A Magical Christmas. Elizabeth Rolls
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She was his best friend.
And Josh was taking her to dinner.
He jammed the spoon in the pot, reasoning that no amount of savage stirring could ruin something that was already ruined. “Is onion supposed to be black? What?” He listened as Jackson spoke. “I’d rather fix the snowmobile than dinner, that’s for sure.”
“Jackson has a problem with one of the snowmobiles?” Brenna half whispered, half mouthed the words so she didn’t interrupt his conversation. “I could go and help.”
Was she looking for an excuse to escape?
He shook his head, even though he knew she was perfectly capable of fixing whatever was wrong. She knew her way around an engine as well as he did. “Do you see a black wire with a white stripe coming from the stator?” He shifted the phone so that he could talk and carry on stirring, not because he thought it would make any difference to the dinner, but because he couldn’t reach out and grab Brenna with a spoon in his hand. “It’s got a bullet-style connector and sometimes that gets knocked out—yeah, that’s right. Did you have the air box off? Well, then, that’s your problem. Without the wire attached, the sled won’t die when you kill it.”
He talked Jackson through the problem, and by the time he ended the call and put his phone down on the table, he was back in control. “I’ve made dinner. My advice? Order takeout.”
“It smells—interesting.” She stood up and walked across to the stove. “What is it?”
“Mexican. Or perhaps I should call it Mess-ican. It has beans and chili and some other stuff. Some of which burned. Blame Jackson. I was distracted. He called at the difficult part when I was frying.”
She rested her hips against the counter. “The difficult part? Do you ever listen to yourself?”
Right now he couldn’t hear a thing over his brain telling him to kiss her.
“I never listen to myself,” he muttered, “because I have crazy ideas.”
“Tyler, you rescued two kids and skied down a slope with one under each arm that ninety percent of the population wouldn’t attempt with both their hands free. And you call this—” she glanced at the food “—difficult?”
“I’d rather ski that slope blindfold than cook dinner.”
“It will be fine.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet.”
“You’re forgetting I’m not much of a cook, either. If the way to a guy’s heart is truly through his stomach, I’m doomed. Whatever you’ve made will be better than what I usually eat.”
Was she interested in Josh’s heart? Or other parts of him?
Tyler groped for his beer and took a big gulp. “So did you speak to Patrick about that incident with the kids?”
“Yes, but he was already freaked out enough without me laying it on. Thanks for helping out. I wanted to thank you yesterday, right after, but you dashed off and then we kept missing each other.”
He’d worked really hard on making sure they kept missing each other. “Anytime.”
“Listen—about the other night and the stuff I said—”
“Forget it.” He glanced up with relief as Jess walked into the room. “Hi, sweetheart. You’re late. Was the bus delayed?”
“Yes.” Without looking at him, Jess made straight for the fridge, and Tyler was about to make a flippant comment about uncommunicative teenagers when he noticed her shoes.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing happened to me.”
For a moment he forgot about Brenna. “You’re soaked through. You fall in a ditch or something?”
“It’s slippery out there. I’m hoping tomorrow is another snow day.” She poured milk into a glass, her hand shaking so much she sloshed milk onto the floor. “I ripped my jacket. I’ll pay for a new one. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to pay. Since when do you buy your own clothes?”
“If I ruined something, Mom made me pay for it.” She drained the glass and topped it up. “She said if I paid for it, I’d learn to take care of my stuff better.”
Tyler stared at her. “Yeah, well, accidents happen, and I don’t expect you to pay for it. But I’d like to know how it got torn.” Something about the way she held herself, the way she wasn’t looking at him, told him there was more going on than she was telling him. “Did you—”
“Dad! Stop asking questions. I’m clumsy, that’s all.” Moody, scowling, she slammed the fridge door shut and then wrinkled her nose. “What’s that terrible smell?”
“That terrible smell is what happens when you leave me to cook.” Deciding that handling a teenage girl needed the skills of a bomb-disposal expert, he backed off. “It’s ready whenever you’re hungry.”
“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.” Jess walked across the kitchen and peered cautiously into the pan. “Have you tasted it?”
“Why would I want to do that? I made it. The rest is up to you.” He threw the spoon down, strolled to the table and sprawled in a chair. He was about to put his feet on the table when he caught Jess’s eye.
“You sit down, too, Brenna.” She urged Brenna to the table. “Not this side because I’m going to be cooking and rushing around. Go around and sit next to Dad. I’ll finish off dinner.”
He didn’t want Brenna sitting next to him.
He didn’t want her anywhere near him, but apparently Brenna failed to notice that piece of blatant teenage manipulation because she did as Jess suggested.
“So how was school, Jess?”
Tyler wondered if she’d have more success than he had, but it seemed Jess wasn’t eager to share details of her day with anyone.
“There was no skiing. Enough said.” Jess stuck a spoon in the pot, tasted it cautiously and coughed until her eyes watered. “Dad! How much chili did you put in this?”
“I lost count. Blame your uncle Jackson. He was talking to me.”
“It’s not a good idea to lose count with chili.” Jess guzzled water as if she’d been lost in the desert for a month while Luna nudged her leg hopefully. “You don’t want this, trust me. It would blow your doggie brain.” She rummaged in the cupboards, pulled out more tomatoes and puree and proceeded to add and adjust, tasting all the time.
“She ate your food, Ty, and she’s still alive.” Brenna reached across the table for the juice she’d poured. “It’s a miracle.”
The miracle was that he was managing to keep his hands to himself.
From this position he had a view straight down her top, and his gaze welded itself to the shallow dip between her smooth breasts. He saw creamy skin, a hint of lace and then lost focus.
He didn’t breathe, didn’t move, and when she sat down he sucked in air, feeling as if he’d been smacked in the gut by a heavy object.
Thanks to Jess, she was sitting so close he could see the flecks of green in her eyes and the freckles dusting her nose. He could smell that elusive scent that made him think of the long, slow days of summer.
And he could think of nothing but sex.
Why?
What the hell was wrong with him? Was it the memory of the things she’d said under the influence of tequila, or was it simply that he was jealous of Josh?
He pushed his chair back, an involuntary movement designed to put distance between them. Keeping his eyes away from her shoulders