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Lucy sighed deeply, then forced herself to put Jude out of her mind. Time to forget about him. He hadn’t been her lover, merely a boyfriend who’d gotten a hand down her pants just once in three months. Absolutely forgettable.
Besides which, she had other things to think about. Like Christmas, now just two days away. And the fact that she was spending it alone.
Your own fault. She’d made the choice. Kate was going away with Teddy tonight so the apartment would be empty. But Sam had begged her to come back to Chicago to celebrate Christmas with his fiancée’s family. Lucy had refused, claiming she had too much work to do over the holidays.
Truth was, she couldn’t handle a big family Christmas. The last traditional holiday season she’d experienced had been a week before her parents had been swept from her life by a stupid asshole who’d decided to celebrate a promotion by having a few bourbons, then getting behind the wheel of a car.
It had been just her and Sam for five years now, and each Christmas had been more nontraditional than the last. One year ago, they’d been in Mexico, lying on a beach, ignoring the merriment around them in favor of rum drinks and steel drums.
Though Sam was ready to dive back into the holiday spirit with his new fiancée, somehow, Lucy just couldn’t face it yet. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to again. Christmas had once been her favorite holiday; it seemed almost sacrilege to enjoy it without the two people who had made it so special for the first seventeen years of her life.
Now she had another thing to add to her why-I-should-skip Christmas list: she’d been cheated on—right before the holiday. The angel on the top of Jude’s tree had borne witness to the extension-wearing ho who went around sucking on dicks that belonged to other girls. Er, other girls’ boyfriends.
“The whole holiday is just overrated,” she told herself. “Better off just forgetting about it.”
Not to mention a few other things. Like love. Romance.
And men.
“EXCUSE ME, SIR, can I ask you a favor?”
Ross Marshall heard a young woman speaking, but since he knew she wasn’t talking to him, he didn’t bother turning around. He instead remained focused on putting the finishing touches on the custom-made bookcase he’d been asked to install today. Thankfully, despite his concerns about the off-kilter walls in this old New York building, every shelving unit he’d built for Beans & Books had fit beautifully. Including this last one.
“Sir?”
Though curious, since the voice sounded a little insistent, again he ignored her. He tried to avoid the customers and usually didn’t work until later in the evening when the shop was closed. The owner really wanted the final unit installed today, however—gotta have more shelf space to grab those crazy day-before-Christmas-Eve shoppers who’d be filling the aisles tonight. So he’d agreed to come in right after the frenetic lunch hour but before the five o’clock rush.
He’d still arrived just in time to listen to modern-day robber barons having power coffees while making let’s-take-over-the-world deals via Bluetooth. Oh, and their trophy wives stopping by between Junior League meetings and museum openings to grab a Fat-Free Cappuccino with Soy milk and carob drizzle.
Manhattan was like a different planet. He preferred Chicago, which he’d called home for the first twenty-three of his twenty-four years. It was almost as big and half as pretentious.
“Hellooooo?”
Finally realizing the woman might actually be speaking to him, which he hadn’t imagined since in New York nobody called hammer jockeys “sir,” he turned around. The young woman had been addressing him—she was staring at him, her eyes narrowed, her freckled cheeks flushed and her mouth tugged down into a frown.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to me.” He offered her a smile. “I’m not used to being called sir.”
The blonde relaxed. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Hey, listen, could I ask you a big favor?”
He stiffened the tiniest bit. He might not be used to being called sir around here, but he’d received a lot of suggestive invitations lately. It seemed men with calluses were, for some reason, catnip to the rich Manhattan types. “Yes?”
“See my friend over there at the table in the far corner?”
Ross glanced over, seeing the back of a woman seated in the shadowy rear corner of the place. Then he looked again, interested despite himself in the stunning, thick brown hair that fell in loose, curly waves halfway down her back. She stood out from every other female in the place—most of whom sported a more typical, reserved, New York professional-woman’s blow-out or bun. Ross’s hands started to tingle, as if anticipating what it might be like to sink his fingers into those silky strands.
He shoved them into his pockets. “What about her?”
“She’s my best friend—we’re both students. Anyway, she needs some help for this project she’s working on. We’ve been sitting over there talking about it and trying to figure out what tool would be best.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “But we’re both pretty clueless about that kind of stuff. Do you think you could go over and offer her your expertise?”
It sounded screwy to him, and the young woman looked like she was about to break into a grin. But something—that hair—made him curious to see more of the girl with the tool problem.
