Her Holiday Prince Charming

by Christine Flynn

  “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.”

  Rory hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

  “Fishing gear,” he explained, apparently sensing that.

  Undaunted, she picked up a couple of the boxes from the cracked surface. She’d already decided the old laminate needed to go. “Then we’ll work here at the counter.”

  The boxes had been emptied, Erik realized when she easily lifted two marked Dishes from where his grandfather had once kept displays of bug repellent and sunglasses. She removed two more, adding them to the only space available without blocking either doorway: the tops of three tall stacks of red-and-green bins marked Christmas.

  She had to stretch to get them there. Jerking his glance from the enticing curve of her backside, he reached past her.

  “Let me get that.”

  “Already have it,” she insisted, and having placed the boxes, turned right into him.

  Rock had more give to it.

  The thought occurred vaguely as she bumped into his chest. Promptly bouncing back, she gasped a breath when his quick grip tightened on her upper arms. Her heart had barely slammed against her ribs when he pulled her forward to keep her from hitting the bins behind her and bringing the empty boxes down on their heads.

  The freshness of soap and sea air clung to him. With her pulse scrambling, his grip tight on her bruise, she had no idea why the scents even registered. Her hand shot up, covering the back of his where it curved over the tender spot on her arm.

  The pressure of his fingers eased.

  With their bodies inches apart, she went as still as stone. Or maybe he froze first. She just knew that one moment she’d been intent on doing whatever she needed to do to make it clear that she wouldn’t waste his time, and the next, the tension in his body and the warmth of his hands had seeped through to her skin, making her conscious of little more than...him.

  Erik’s eyes narrowed on hers an instant before she ducked her head. Slacking his grip, he dropped his hands. There’d been no mistaking the way she’d winced when he’d grabbed her.

  Without thinking, he reached toward her again, touched the back of her hand where it now covered where his had been.

  He hadn’t thought he’d grabbed her that hard.

  “Are you okay?”

  At the concern in his voice, the caution in his touch, her head came back up. “I’m fine.” Wanting to convince them both, she smiled. “Really.”

  His brow pinched as he drew his hand away once more.

  Rory’s breath slithered out. That small contact had been far too brief to elicit the loss she felt when he stepped back. Yet that sense of loss existed, sinking deeper into her chest with every heartbeat—unexpected, unwanted and feeling far too threatening under his quiet scrutiny.

  A certain numbness had protected her since she’d lost what had felt like the other half of herself. Yet, as with the first time this man had touched her, something about him scraped at the edges of that barrier, made her conscious of things she truly didn’t want to consider.

  Out of nowhere, the need to be held sprang to mind. It was such a simple thing, so basic that she’d never truly considered it until it had been found and suddenly lost—that need for security, comfort, a sense of oneness. But she knew how rare it was to find that sense of belonging, and the need didn’t feel simple at all. Not when she realized she was actually wondering what it would feel like to be folded against Erik’s broad, undeniably solid chest. A woman would feel sheltered there. Safe from what troubled her. And for a few moments, anyway, free of the need to stand alone.

  Shaken by her thoughts, by him, she started to move back, as much from the need behind the unexpected admissions as from the man who’d prompted them. The stacks behind her allowed her no escape at all.

  His scrutiny narrowed. “If you’re okay, why are you still holding your arm?”

  She was holding in his touch. Realizing that, hoping he didn’t, she promptly dropped her hand.

  “It’s nothing.” Rattled, trying not to be, she shrugged. “It’s just a little sore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I landed against the corner of a dresser.” She was just tired. Tired and apparently in need of some downtime with her yoga mat. If she could find it. Or, even better, some fudge. The one thing she did not need was to think about this man’s chest, his arms or the way he was scowling at her. “I was trying to move a table and lost my grip.

  “So,” she said, fully prepared to move on so he’d move himself.

  He didn’t budge. “Which table?”

  Trapped between the counter, bins and boxes, she leaned sideways and pointed toward the eight-foot-long, solid oak-and-iron refectory table jammed between a bedroom set and the dairy case. “That one.”

  His scowl deepened as it swung back to her. “You tried to move that yourself?”

  “It wasn’t going to go inside on its own.”

