Wicked Christmas Nights. Leslie KellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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