Dreaming Of Christmas. Susan Mallery
Читать онлайн книгу.
“Should I ask why?”
“No. You should assume I’m just one of those friendly types who loves humanity.”
“Your recent resistance to me helping aside.” He leaned against her desk.
“Yes.”
“And your feelings on humanity?”
“Okay in small groups.” She held up a piece of paper. “I was visited earlier by one of the moms. Patience. She swears there really can be a work party to restore my sets.”
“Good. We’ll make the list of what needs fixing and get it organized.”
He studied her. From what he could tell, she wore her hair up for her lessons—two braids wrapped around her head. But now, with her work done for the day, she’d left it loose. Wavy strands of honey-blond hair fell past her shoulders and halfway down her back.
He would bet she had soft hair, he thought, imagining her bending over him. He could practically feel the cool silk in his fingers. She would be all muscle, he thought absently. Long legs. Incredibly flexible.
“Dante?”
He blinked himself back into the room. “Sorry.”
She tilted her head, her mouth curving into a smile. “Want to tell me where you went?”
“Nope.”
“Are you going to help me?” She paused. “Go with me to look at the sets?”
Was that what they’d been talking about? “Sure. When do you want to do that?”
“You weren’t listening at all, were you?”
“Not even a little.”
“At least you’re honest about it.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Now. I suggested we go now.”
“Works for me.” He studied her, wondering how much trouble he would get in for kissing her, and knowing it would be worth it. “Here’s the thing.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You’re putting conditions on helping me? You’re the one who insisted.”
“No. I’m telling you that when I said I was a player, I wasn’t kidding. I never get serious. I don’t do relationships and I’m not the guy you take home to meet the parents.”
“You’re already having dinner with my mother on Thanksgiving.”
“That’s different. It’s not a date.”
She tilted her head. “You’re warning me off.”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t expressed any interest in you. Is this your ego talking? Are you assuming that a woman can’t be in the same room with you without begging for your attention?”
“I wish, but, no.”
Her gaze was steady. “You’re going to make a move.”
“Most likely.”
One corner of her mouth turned up. “Announcing it up front isn’t exactly smooth.”
“You’re difficult to resist.”
She laughed. “Oh, please. I’m very resistible. Trust me.”
He moved a little closer. He liked the sound of her laughter and how she wasn’t aware of her appeal.
She put her hand on his chest. “Let me see if I have this straight. You’re warning me that you’re not someone I want to be involved with, and at the same time, you’re convinced you have enough going for you that I’ll give in anyway.”
“Absolutely.”
He put his hand on hers, liking the feel of her fingers against his chest. Skin on skin would be better, but a man had to take what he could get.
She pulled free and dropped her arm to her side, then shook her head. “You’re a weird guy, you know that?”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure you have. Let me get my coat, and while we head to the warehouse, you can share all the details. Knowing the depth of your awfulness will help me resist you.”
“Now you’re mocking me.”
“Hey, you think you can seduce me against my will. I think a little mocking is called for.”
Evie wasn’t sure about brunch at a bar, but she showed up right on time anyway. She was a little bleary-eyed from spending every free moment over the past few days watching the videos of The Dance of the Winter King. She’d broken down the choreography of over half of the production. With luck, by the end of the holiday weekend, she would have the whole dance down on paper and then be able to put it all together for the girls.
While each age group had already learned the basic steps they would need for their section of the production, there were no transitions, no flow and the order of the dances had yet to be determined. Traditionally, the younger, less experienced students would go first, but Evie was playing with the idea of having the older soloists do short routines in between each group. Although, with time ticking, that might not be a smart move.
She walked into Jo’s Bar to find the main room already filled with a couple of dozen women. Unlike regular bars she’d been to, this one had flattering lighting, the TVs already tuned to the parade and the smell of cinnamon and vanilla filling the air.
The bar itself was being used as a buffet. Large chafing dishes sat in a row, with a stack of plates at one end. Big trays of cut up fresh fruit offered healthy choices next to a display of pastries that made Evie’s mouth water. Even the voice in her head—the one that warned about potential butt and thigh growth—was silent with carb anticipation.
A tall no-nonsense thirtysomething woman walked over carrying a tray of glasses of champagne. She stopped in front of Evie.
“I don’t know you,” she said, a friendly smile buffering her blunt statement. “Visiting relatives?”
“Evie Stryker.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “The mysterious dancing sister of the cowboy brothers. Everyone wants to meet you.”
“I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or if it makes me sound like the villain in a horror movie.”
The woman laughed. “Dancer killer. I like it. I’m Jo, by the way. This is my bar.” She nodded toward a guy opening bottles of champagne behind the bar. “I promised everyone this would be girls only, but he’s married to me, so technically he doesn’t count. Besides, he’s a good guy, so that’s something. Your group is over at that table. Enjoy.”
Evie walked in the direction Jo had indicated, not sure what she would find. Heidi, Annabelle and Charlie were already there, which allowed her to relax.
Annabelle, Shane’s pregnant fiancée, jumped to her feet when she spotted Evie. “Thank goodness. Charlie is not willing to drink for two, which is very selfish of her, and Heidi’s resisting drinking at all.”
“I have to handle dinner later,” Heidi protested. “I’m responsible for the turkey. Do you really want me wielding a sharp knife after a couple of glasses of champagne? I don’t think so. If I hurt myself, one of you will have to milk the goats.”
Annabelle sighed. “Fine. Be reasonable.” She drew Evie to the table. “I’m dying for champagne. Can you drink a glass now so I can watch you and experience it vicariously? Please?”
“Ah, sure,” Evie said, not clear on what Annabelle wanted. She didn’t think watching someone else drink would be very satisfying, but she was willing to go along with it.
She