Down Home Carolina Christmas. Pamela Browning
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suddenly gone dry.
“That’s better,” he said approvingly.
She forced herself to pick out all the things that struck her as peculiar about him, as not quite fitting in.
“Your hat’s not right,” she blurted.
“What’s wrong with it?” He sounded mystified.
She reached across the space between them and pulled it lower over his brow. “That’s better, except no one around here wears a Dodgers cap—it’d be the Atlanta Braves. But most of the local guys favor hats with tractor logos.”
“Oh. My mistake.”
“Someone said they saw your head poke out of that trailer over there. Beats me how they’d recognize you.” She slapped at a yellow jacket; it buzzed off.
“Wasn’t me coming out of the trailer. Could’ve been Rick Phillips, my body double. He isn’t growing a beard and he looks a lot like me. Especially in the nude.”
Carrie gawked at him. “You’re going to play nude scenes in this movie?”
“There’s one. It takes place on Yancey and Mary-Lutie’s wedding night.”
The intimacy of anybody’s wedding night was the last thing she wanted to discuss with Luke Mason. Anyway, who knew what really happened on their wedding night but the couple themselves? She frowned. “Don’t tell me any more. I don’t care to hear about it.”
“Thing is, the movie audience won’t know if it’s really me in the buff or Rick.” Luke laughed ruefully.
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
He seemed cocky and all too sure of himself. “Too bad. I’m enjoying the scenery.”
There was no scenery at the old seed-farm headquarters other than flat dusty fields stretching to the horizon. None but her.
She edged away from Luke Mason, wary of falling under his spell. She’d better get out of here, go back to work, anything.
The awning struts from the refreshment stand barred her escape. Luke stepped closer, moving deliberately. His eyes never left hers, and she felt a definite tug as well as something else—a yearning, a knowledge of something important happening between them. A cricket chirred in the nearby shrubbery, and the voices on the other side of the refreshment stand receded to background noise. Luke’s eyes searched hers for—what?
Without realizing it, she had backed into the hot metal shell of the refreshment stand, which felt unpleasantly warm against her back. She tensed, his self-confidence undermining her own.
“I stopped by the garage a few times,” he said, studying her reaction and apparently heartened by what he saw. “You were never there.”
She clasped her nervous fingers behind her back. “I have things to do,” she said. “Errands. Stuff like that.”
“Mmm,” he said. “That’s what I figured. Am I supposed to make an appointment?”
“If you want something done to your car, yes,” she said.
“And if I want something done to me?” He was laughing at her, amusement bubbling up from the depths of his eyes.
“Depends,” she said. “On what it is.” She could have died once she’d said it, knowing full well that it sounded like a come-on.
“You could check my air filter. Or inflate something.” He grinned at her.
“I, um, “she said, resisting at the same time that she realized it was pointless.
“Or we could,” he murmured as he moved closer still, “do this.” He curved an arm around her waist, and she felt her will dissolve. She had turned completely to a puddle of mush bounded by quivering nerve endings, all of which were yearning toward Luke Mason’s two-day growth of beard. She knew she could tell him to stop and he would. She could panic, even scream, but in her present state, neither occurred to her. All she did was stare, mesmerized as his hand cupped her chin ever so lightly and his lips descended to hers.
She smelled the sweat on his skin, the heat upon the rough cotton of his shirt. He didn’t so much kiss as taste her, inhaling her breath, nibbling for a moment at her bottom lip and finishing up with a long delectable teasing incursion into her mouth. The worst thing was that it wasn’t enough. She wanted more, lots more, but the last thing she would do was admit it to him.
After this swoon-making exercise in provocation, he moved aside. Their surroundings, which seemed to have faded away, sharpened into focus. Her arms and legs came back into being, though her brain was still wandering in the ether somewhere. Luke was smiling, somewhat sadly, she thought.
“Be on your way, Carrie,” he said softly. “If you don’t, you may find out that Yancey Goforth wasn’t the only guy who was dangerous.” He grazed a knuckle against her cheek and stepped backward, abandoning her to her comfort zone, which was much less comfortable than it had been, say, oh, ten minutes ago.
Instead of inventing a bit of repartee as she knew she should, Carrie could not think of one thing to say. Tried unsuccessfully to reconnect with her brain, which was still winding in from outer space. Made an effort to recapture her breath.
Darting one desperate glance back over her shoulder at Luke, she whirled around the corner of the stand, only to run smack into one of those women passing out cards. They bumped heads, and Carrie reeled backward with stars of the uncomfortable kind bouncing off the backs of her eyeballs.
“You’re definitely a possibility,” the woman said chattily. “Here you go, and don’t forget to include your phone number.” She pressed a card into Carrie’s hand.
“Take this back,” Carrie said, fending her off with a flap of her hand. “I don’t want to be in the movie.”
“Nonsense, go talk to Fleur. You’d be perfect for the Miss Liberty 500 scene. Go on,” said the assistant.
“Carrie? Carrie Rose Smith!” Joyanne called over the heads of the milling crowd, and Whip Larson, who happened to be passing by, halted in his tracks. He flicked his gaze over Carrie’s figure.
“You’re Carrie Smith?” he asked. “Of Smitty’s Garage?”
The last thing she expected was for Whip to grab her arm, but that was what he did. “Well, Ms. Smith,” he said heartily, “I’d like to talk to you. Luke Mason tells me that your garage is perfect for some scenes.”
So Luke had been talking up Smitty’s to this guy? Great. That was all she needed.
Carrie wrested her arm away. She’d had about all she could take of this movie business for today, plus she was pitched off balance by Luke Mason’s late but totally great kiss. She fought for composure and eyed Whip warily, pulling around her the shreds of whatever dignity she had left.
“My garage is not for sale. Nor am I,” she said as she lowered her head and began to walk rapidly toward her car, not paying attention to outraged squawks from Dixie and Joyanne, now most vociferously entreating her to stay.
Undeterred, Whip loped after her as she angled a shortcut through a patch of Queen Anne’s lace, which kept catching at the legs of her jeans.
“Baby, listen to me. This is your chance to earn a lot of money.” He was pushing her, as Hollywood types all seemed wont to do. She figured that her only recourse was to come back at him Southern style.
“Fiddle-dee-dee,” she said in a mock Scarlett O’Hara accent, raising one eyebrow for emphasis. “It makes no never mind to me.”
Whip, perspiration dripping down his forehead, tipped his head back and laughed, sending a bunch of sweat droplets flying. “Hey, you’re pretty good,” he said with a new kind of respect. “You sounded just like her.”
“I’m Southern born and bred,” Carrie retorted, not without pride.