Her Holiday Prince Charming. Christine Flynn
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only took two bar stools inside, so there are a couple more back there we can bring up to sit on. I’m going to tell Tyler I’ll be out here. He’s watching a DVD on my laptop.”
Erik watched her slip behind the counter, his focus on the resolute set of her shoulders as she disappeared inside. Her son was undoubtedly watching her laptop because her television was buried somewhere in the stacks beyond him. He also gave the guys she’d hired about a fifty-fifty chance of returning to finish their job.
He didn’t care what she said. She did need help here. She just didn’t want to ask for it.
Considering that she hadn’t wanted to accept his little housewarming present, either, he couldn’t help but wonder if the woman was always unreasonable, impractical and stubborn, or if some less obvious trait compelled her to refuse assistance when she clearly needed it.
What she needed now was some serious muscle.
Judging from the size of the decidedly upscale sofa and armchairs, sections of wall units, tables and a huge mirror sitting between the rows of shelving, there had been significant space in the house she’d left behind. The larger of two armoires was the size of a king-size mattress. He had no idea where she was going to put that. It might have fit in the largest of the bedrooms upstairs, but it would never make the bend at the top of the staircase.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checked the time before scrolling through his contact list.
He’d just ended his call when she hurried back through the door.
“I have a friend on the way to help with the heavy stuff,” he announced. “You and I can take care of the rest of it.” Pushing up his sleeves, he motioned to an overstuffed, roll-armed, oatmeal-colored chair blocking a bedroom set. “Where does that go?”
Beneath a dusting of dark hair, his forearms were roped with sinew and muscle. They looked every bit as strong as she imagined them to be, but it was his left arm that had her staring. A silvery scar, hook shaped and wide, slashed from wrist to elbow.
“Just part of a collection. Caught a jib line when it snapped,” he said, seeing what had her attention. “It couldn’t be helped.” His glance slid pointedly to the sore spot on her arm. “Unlike banging yourself up trying to move something you had to know was too heavy for you.
“So where do you want it?” he asked. “The living room?”
His presumption made her let the table reference go.
“You don’t need to do this.” Part of a collection, he’d said. He had more injuries like that? “And you definitely didn’t need to call your friend.”
Unease over what he’d done had collided with a hint of concern for the scar. Or maybe what he saw was embarrassment warring with interest. Whichever it was, he could practically see her struggling to decide which should take precedence as she moved with him toward the chair. The process, he thought, was rather fascinating.
“Yeah,” he muttered, undeterred. At least she now had some color in her cheeks. “I did. I can’t get those dressers up the stairs by myself.”
“I meant, you didn’t need to impose on him at all. I can’t ask you to do this,” she stressed, only to have him hand her the chair’s seat cushion.
“You didn’t ask,” he pointed out.
“You know what I mean,” she muttered back, arms wrapped around the awkward bulk.
“What I know is that there’s no way to go over the inventory when we can’t even get to it. So, yeah. I do need to do this.” Challenge lit the chips of silver in his steel-gray eyes as he pulled one of her arms free and handed her the wide back cushion, as well. His glance slid to her biceps. “You’re skinny, but you have more muscle than I’d thought. This’ll go faster if you help.”
Over the tops of the pillows, Rory could have sworn she saw challenge shift to a smile. Too disconcerted by him and what he’d done to stand there and make certain of it, she turned with the cushions and headed for the door.
She’d admit to having lost a couple of pounds in the past year or so, but no one had called her skinny since sixth grade.
“Which room do you want the twin bed in?” she heard him call.
“The one next to the master,” she called back.
She had no intention of arguing with him. Not just because she didn’t want to appear difficult. Or because he had a valid point about not being able to get to the inventory. As unsettled as her life felt—would always feel, she feared—getting the visible chaos under control would be huge. Tyler having his own bed that night would be nice, too.
Focusing on her son distracted her from the man carrying up her little boy’s bed. For all of five minutes. The moment Tyler saw his bookshelf going up the stairs, he wanted to help. Wanting to keep him out of Erik’s way, since she was trying to stay out of it herself, she waited until the piece was in place, then put him to work filling the shelves with his toys. While Erik moved on to tackle the living room furniture, she carried in lamps, pictures and, now that she could get to it, her box of potted herbs for the kitchen windowsill.
They didn’t work together so much as they worked around each other. Erik clearly just wanted to get the job done so he could get on with the job he was there to do. Hating how she’d inconvenienced him, she just wanted to get it done, too.
* * *
An hour later, she’d returned to the base of the stairs for the rolled-up dinosaur posters she’d left there when muffled male voices drifted from inside the store.
“No way is this thing going up the stairs,” she heard Erik insist. “Not without a saw.”
“She might take exception to that,” came the sensible reply. “How about through the bedroom window? Aren’t there picture windows on that side of the house?”
“We’d have to take the window out and bring over a crane, but it might be doable. The boys could load the EZ-Rig on a trailer and one of them can drive it over.”
“That would do it.” The unfamiliar voice paused. “There just isn’t enough time to do it today. Not if you want the rest of this cleared out. That party starts at six.”
Not totally sure what had the men talking about bringing in heavy equipment, equally concerned by mention of a prior obligation, Rory left the posters and poked her head inside the store. In the bright overhead lights, she saw Erik facing the large cherry armoire that blocked one of the grocery aisles. He stood in profile to her, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his wide brow furrowed.
He seemed totally occupied with logistics. She just couldn’t see whom he was talking with. Whoever it was remained hidden by the sizable piece of furniture.
Needing to remove the apparent complication, she scooted past the checkout counter. “If it can’t be carried up, just leave it. Or move it out of the way if you need to. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.”
Erik’s glance caught hers as an athletic-looking male in worn denims and a plaid flannel shirt stepped from behind the armoire. The man had a scant inch on her mentor in height, which put him in the range of six-three or so, and the same imposing, broad-shouldered, leanly muscular build that spoke of intimate familiarity with hard physical work. Or a gym.
Beneath his wavy, wood-brown hair, his eyes narrowed an instant before he smiled. That smile seemed as easygoing as the man himself when Erik introduced him to her as Pax Merrick.
“My business partner,” Erik added.
Pax reached out. “And partner in crime.”
Shaking her hand, he gave her a quick once-over, the kind men who enjoy women often do, along with a rakish wink. “We go back a long way. You’re Rory,” he said, sparing his partner the introduction, along with whatever he could have added about their apparently extensive history.
Her