A Snow Country Christmas. Linda Miller Lael
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His life was all about reading signals. Meetings, the stock market, international affairs, how the media was cooperating...
Mick was in tune with the business side of his life. The personal side? Not so much.
Raine was clearly a free spirit but there was a wariness about her that was impossible to miss. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand being cautious; he tended to tread carefully himself, or perhaps he would have had more long-term relationships rather than just a fleeting romantic entanglement here or there.
Her wary aura aside, he wondered if she had any idea how sexy it was to watch her eat ice cream.
He forced his gaze to remain on the screen rather than her lips. There was no way he’d take advantage of softly falling snow and all the rest of the ambiance to get her into bed, though he had a lot of enthusiasm for a night with the lovely Ms. McCall. Maybe more than one night, and that was food for thought right there.
He was afraid this was going somewhere, and Mick wasn’t a man who considered himself afraid of all that much.
Luckily, John Wayne saved him along with everyone else on the screen. Well, not quite everyone, and with an analytical eye he admired the director’s decisions on how the plot played out. It was his favorite kind of script, showing people as they really were—not all good, not all bad, but a combination of both. Slater tended to roll that way in his documentaries as well, with villains and heroes side by side. His characters weren’t fictional, but balanced, and he made riveting dramas set in real places steeped in history.
“Good movie, but there’s no love story,” Mick pointed out when the credits rolled.
Raine sat easily with one leg folded under her. He’d already concluded she did yoga from the rolled-up mat tucked in the corner, so the agile pose didn’t surprise him. What had surprised him more was when her giant cat had wandered out and jumped on the couch with remarkable grace for a creature of his size, then settled down next to her. “Isn’t that what appeals to most men? All action and no sappy stuff.”
He shook his head, a faint smile on his mouth. “I think you have it backward. Men are more interested in romance than women are.”
“Au contraire, Mr. Boardroom.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Men are more interested in sex.”
“I sense a debate coming. Who buys flowers and candy and dutifully mows the yard just to please the woman in his life?”
She shot back tartly, “A man who wants to have sex. I appreciate a thoughtful gesture as much as any woman, but let’s not get confused about the motivation here.”
“You can’t put an entire gender in the same bracket, Ms. Artist. There are a lot of decent guys I know who would never walk into the bedroom of someone who they didn’t have romantic feelings for in the first place. Brains and beauty are all well and good, but if a woman isn’t also a nice person, no thanks. I can tell you, in the world I live in, there are plenty of women who use sex as leverage, so it could be argued that your assumption works both ways.”
Raine stroked the cat’s head and Mr. Bojangles gave a rusty purr. “I’m afraid you’re right and I was just pulling your chain. People are too complex to reduce to stereotypes. I don’t understand a lot of them, but I think I know more good ones than bad ones. It makes me glad Daisy is growing up in Mustang Creek.”
“I’ve looked at some land in this area,” he heard himself confessing. “I haven’t found the right combination of house and location, but I have done some research.”
She stopped petting the cat, her attention arrested. Mr. Bojangles sent him a lethal stare for interference in the petting process, clearly understanding the interruption was his fault. “Really?”
“It’s beautiful country,” he said noncommittally. “I have a vacation home in Bermuda, but while it’s nice to have sun and sea, I get bored after about two days. I’m thinking about leasing it out or selling it, and building one here, or better yet, buying a place with some history behind it. There’s more to do in Mustang Creek than lie on a beach with a drink in your hand.”
Raine looked thoughtful. “I’m the same way. I’ve tried it once or twice, but I can’t sit and do nothing for very long. I don’t find it relaxing because I feel I should be doing something.”
“We have that in common then.”
“Why do I have the feeling that’s about the only thing we have in common? Aside from a love of green chilis, of course.”
“Not true,” he told her, and gestured toward the TV. “We both like the John Wayne movie we just watched. We both like Mountain Winery merlot. We both would kill for Bad Billy’s lemon ice cream. Mr. Bojangles clearly loves us both...the list just goes on.”
“You were doing pretty good until the Jangles part. He’s really picky. I can tell he hasn’t made up his mind yet. He doesn’t trust men that easily.”
They weren’t talking just about the cat, and he knew it. “He just needs to get to know me better. Let me prove how trustworthy I am.”
“You want to prove yourself to a cat?”
“Well, he’s a really big cat. I’m kind of afraid of him.”
There was merriment in Raine’s eyes. “His girth is part of his charm, or so I tell the vet when he starts on me about Jangles’ diet. Luckily, I feed him, so he adores me.”
“He has impeccable taste.”
“I doubt you’re really afraid of him and I suppose he must like you to come out from under the tree and sit this close.”
“I respect his opinion, one male to another.”
“That’s a good way to handle him. Otherwise Jangles might boss you around.”
Mick had to raise a brow. “Maybe like his owner.”
“Oh, come on, no one owns a pet. Have you really never had one?”
“I always wanted a dog, but it never worked out.”
She only believed him—he was sure of it—because of his matter-of-fact tone. He wasn’t shallow enough to ever complain about a privileged childhood but his mother hadn’t approved of animals in the house, so they didn’t have any. End of story. He’d begged for a dog and the answer was no.
“That’s too bad. You missed out. But it’s not too late to get one now.”
“These days it’s a timing issue. Once I was out of college, I immediately joined a firm that sent me to Japan for three years. When I came back to California, I started my own company, and trust me, with the hours I kept I didn’t have the time for a dog and still don’t.”
“You need one.” Raine said it firmly as if the whole matter was decided. “Buy the land, build your house, and you’ll have no shortage of dog-sitters to pitch in if you’re out of town. I can be one of them. Daisy would be thrilled, and Samson is used to other dogs from being at the ranch so frequently. When it comes to the land, do you want real Wyoming?”
It was a generous offer about the dog, and an impulsive one, but he already had the impression that despite Raine’s wariness around him, she made a habit of following her instincts most of the time—not in an impractical way, but just acting from the heart. “Yes, that’s the plan. Real Wyoming. Solitude and a stunning view. A place where I can sit and read, maybe write something that isn’t a memo just for a change of pace, and relax on the front porch with a glass of wine or a cold beer and watch the sunset. I’m at a place in my life where I’m starting to realize that being driven has its perks, but working every second of the day isn’t necessarily good for you.”
“Write something? Like the great American novel?” She was looking at him like he’d sprouted a second head.
“Believe it or not, Ms. Artist, I do have some imagination.” He didn’t