The Bachelor's Christmas Bride. Victoria Pade
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know I can call you. I appreciate that.” Even though she also knew that rather than reach him, her call would automatically be rerouted to his voice mail or his secretary or his campaign manager—depending on how many numbers she tried—and that there would never be an immediate callback. Like when her grandmother had died so suddenly…
They said their goodbyes and Shannon hung up.
With a quick glance at the time, she grabbed her car keys and went out the apartment’s door and down the steps to her car—freshly back from the local garage where it had required a new starter.
Wes’s call was making her late. Dag had said she could come by her grandmother’s house anytime to see what he was doing with the place and to pick up what remained of her grandmother’s things, but it was already after four and she was afraid he would give up on her. And she didn’t want that.
Behind the wheel, she turned the key in the ignition and was pleased to see that the repair had been a good one—the engine started on the first try.
On her way to what was formerly her grandmother’s place, she kept an eye out for Dag’s big electric-blue truck coming in the opposite direction, just in case, and that was all it took to replace thoughts of Wes with thoughts of Dag.
Until she turned onto the road that led to her grandmother’s house and it came into view.
The two-story wedding cake–shaped farmhouse was the home her grandmother had come to as a bride. Shannon’s eyes filled with tears when she suddenly pictured her grandmother sitting on the big front porch, snapping green beans fresh from the garden.
She missed her so much….
She missed them all so much….
But even though the memories of being at that house brought on some pain as Shannon parked in front of it, she wasn’t sorry she’d come. To her this was still her grandmother’s house no matter who owned it on paper and she did want to touch base with it one last time.
Then the front door opened and Dag McKendrick appeared behind the screen. And somehow seeing him bolstered her and made it easier for her to actually go through with it.
As she turned off the engine, Dag shouldered his way out onto the porch. He was wearing jeans that Wes wouldn’t have considered owning—low-slung and faded. Wes also would have had no use for the equally antique chambray shirt that Dag wore over a white T-shirt peeking above the unfastened top two buttons.
Shannon wasn’t sure why she was mentally comparing the two men but she couldn’t seem to stop herself as she took in the sight of Dag’s shirtsleeves rolled midway up his massive forearms. Drying his hands on a small towel, he tossed her a smile that wasn’t at all the kind of practiced-in-case-a-photographer-might-be-nearby smile she knew she would have received from Wes.
Both men were handsome, she admitted, but in different ways. There was never a hair out of place on Wes’s dusty blond head while disarray was part of the style for Dag’s dark locks. Wes was lean and wiry and stiff backed where Dag was muscular and powerful looking, his posture relaxed—as if his confidence came from knowing he could handle himself rather than from the entitlement that came with being a Rumson.
Rugged versus refined—that’s what Shannon concluded. Dag’s good looks were rough and earthy, while Wes’s were polished and sophisticated.
“Hey there! I was beginning to give up on you,” Dag called to her as he came down off the porch.
And that was when it struck Shannon that it wasn’t only their looks that were different.
Wes would have waited for her within the shelter of the house. He wouldn’t have come out into the cold December afternoon to greet her. But that was what Dag did. Because their styles were entirely different. While Wes was known for his charisma, what she’d already seen from Dag just in the brief time since they’d met was a special brand of charm that—while equally as smooth—was more natural than slick.
And when it came to sex appeal?
When it came to sex appeal, Shannon had no idea why anything like that had even popped into her mind as Dag opened her door.
She recalled belatedly that he’d said something a split second earlier that she’d heard through her closed window.
What was it…?
Ah, that he’d just about given up on her….
“I’m sorry I’m so late. It took longer with the seamstress than I expected it to and then I had a phone call I had to take. I kept an eye out for your truck the whole way here in case I passed you on the road.”
“Another ten minutes or so and you would have.”
And the sound of his voice—there was absolutely no reason why she liked the deeper timbres of Dag McKendrick’s voice better than the slightly higher octave of Wes’s but in that instant it struck her that she did.
Then she told herself to stop this right now! She had no interest in this man. He was nothing but a friend of her brother’s and the buyer of her grandmother’s house and someone she just happened to be acquainted with for the time being. Her relationship with Wes was barely cold—not even cold enough for anyone else to know about. Her entire life had changed in the last year, she could very well be headed to a new life in Beverly Hills, and in all of that there was no room, no time, no reason, for her to be even remotely interested in this man.
And she wasn’t.
She wasn’t…
“Is it too late? Do you need to get home?” she asked then, stiffening her spine a bit to resist his appeal.
“Nah. We can have a little time here and still get back for a shower before the rehearsal.”
Had he meant to say that as if they’d be showering together? Or was this just another of those crazy blips that made her mind wander into territory where it had no business going?
“Not that we’ll be showering. What I meant was that I’ll still be able to get back to take a shower,” he amended then, letting her know that she hadn’t misheard him. But the cocky grin that went with the amendment told her that the slip of tongue didn’t embarrass him at all.
Mischief and teasing—two more things Wes never indulged in. Not even with her, let alone with someone he barely knew.
“Yeah, I think I’ll leave you alone to shower,” Shannon answered the way she would have addressed a kindergartner who had said something inappropriate, even if she couldn’t help smiling at their exchange.
“Probably for the best,” he said, undaunted by her tone.
“I didn’t realize the outside of the house needed painting so badly,” Shannon said as she got out of the car, staring at the farmhouse in order to avoid looking at Dag and obviously changing the subject.
“Yep. I don’t know when your grandmother had it done last but it has to have been decades ago. It’ll all have to be scraped and power-washed then re-primed. What do you think about the color when I get around to painting? Back to the yellow or shall I go with white?”
“I know I don’t really get a vote, but I always liked it yellow—it looked warm and homey and sunny to me that way.”
“Trimmed in white?”
“I would, but it’s your house now.”
Dag motioned for her to go ahead of him up the porch steps and when they reached the house, he held the screen door open for her.
There were no signs of her grandmother in what Shannon stepped into. The inside of the house was empty of furniture and all the rooms she could see from the entry were in various stages of repair, remodel or renovation with the necessary tools and supplies littering them.
“Wow, you’re really gutting the place,” Shannon observed. “I know the appraiser said it