. He already liked her way too much, and even worse, so did Ethan. It was one thing to put his own heart on the line. It was another to risk Ethan’s. It was his job to protect his little man, and he refused to sign him up for avoidable heartache.

  “So where are you from?” he asked. Even though she’d been watching him as he worked, she jumped when he spoke.

  “I moved here from Tulsa, but I grew up in Lexington.” She hugged herself tight, pushing her cleavage up even higher. Licking his lips, he swallowed, concentrating on installing the new hinges on her bathroom door. Jesus. If he kept looking at her, he’d end up with a hole in his hand.

  “And what brought you to Cheyenne?”

  “My job.” She focused on a spot on the wall above his head, and there was something hollow around her eyes. Clearly, there was more to the story, but she wasn’t offering it up, and he wasn’t going to pry. Not when she had that look in her eyes, like a deer that had just sighted a hunter. “Did you grow up here?” she asked, directing the conversation away from herself.

  He nodded as he tested the bathroom door. “Yep. Born and raised. My whole family’s here. Mom, Dad, my brother Matt. Bunch of aunts and uncles and cousins. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “It is. Although Matt’s moving to Seattle in January, so that’ll be tough.” He stood and began adjusting the top hinge.

  “You’re close?”

  “Yeah. We’re twins.”

  “Oh, good God. There are two of you?”

  He laughed, and she blushed, pressing her the tips of her fingers to her mouth, as though she hadn’t meant to blurt that out. “You have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. I’m an only child. My parents wanted more, but it never happened fo
r them.” Her eyes followed his hands as he worked. Was she imagining what it would feel like to have them on her? Because he sure as hell was. With another vivid flash, he saw himself pulling her sweater over her head and running his hands over her torso, exploring her stomach, her ribs, the crease of her spine.

  “So it’s just you and Ethan, huh?” She leaned against the wall, her arms still crossed in front of her, her mouthwatering cleavage still on display.

  He nodded, not trying to talk over the sound of the drill. More and more, he found himself wishing that it wasn’t just him and Ethan. Sure, he had his family, and they were great, but it wasn’t the same as having that one person he knew he could talk to about his worries and anxieties when Ethan struggled in school, or had a run-in with a bully, or challenged him and broke the rules—something that was happening with increasing frequency. That one person he could share the victories with. The good grades and the game-winning goals, and the small, every-day victories, like when Ethan told him he loved him out of nowhere. That kind of stuff was meant to be shared, but Angela had wanted no part in it. Hell, she’d taken off for California before Ethan was even in kindergarten. He shook his head, knowing that all of that—the loneliness, the stress, the anxiety—was his to bear alone, and that’s the way it had to be.

  “Yeah. I’m divorced. Ethan’s mom lives in California.” The mention of his divorce served to clear some of the lust out of his system, reminding him why things had to be the way they were.

  “And you don’t date much.” She bit her lip, looking up at him.

  “Not really, no.” He had little flings here and there, and he was far from celibate, but he didn’t date often in the traditional sense.

  “Can I ask why?”

  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and she laid a hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry. That was awfully rude of me. Here we are, barely acquainted, and I’m butting into your personal business.” A pink flush crept over her cheeks, and he smiled. He hadn’t hesitated because he’d been put off by her question. Not at all. The way she’d asked, it had been . . . sweet, actually. Like she was concerned about him. Like she genuinely cared.

  No. He’d hesitated because he’d been extremely tempted to ask her to dinner. Which probably wasn’t a good idea. He could only offer short-term, no-strings-attached flings, and already he knew that Christie wasn’t the type of woman you had some fun with for a few weeks and then called it a day. She was so much more than that. Plus, she’d already met Ethan, which added a complication he wasn’t used to. Ethan had already had to endure enough rejection in his short life, and Luke couldn’t open him up to more.

  And yet, at the memory of Christie and Ethan together, her warm smile, her soothing voice, the way she’d patted his shoulder, something softened in Luke’s chest, like butter melting, warm and sweet.

  Turning the tables back on her, he asked, “How come you don’t have any decorations up? You don’t celebrate?”

  She looked down at the floor. “No, I do. I just don’t see the point in decorating the house when it’s only me.” Her voice was soft, and that hollowness around her eyes was back. It made Luke want to reach out and smooth her hair away from her face, to touch the soft skin of her cheek. To fix whatever was wrong. To kiss her until the source of that pain didn’t matter anymore.

  Oh, God. This was bad. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d reacted to a woman this way.

  On the other hand, he also couldn’t remember the last time he’d met a woman like Christie. Beautiful and soft and sweet. Smart and warm. Kind and tender with Ethan. Something about her had found its way inside him, burrowing deep under his skin. Something he couldn’t ignore.

  “If you’ve got any lights, I’d be happy to put them up for you. I’ve got a small ladder in my truck.” Finished with the repairs, he leaned against the doorframe, facing her.

  “Thanks, but you’ve already done so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you coming over.”

  “Anytime.”

  She smiled up at him, her eyes warm and sparkling. “Maybe I’ll have to break a few more things.”