  Forbearance entered his tone. “You said you were going to wait for the kids who moved you here to help with the heavy stuff.”

  “What I said,” she reminded him, just as patiently, “is that they’d be back next week.”


  “When next week?”

  “When they can fit it in.”

  “Meaning this could all be here a week from now,” he said flatly. “Or the week after that.”

  She didn’t particularly appreciate the cynical certainty in his tone. Especially since she was trying not to dwell on that discouraging suspicion herself.

  “What about your friends?” he asked, clearly prepared to pursue other possibilities. “Have you asked any of them to help you?”

  “I’m sure everyone’s busy.”

  “Do you know that for certain?”

  She could omit and evade. No way could she lie. Thinking of the few people she still thought of as friends, she muttered, “Not exactly.”

  “Then ask.”

  She started to say that she didn’t want to. Fearing she’d sound like a five-year-old, not liking how he prodded at her defenses, she ignored the command entirely.

  Since he had yet to move, she ducked around him. “I’ll go turn on the heat.”

  She would do her best to cooperate with him for his help with the store. She could cut corners somewhere else to keep expenses down.

  “I only took two bar stools inside, so there are a couple more back there we can bring up to sit on. I’m going to tell Tyler I’ll be out here. He’s watching a DVD on my laptop.”

  Erik watched her slip behind the counter, his focus on the resolute set of her shoulders as she disappeared inside. Her son was undoubtedly watching her laptop because her television was buried somewhere in the stacks beyond him. He also gave the guys she’d hired about a fifty-fifty chance of returning to finish their job.

  He didn’t care what she said. She did need help here. She just didn’t want to ask for it.

  Considering that she hadn’t wanted to accept his little housewarming present, either, he couldn’t help but wonder if the woman was always unreasonable, impractical and stubborn, or if some less obvious trait compelled her to refuse assistance when she clearly needed it.

  What she needed now was some serious muscle.

  Judging from the size of the decidedly upscale sofa and armchairs, sections of wall units, tables and a huge mirror sitting between the rows of shelving, there had been significant space in the house she’d left behind. The larger of two armoires was the size of a king-size mattress. He had no idea where she was going to put that. It might have fit in the largest of the bedrooms upstairs, but it would never make the bend at the top of the staircase.

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checked the time before scrolling through his contact list.

  He’d just ended his call when she hurried back through the door.

  “I have a friend on the way to help with the heavy stuff,” he announced. “You and I can take care of the rest of it.” Pushing up his sleeves, he motioned to an overstuffed, roll-armed, oatmeal-colored chair blocking a bedroom set. “Where does that go?”

  Beneath a dusting of dark hair, his forearms were roped with sinew and muscle. They looked every bit as strong as she imagined them to be, but it was his left arm that had her staring. A silvery scar, hook shaped and wide, slashed from wrist to elbow.

  “Just part of a collection. Caught a jib line when it snapped,” he said, seeing what had her attention. “It couldn’t be helped.” His glance slid pointedly to the sore spot on her arm. “Unlike banging yourself up trying to move something you had to know was too heavy for you.

  “So where do you want it?” he asked. “The living room?”

  His presumption made her let the table reference go.

  “You don’t need to do this.” Part of a collection, he’d said. He had more injuries like that? “And you definitely didn’t need to call your friend.”

  Unease over what he’d done had collided with a hint of concern for the scar. Or maybe what he saw was embarrassment warring with interest. Whichever it was, he could practically see her struggling to decide which should take precedence as she moved with him toward the chair. The process, he thought, was rather fascinating.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, undeterred. At least she now had some color in her cheeks. “I did. I can’t get those dressers up the stairs by myself.”

  “I meant, you didn’t need to impose on him at all. I can’t ask you to do this,” she stressed, only to have him hand her the chair’s seat cushion.

  “You didn’t ask,” he pointed out.

  “You know what I mean,” she muttered back, arms wrapped around the awkward bulk.

  “What I know is that there’s no way to go over the inventory when we can’t even get to it. So, yeah. I do need to do this.” Challenge lit the chips of silver in his steel-gray eyes as he pulled one of her arms free and handed her the wide back cushion, as well. His glance slid to her biceps. “You’re skinny, but you have more muscle than I’d thought. This’ll go faster if you help.”