He looked again. This time, the brunette had turned a little, as if looking around for her friend, and he caught a glimpse of her face. Creamy-skin. Cute nose. Long lashes. Full mouth.
His heart-rate kicked up a notch; he was interested in spite of himself. “What kind of job is it?” he asked as he began to pack up his portable toolbox.
“Well, uh…it might be best if she explains that herself.” As if sensing he was skeptical, she added, “She’s a photography student, you see, and I’m in journalism. Between the two of us, we barely know the difference between a hammer and a chainsaw.”
He shouldn’t. Really. Even though he was finished here, he had some things to do for another project scheduled to start the day after Christmas. He needed to phone in a few orders, go to the lumberyard, go over the design he’d sketched out.
Of course, all that would have to come after he risked life and limb at the most miserable place on earth to be today: the nearest shipping store. He had to get his family’s Christmas gifts sent off, via overnight delivery, obviously. Seemed in the past week he had gone from busy self-employed carpenter to forgetful procrastinating shopper. Bad enough that he wasn’t going home for Christmas; if he didn’t get a gift in front of his youngest sister, he’d never hear the end of it.
Yet even with all that, he was tempted to take ten minutes to see if the brunette was really as attractive as she looked from here. Not to mention seeing what this mystery project was.
“Please? I’m sure it won’t take long. Besides, helping someone else will put you in the holiday spirit,” the girl said, managing to sound pious, despite the mischief in her expression.
He chuckled at her noble tone. Her smile and the twinkle in her eyes told him something else was going on. She was probably playing some kind of matchmaking game. Hell, for all he knew, the brunette had put her up to this, wanting to meet him but not wanting to come on too strong.
That was okay. Because he suddenly wanted to meet her, too.
And if the blonde was on the up-and-up, and the woman did need some help, well, that was okay, too. Maybe doing something nice for someone—someone super hot with soft-looking hair he wanted to rub all over his bare skin—was just what he needed. Certainly nothing else was putting him in the holiday spirit. He was too busy working—trying to prove to himself and to everyone else that he could make it on his own and didn’t need to go to work in the family business—to care much about celebrating.
His mom suspected that was why he wasn’t coming home for Christmas, because he didn’t want to get another guilt trip or have another argument with his dad. She wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Okay,” he said, seeing the shop owner smiling broadly at him from behind the counter, obviously thrilled that even more expensive holiday junk could be shoveled in front of potential customers within the hour. “Just give me a few minutes.”
“Oh, thank you!”
The freckled blonde turned and headed not for her friend in the back corner, but toward the door of the shop. Like she was making herself scarce so her friend could make her move. He grinned, wondering why girls went through these motions. He would probably have been even more interested if the brunette had just come up to him herself and said hello.
Finishing up with a customer, the owner came out from around the counter. He offered Ross his exuberant thanks for having squeezed in this job so quickly. Ross accepted the check for final payment—which, he noted, included a nice holiday bonus—then shook the man’s hand and picked up his tools. Then it was decision time. Head for the exit and get busy doing what he needed to do? Or take a few minutes out of his day to possibly be hit-on by a very pretty girl who’d gotten her friend to play matchmaker?
Hell. He might be hungry, might need work to pay his bills. But he was twenty-four, human and male. Pretty girl trumped food any day of the week.
Heading toward her table, he brushed some sawdust off his arms, nodding politely at the several women who smiled and murmured holiday greetings. The brunette hadn’t moved from her seat, though he did see her look from side to side, as if she wanted to turn around to see if he was coming over, but didn’t wish to be too obvious about it.
She so set this up.
Frankly, Ross couldn’t bring himself to care.
He walked up behind her, about to clear his throat and introduce himself, when he heard her say something. She was alone, obviously, and had to be talking to herself. And what she said pierced a hole in the ego that had been telling him she’d sent a friend over to get his attention.
“You know you’d have been scared to even pick up a chainsaw,” she muttered. “Or even an electric knife!”
Damn. She really was talking about tools? Some project that she needed to do?
Ross had to laugh at himself. Wouldn’t his youngest sister—always his biggest critic—be laughing her ass off right now? He’d been all cocky and sure this sexy coed was about to come on to him…and she really was interested only in his toolbelt.
“Forget the electric knife,” he said, intruding on her musings, the carpenter in him shuddering at the thought. “They’re not made for cutting anything other than meat.”