  “You don’t need to break things to get me to come over.” He returned her smile, enjoying the flirtation and wanting more.

  “Oh, really? What do I need to do?”

  “Have dinner with me.” He tilted his head, studying her.

  The smile vanished from her face. “Oh, I . . . I don’t think so. But thank you for the offer.”

  Embarrassment filtered through him, obliterating all of the warmth he’d been feeling. An awkward silence hung between them.

  He cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet house. “Oh. Sure. Yeah, no. I was just . . .” He cleared his throat again and swallowed, shoving a hand through his hair. “Anyway. I should get going. I’ll see you around.” He gathered his remaining tools and headed for the door, shooting her a quick smile. “Take care.”

  “Luke, wait.”

  Hope filled his chest, and he spun in the doorway.

  “Thanks again for all your help. It was very kind of you.” She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes.

  He nodded, once, and he felt wrung out, as though that fleeting hope had been squeezed out of him. “You’re welcome.”

  He bolted for his truck, already running late. By the time he pulled into the parking lot of Western Fitness, he was ready to work off the tension radiating across his shoulders. He grabbed his duffel from the backseat and strode into the gym, catching Matt’s eyes as he headed for the locker room.

  “You’re late!” Matt yelled from his treadmill, a faint sheen of sweat already covering his face. Luke just waved at him and ducked into the locker room.

  When he emerged, he headed for the back of the gym, knowing he’d find Matt working one of the heavy bags suspended from a chain. As he approached, he watched his mirror image slam his fists into the bag, his face drawn in lines of grim determination. Apparently Luke wasn’t the only one with some shit to work out.

  Although they were identical, Luke and Matt were easily distinguishable. Where Matt kept his dark blond hair cropped short and his face clean-shaven, Luke’s hair was longer, waving around his ears, and he only shaved once a week. And then there were the tattoos. While Luke’s skin was ink free, Matt’s right arm was covered in an intricate, nature-themed sleeve tattoo, with a sun covering his shoulder, mountains with a river flowing through them covering his biceps, and ending in a band of black pine trees around his forearm. He also sported a compass over his heart, and a large, twisted oak covered the top left side of his back.

  Without a word, Luke pulled on his gloves and moved behind the bag to hold it steady while Matt went to town. After several minutes, Matt took a break, taking a long pull on his water bottle and wiping his face with a towel. “I saw Leah today,” he said, his nostrils flaring as he spoke his ex-wife’s name.

  “Explains why you’re beating the stuffing out of this bag.”

  “You telling me you wouldn’t be doing the same thing if you saw Angela?”

  Luke tipped his head, considering. He hadn’t seen Angela in years. He honestly didn’t know how he’d react. He’d also been divorced three years longer than Matt, whose own long, acrimonious split had only been final for a year and a half. “We’re not talking about me.”

  Matt squinted at him, leveling his scrutinizing cop’s gaze at Luke. “Maybe we should be.”

  Luke shook his head and switched spots with his brother, wanting his turn at the bag. He rolled his neck and then started with a few easy jabs, letting the rhythm of his fists against the bag soothe him. For a few minutes, Matt didn’t press him, just let him work the bag, knowing that this was exactly what Luke needed right now. So often, they didn’t need to talk to communicate, and their easy, bone-deep connection was something Luke was going to miss like hell when Matt moved to Seattle next month.

  “I met someone,” Luke said finally, and Matt didn’t say anything, just kept holding t
he bag for him. Luke swiped his forearm over his forehead and threw a few more punches. “Christie Harmon. She’s a doctor.”

  Matt let out a low whistle. “A doctor. Nice. Where’d you meet her?”

  “The hospital. Ethan hit his head.” At Matt’s frown, Luke shook his head. “He’s fine.”

  “So. You gonna ask her out?”

  “I did.”

  Matt raised his eyebrows. “And she turned you down.”

  “Flatter than a pancake.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Luke asked, punctuating each word with a slam of his fists into the bag. A bead of sweat trickled down over his temple.

  “Since when do you care about dating?”

  Since he’d met Christie. Luke hit the bag harder, somehow sucking in a deep breath despite the boulder sitting on his chest.

  Matt took a half step back. “You want my advice?”

  Luke laughed and shook his head. “No offense, Matt, but me taking dating advice from you would be like Stevie Wonder leading Ray Charles through traffic.”

  Matt stepped away from the bag and held up his hands, an amused smirk on his face. “Listen, something about this woman’s got you wound up in knots. So don’t let it go. Take a chance. Fight.”

  “She said no. If it didn’t work the first time, what the hell makes you think it’s gonna work a second?”

  Matt let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, don’t do the exact same thing twice in a row, dumbass. Change up your approach. Why do you think she turned you down?”

  “She said . . . she just said she wasn’t interested. End of story. No gray area.” Luke stopped his barrage on the heavy bag, pausing to grab some water, the hollow, sad look around Christie’s eyes coming back to him. “Someone hurt her. She’s scared. Guarded.”