  Over the tops of the pillows, Rory could have sworn she saw challenge shift to a smile. Too disconcerted by him and what he’d done to stand there and make certain of it, she turned with the cushions and headed for the door.

  She’d admit to having lost a couple of pounds in the past year or so, but no one had called her skinny since sixth grade.

  “Which room do you want the twin bed in?” she heard him call.

  “The one next to the master,” she called back.

  She had no intention of arguing with him. Not just because she didn’t want to appear difficult. Or because he had a valid point about not being able to get to the inventory. As unsettled as her life felt—would always feel, she feared—getting the visible chaos under control would be huge. Tyler having his own bed that night would be nice, too.

  Focusing on her son distracted her from the man carrying up her little boy’s bed. For all of five minutes. The moment Tyler saw his bookshelf going up the stairs, he wanted to help. Wanting to keep him out of Erik’s way, since she was trying to stay out of it herself, she waited until the piece was in place, then put him to work filling the shelves with his toys. While Erik moved on to tackle the living room furniture, she carried in lamps, pictures and, now that she could get to it, her box of potted herbs for the kitchen windowsill.

  They didn’t work together so much as they worked around each other. Erik clearly just wanted to get the job done so he could get on with the job he was there to do. Hating how she’d inconvenienced him, she just wanted to get it done, too.

  * * *

  An hour later, she’d returned to the base of the stairs for the rolled-up dinosaur posters she’d left there when muffled male voices drifted from inside the store.

  “No way is this thing going up the stairs,” she heard Erik insist. “Not without a saw.”

  “She might take exception to that,” came the sensible reply. “How about through the bedroom window? Aren’t there picture windows on that side of the house?”

  “We’d have to take the window out and bring over a crane, but it might be doable. The boys could load the EZ-Rig on a trailer and one of them can drive it over.”

  “That would do it.” The unfamiliar voice paused. “There just isn’t enough time to do it today. Not if you want the rest of this cleared out. That party starts at six.”

  Not totally sure what had the men talking about bringing in heavy equipment, equally concerned by mention of a prior obligation, Rory left the posters and poked her head inside the store. In the bright overhead lights, she saw Erik facing the large cherry armoire that blocked one of the grocery aisles. He stood in profile to her, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his wide brow furrowed.

  He seemed totally occupied with logistics. She just couldn’t see whom he was talking with. Whoever it was remained hidden by the sizable piece of furniture.

  Needing to remove the apparent complication, she scooted past the checkout counter. “If it can’t be carrie
d up, just leave it. Or move it out of the way if you need to. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.”

  Erik’s glance caught hers as an athletic-looking male in worn denims and a plaid flannel shirt stepped from behind the armoire. The man had a scant inch on her mentor in height, which put him in the range of six-three or so, and the same imposing, broad-shouldered, leanly muscular build that spoke of intimate familiarity with hard physical work. Or a gym.

  Beneath his wavy, wood-brown hair, his eyes narrowed an instant before he smiled. That smile seemed as easygoing as the man himself when Erik introduced him to her as Pax Merrick.

  “My business partner,” Erik added.

  Pax reached out. “And partner in crime.”

  Shaking her hand, he gave her a quick once-over, the kind men who enjoy women often do, along with a rakish wink. “We go back a long way. You’re Rory,” he said, sparing his partner the introduction, along with whatever he could have added about their apparently extensive history.

  Her glance bounced between the two unquestionably attractive, undoubtedly successful, probably rather fearless males. With the sense that their history might be rather intriguing, she offered Pax an apologetic smile of her own. “I’m really sorry to cut into your day like this.”

  “Not a problem. He’d do the same for me,” he admitted, eyeing her with no small amount of curiosity. “You’re really taking over this place?”

  Something in the man’s tone gave her pause.

  “I am,” she replied. “Why?”

  “It’ll seem really different, is all. I used to hang out here with Erik when we were kids. We built our first boat in Gramps’s garage down there. And this store... It was just the Sullivans here all those years. They had sort of a mom-and-pop thing going,” he explained, looking her over as if to verify some preconceived impression. “Down-to-earth. Comfortable, you know? I never thought about it being run by someone...”