Marry-Me Christmas. Shirley JumpЧитать онлайн книгу.
she made the turn and navigated through the downtown intersection. “I guess I’m just a little protective when it comes to the bakery.”
“Most business owners are.” He kept watching out the window. “Is that a live reindeer I see in the park? This town is Christmas gone overboard.”
She turned to him. “You’re kind of grumpy, aren’t you? This whole anti-Christmas thing, the way you jumped on me about my business…Grumpy.”
He sat back. “No. Just…honest.”
She shrugged. “I call it grumpy.”
“Honest. Direct. To the point.”
She flashed another glance his way. “You know who else was grumpy? Ebenezer Scrooge. Remember him? He got a pretty bad preview of his future.”
Flynn rolled his eyes. “That was fiction. I’m talking real life.”
“Uh-huh. Let me know when the ghost of Christmas Future comes knocking on your door.”
“When he does, I’ll know it’s time to put away the scotch.”
Samantha laughed. Her laughter had a light, musical sound to it. Like the holiday carols coming from the stereo. Flynn tried hard not to like the sound, but…
He did.
“Listen, you had a rough day,” Sam said, “so you’re excused for any and all grumpiness. And don’t worry, you’re in good hands with Earl.”
Flynn let out a short gust of disbelief. “I’d be in better hands with a troop of baboons.”
“Oh, Earl’s not so bad. He’s really easygoing. You just gotta get used to him. And, indulge him by listening to his stories once in a while. Nothing makes him happier than that. You might even get a discount on your service if you suffer through his account of the blizzard of ’78 and how he baked a turkey, even though the power was out for four days.” She shot him a grin.
“I don’t have time for other people’s stories.”
“You’re a reporter, isn’t your whole mission to get the story?”
“Just the ones they pay me for.” That pay had been lucrative, ever since he turned in his first article. Flynn had risen to the top of his field, becoming well-known in the magazine industry for being the go-to guy for getting the job done—on time, and right on the word count.
Then he’d hit a road bump, a big one, with the celebrity chef back in June. His editor had lost faith in Flynn, but worse—
Flynn had temporarily lost faith in himself.
He refused to get sucked into that emotional vortex again. He’d gotten to the top by staying out of the story, and he’d do that again here. Get in and out, as fast as possible.
And then make one stop, one very important stop, before heading back to Boston.
But he couldn’t do either if he didn’t shake off that silly whisper of conscience, write the story his editor wanted and get it in on time, no matter what it took.
The interior of the Jeep had reached a comfortable temperature and Sam pulled off one glove, then the other. Her hands, he noticed, were slim and delicate, the nails short and no-nonsense, not polished. She tugged on the zipper of the parka, but it stuck. “Oh, this coat,” she muttered, still tugging with one hand while she drove with the other.
“Let me.” He reached over, intending only to help her, but his hand brushed against hers, and instant heat exploded in that touch. Flynn’s hand jerked upward. He hadn’t reacted with such instantaneous attraction to a woman—a woman he’d just met—in a long time. Granted, Samantha Barnett was beautiful, but there was something about her. Something indefinable. A brightness to her smile, to her personality, that seemed to draw him in, make him forget his reporter’s objectivity.
Not smart. If there was one thing Flynn prided himself on being, it was smart.
Controlled. He didn’t let things get out of hand, get crazy. By keeping tight reins on his life, on himself, he was able to manage everything. The one time he had lost control, he’d nearly lost his career.
He cleared his throat. He clasped the tiny silver zipper and pulled. After a slight catch, the fastener gave way, parting the front of the coat with a low-pitched hum as it slid down.
Beneath the coat, she wore a soft green sweater that dipped in a slight V at the neck and skimmed over her curves. From the second he’d met Samantha Barnett, Flynn had noticed the way the green of the sweater enhanced the green in her eyes, offset the golden tones in her hair. But now, without the cover of the apron, he noticed twice as much.
And noticed even more about her.
The scent of her perfume…cinnamon, vanilla, honey—or was it simply the leftover scents of the bakery?—wafted up to tease at his senses. Would her skin taste the same? Taste as good as the baked delights in the cases of the shop?
Flynn drew back. Shook himself.
Get back on track, back in work mode.
Getting distracted by a woman was not part of the plan. It never was. He did not get emotionally involved. Did not let himself care, about the people in the story, about people in general. That was how he stayed in control of his life.
No way was he deviating from the road he had laid for himself. Even Mimi, with her need for no real tie, no commitment, fit into what he needed. A woman like Samantha Barnett, who had small-town, commitment values written all over her, would not. “Your, ah, zipper is all fixed.”
“Thanks.” She flashed that smile his way again.
That was when Flynn MacGregor realized he had a problem. He’d been distracted from the minute he’d walked into that bakery.
Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast was located less than six blocks from Earl’s repair shop, but with Flynn MacGregor so close, the ride seemed to take ten hours instead of ten minutes. Sam was aware of his every breath, his every movement. She kept her eyes on the road, not just because visibility had become nearly zero, but because it seemed as if the only thing she saw in her peripheral vision was Flynn.
She hadn’t been out on a date in—
Well, a long time. Too much work, too little personal life. That must be why her every thought seemed to revolve around him. Why she’d become hyperaware of the woodsy notes of his cologne. Why her gaze kept straying to his hands, his broad shoulders, the cleft in his jaw.
This ride was a prime opportunity to impress him. To tell him more about the bakery. Not flirt. Not that him jumping in to help with her zipper was flirting…except she had held her breath when he’d gotten so close. Noted the fit of his jacket. The flecks of gold in his eyes. The way the last rays of sun glinted in his hair.
Business, Sam. Business.
“Have you interviewed many bakery owners?” she asked. Then wanted to kick herself. She hadn’t exactly hit the witty jackpot with that one.
“A few. Mostly, I cover high-end restaurants. Or, I did.” He gave her a wry grin, one that made her wonder about the use of the past tense. “All those chefs courting heart attacks, trying to maintain their five-star ratings.”
Sam stopped the Jeep, the four-wheel drive working hard to grip the icy roads, and let a mother and her three children cross the street. Sam recognized Linda Powell, and waved to her through the front window. The littlest Powell waved back, a small red mittened hand bringing a smile to Sam’s face. “Is the restaurant business really that competitive?”
He snorted. “Are you kidding? In some cities, these places campaign all year to garner those ratings. They agonize over their menus, stress over the tiniest ingredients, sometimes shipping in a certain fish from one pocket of the world because the chef insists absolutely nothing else will do. Every detail is obsessed over, nitpicked at like it’s life and death.