The girl swung her head up to look at him, her eyes rounding in shock and her mouth dropping open.
Big brown eyes. Full, pink-lipped mouth.
Then there was the perfect, heart-shaped face. And oh, that hair. Thick and shining, with soft brown waves that framed her face, and curls that tumbled well down her back. There wasn’t a guy alive who wouldn’t imagine all that hair being the only thing wrapped around her naked body; well, except for his own naked body.
He stared, unable to do anything else. She’d been pretty from across the room. Up close, she was beautiful enough to make his heart forget it was supposed to beat.
“Excuse me?” she said, shaking her head lightly as if she couldn’t figure out what was happening. “What did you say?”
He cleared his throat. “I said, you need to use the right tool for the job. Electric knives are for cutting meat. Now what is it you were thinking about cutting through?”
“Meat,” she replied, then quickly clamped her lips shut.
He laughed, admiring her quick wit. “Beef or pork?”
“I’d say pork loin,” she replied, her mouth twisting a bit. “But I was joking. I definitely don’t need to cut any meat.”
“I figured,” he said. Without waiting for an invitation, he walked around the table and sat in the vacant chair, facing her. He told himself it was because he’d promised her friend he’d offer her some construction advice. In truth, he just wanted to look at her a little more. Hear her voice. See whether she had a personality to go with the looks.
Most guys his age probably wouldn’t care. Ross, though, did.
He might be young, but he wasn’t inexperienced. And he’d learned very early on that a pretty face and smoking-hot body were enough before hitting the sheets. But after that, if there wasn’t a great sense of humor, big heart and a brain to go along with the sexiness, he just couldn’t stay interested. Some of his old college buddies used to joke about being happy with tits-on-a-stick. Ross preferred a real woman, from top to bottom.
She seemed like she had a brain. Right now, though, he was wondering about that whole personality thing. Because she just kept staring at him, her face turning pink, as if she didn’t know what to say.
Or she was embarrassed.
Hmm. So maybe this wasn’t about some mystery project. Because the way she was blushing made him suspect she’d had something wicked on her mind.
More interesting by the minute.
“So, what is this big project?”
“Project?”
“Yeah. Your friend came over, told me you needed some advice on tools for a project you’re doing.”
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and closed her eyes for a second, then whispered, “I’m going to kill her.”
“Maybe that’s why she left—she needed a running start.”
“She left?”
“Yep. Right after she came to ask me to help you.”
Groaning, she shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”
“So, she was trying to set us up?”
“I think so.”
“What kind of friend does that?” he asked. “She doesn’t know me—what if I’m some kind of serial killer or panty thief?”
Her brow went up. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Either of those things?”
He grinned. “No on the first. I’ll take the fifth on the second until we get to know each other.” Certain he wanted that—to get to know her—he stuck out his hand. “I’m Ross.”
She eyed it, then reached out and shook. Her hand was small, soft. Fragile against his own. Having worked only with his hands for months, he knew he had calluses on top of blisters, but she didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, she was the one who held on for a moment, as if not wanting to let go.
Finally, though, she pulled away, murmuring, “Lucy.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucy.”
“You, too. Especially now that I know you’re not a serial killer.” She flashed a grin. “As for the other, remind me not to walk into Victoria’s Secret with you…wouldn’t want to get arrested as an accomplice.”
“What fun would there be in stealing brand-new panties?” Then, seeing her brow shoot up, he held up a hand. “Kidding. Believe me, stealing underwear isn’t my thing.”
“Helping mystery girls with mysterious projects is?”
“Uh-huh. Now, mysterious girl, back to the mysterious project.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Your friend made it up?”
She shifted her gaze, those long lashes lowering. “Not exactly. I was, um, wondering which tool to use to, uh, remove something. And she obviously thought it would be fun to bring you into my fantasies.” She gasped, staring him in the eye. “I mean, I wasn’t…it’s not that I was fantasizing about you!”
“Aww, I’m crushed.”
“If you knew the fantasy, you wouldn’t be,” she said, her tone droll.
“So why don’t you tell me?” he asked, only half-teasing. What did a beautiful young woman fantasize about? More importantly, who?
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
“Oh, trust me on this, I definitely do.”
She studied him for a moment, eyeing him intently as if to see if he was serious. Then, apparently realizing he was, she came right out and told him.
3
Now
Chicago, December 23, 2011
