Her Holiday Prince Charming. Christine Flynn
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we were going to go over the inventory.”
“That’s the plan.”
He carried a briefcase. A rather hefty one of scarred butterscotch leather and straps with buckles that had far more character than the sleek, unscuffed ones carried by other men she knew. As he set it on the scratched counter, she could see his burnished initials, worn shiny in places, above the equally worn lock. A section of stitching on the side looked new, as if it had recently been repaired. The case was old, she thought. It had history. And part of that history seemed to say that he’d rather keep and care for what he had than replace it.
Not appreciating how he’d dismissed her attempt to establish an understanding, she didn’t bother to wonder why she found that so appealing.
“I thought we’d work where it’s already warm. Inside,” she pointed out, ever so reasonably. “We can sit at the island and go over the books in there.”
“I meant the physical inventory. The stuff that’s on the shelves and in the bins back there.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I have a printout of what came with the sale, but those items have been sitting around for a year. You’ll want to discount some of what you have and replace it with new merchandise. Things like sinkers, bobbers and leaders are fine, but creels and some of the stock that isn’t packaged looks shopworn.”
Rory hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
“Fishing gear,” he explained, apparently sensing that.
Undaunted, she picked up a couple of the boxes from the cracked surface. She’d already decided the old laminate needed to go. “Then we’ll work here at the counter.”
The boxes had been emptied, Erik realized when she easily lifted two marked Dishes from where his grandfather had once kept displays of bug repellent and sunglasses. She removed two more, adding them to the only space available without blocking either doorway: the tops of three tall stacks of red-and-green bins marked Christmas.
She had to stretch to get them there. Jerking his glance from the enticing curve of her backside, he reached past her.
“Let me get that.”
“Already have it,” she insisted, and having placed the boxes, turned right into him.
Rock had more give to it.
The thought occurred vaguely as she bumped into his chest. Promptly bouncing back, she gasped a breath when his quick grip tightened on her upper arms. Her heart had barely slammed against her ribs when he pulled her forward to keep her from hitting the bins behind her and bringing the empty boxes down on their heads.
The freshness of soap and sea air clung to him. With her pulse scrambling, his grip tight on her bruise, she had no idea why the scents even registered. Her hand shot up, covering the back of his where it curved over the tender spot on her arm.
The pressure of his fingers eased.
With their bodies inches apart, she went as still as stone. Or maybe he froze first. She just knew that one moment she’d been intent on doing whatever she needed to do to make it clear that she wouldn’t waste his time, and the next, the tension in his body and the warmth of his hands had seeped through to her skin, making her conscious of little more than...him.
Erik’s eyes narrowed on hers an instant before she ducked her head. Slacking his grip, he dropped his hands. There’d been no mistaking the way she’d winced when he’d grabbed her.
Without thinking, he reached toward her again, touched the back of her hand where it now covered where his had been.
He hadn’t thought he’d grabbed her that hard.
“Are you okay?”
At the concern in his voice, the caution in his touch, her head came back up. “I’m fine.” Wanting to convince them both, she smiled. “Really.”
His brow pinched as he drew his hand away once more.
Rory’s breath slithered out. That small contact had been far too brief to elicit the loss she felt when he stepped back. Yet that sense of loss existed, sinking deeper into her chest with every heartbeat—unexpected, unwanted and feeling far too threatening under his quiet scrutiny.
A certain numbness had protected her since she’d lost what had felt like the other half of herself. Yet, as with the first time this man had touched her, something about him scraped at the edges of that barrier, made her conscious of things she truly didn’t want to consider.
Out of nowhere, the need to be held sprang to mind. It was such a simple thing, so basic that she’d never truly considered it until it had been found and suddenly lost—that need for security, comfort, a sense of oneness. But she knew how rare it was to find that sense of belonging, and the need didn’t feel simple at all. Not when she realized she was actually wondering what it would feel like to be folded against Erik’s broad, undeniably solid chest. A woman would feel sheltered there. Safe from what troubled her. And for a few moments, anyway, free of the need to stand alone.
Shaken by her thoughts, by him, she started to move back, as much from the need behind the unexpected admissions as from the man who’d prompted them. The stacks behind her allowed her no escape at all.
His scrutiny narrowed. “If you’re okay, why are you still holding your arm?”
She was holding in his touch. Realizing that, hoping he didn’t, she promptly dropped her hand.
“It’s nothing.” Rattled, trying not to be, she shrugged. “It’s just a little sore.”
“Why?”
“Because I landed against the corner of a dresser.” She was just tired. Tired and apparently in need of some downtime with her yoga mat. If she could find it. Or, even better, some fudge. The one thing she did not need was to think about this man’s chest, his arms or the way he was scowling at her. “I was trying to move a table and lost my grip.
“So,” she said, fully prepared to move on so he’d move himself.
He didn’t budge. “Which table?”
Trapped between the counter, bins and boxes, she leaned sideways and pointed toward the eight-foot-long, solid oak-and-iron refectory table jammed between a bedroom set and the dairy case. “That one.”
His scowl deepened as it swung back to her. “You tried to move that yourself?”
“It wasn’t going to go inside on its own.”
Forbearance entered his tone. “You said you were going to wait for the kids who moved you here to help with the heavy stuff.”
“What I said,” she reminded him, just as patiently, “is that they’d be back next week.”
“When next week?”
“When they can fit it in.”
“Meaning this could all be here a week from now,” he said flatly. “Or the week after that.”
She didn’t particularly appreciate the cynical certainty in his tone. Especially since she was trying not to dwell on that discouraging suspicion herself.
“What about your friends?” he asked, clearly prepared to pursue other possibilities. “Have you asked any of them to help you?”
“I’m sure everyone’s busy.”
“Do you know that for certain?”
She could omit and evade. No way could she lie. Thinking of the few people she still thought of as friends, she muttered, “Not exactly.”
“Then ask.”
She started to say that she didn’t want to. Fearing she’d sound like a five-year-old, not liking how he prodded at her defenses, she ignored the command entirely.
Since he had yet to move, she ducked around him. “I’ll go turn on the heat.”