Her Holiday Prince Charming. Christine Flynn
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that the paperwork for Rory’s mortgage would be handled at a title company Monday afternoon. Since he had power of attorney for the sale for his grandparents, he and Cornelia had already agreed to take care of their business there that morning.
The Hunt name tended to eliminate delays.
He could hear the low, soft tones of Rory’s responses, but he had no idea what she said. He was too busy telling himself that the next six months wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared.
They’d probably be worse.
He didn’t question the sincerity of the rather shell-shocked-looking young woman reading the papers in front of her. Her determination to do what she had to do for her child had been nearly tangible to him. But her impulsiveness had raised about a dozen red flags.
Women spent more time making up their mind about buying a pair of shoes than she had about taking on something that would require a nearly 24/7 commitment. Especially at first. He knew. He ate, slept and breathed his own business. And that business was something he’d wanted since he was a kid. She’d only wanted the store since she’d learned about it that morning. She’d even admitted to knowing nothing about what she’d agreed to get herself into—which meant she’d take far more time than he’d planned on devoting to the care and feeding of her education.
It was that last part that he’d explained to his business partner when he’d called a while ago to tell him he’d still be tied up for a while. Pax had said not to worry about what he’d committed himself to. He’d cover for him if he needed time during the day to work with the store’s new owner.
Though they’d never talked about the reasons for it, Pax knew how badly Erik wanted to be out from under that property. And why. They’d grown up together. Pax had been his best man. He’d also gone through the ugliness of his divorce with him by letting him take on however many projects it took to keep him too exhausted to think about anything else.
It had been seven years since the demise of his eight-year marriage, and Erik had long since recovered from what he had no intention of ever repeating again, but he already felt guilt about the time he’d be taking away from work. Especially with an April delivery date on their present work under construction, another client waiting for his final blueprints and two others hovering in the wings to get on their list.
Then there were their evening commitments with past and future clients. The holiday party season had just started—and Merrick & Sullivan Yachting never missed a business or philanthropic commitment.
With the women still talking, and feeling the tension creep up his back, he took his filled mug to the nearest window and rubbed at his neck. He’d do what he had to do where the woman behind him was concerned, and hope she wasn’t the sort who required a lot of hand-holding to come up to speed. Heaven knew he wasn’t a coddling sort of guy.
Erik took a sip of the coffee that was infinitely better than the sludge he and his partner had been brewing since their secretary had gone on maternity leave. It didn’t help the situation that Mrs. Rory Linfield had a son. He’d made it a point over the past several years to avoid women with children. They tended to want more of a commitment than he was interested in. But that deliberate lack of exposure left him feeling less than capable when it came to anyone under four feet tall.
With his pretty little project deep in conversation, he looked out over the blue-tarped sailboats yawing in their slips. He and Pax had pulled their rental fleet out of the water last month, but farther up the shoreline, he could see the point that anchored the rest of their operation: the boatyard where they stored their boats over winter and the boatworks where they built their custom sailing yachts, one sloop at a time.
“How come that boat has a Santa on it?”
The little boy had walked over from two windows down. Now, with his chin barely clearing the windowsill, the sandy-haired child pointed to a row of decorated sloops in the marina. Several had colored lights anchored fore and aft from the mainsail mast. One had a blow-up Santa at the helm.
Erik gave a shrug. “Some people just like to decorate their boats this time of year.”
“How come?”
“Because they entertain on them,” he said, thinking of the cocktail parties he and his partner had hosted on their respective sloops for their clients over the years. They had one scheduled next week. “Or maybe they’re going to be in one of the boat parades.” The floating parades were legend around the sound during the holidays.
The little boy’s brow furrowed. Digesting what he’d been told, he said nothing else. For about five seconds, anyway.
“Do you have a boat?”
“I do.”
“Do you decorate it?”
“I have.”
“Do you put a Santa on it?”
“No.”
“Oh,” the child said.
He took another sip of coffee, waited for another question. When none was forthcoming, Erik tried to focus on the conversation behind him.
The small voice immediately cut in.
“I’m glad your house has a fireplace. So Santa can come down,” Tyler explained, still looking out the window. “Mom said he can visit without one, but it’s easier when he has a chimney.”
It took a moment for the boy’s conversational leap to make sense. Apparently since Santa was on his mind, any context was fair game.
“I’ve heard that about chimneys, too,” he assured him. “And the house you saw isn’t mine. It’s my grandparents’.”
The distinction apparently didn’t matter.
“We have a fireplace in our house. But we didn’t have a tree last time for him to put presents under.” The small voice sounded utterly matter-of-fact. “Mom said this year won’t be sad. We get a tree no matter what.”
His mom had mentioned that he hadn’t had a very good Christmas last year. Sad, the child had just called it. Yet Erik didn’t let himself consider why that had been. Telling himself that her personal business was none of his, he murmured a distracted, “That’s good,” to her son and focused on the only business of hers he needed to be interested in. The store.
Cornelia had asked for his presence in case Rory had questions for him. He figured now was as good a time as any to see what those concerns might be.
The three females at the table glanced up as he approached.
It was Rory’s dark eyes that he met.
“Is there anything you want to ask me about the property?”
Her shell-shocked look had yet to fade. With her ringless hand at the base of her throat, she slowly shook her head. “I don’t even know where to start right now.”
“Make a list as things occur to you,” he told her. “I’ll come by the market next week and we can go over it.
“The sale is being expedited,” he told her, knowing now that part of the appeal of his grandparents’ home, for her son, anyway, had been the fireplace his own family had gathered around at Christmas. “You can move in whenever you’re ready. I’ll check my schedule and Phil can set us up with a day and time next week to go over inventory.”
He set his coffee on the table with a decisive clink and pulled his business card from his pocket. Walking around the table to give it to her, he watched her rise. As she did, his glance slid over what her coat had hidden earlier. The long black turtleneck she wore skimmed her feminine curves, molded the sweet shape of her hips.
She had the body of a dancer. Long, lithe and sexy as hell.
Masking his misgivings about having to deal with her, feeling them mount by the minute, he ignored the vague tightening in his gut. “Do you need help moving in?”
“No.