To Claim His Own. Mary Lynn Baxter
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it was too late. He was already parked in front of his ex sister-in-law’s nursery, his truck loaded with plants.
He was sweating as though he’d been chopping wood, to his chagrin. Albeit the spring day was hotter than usual, but he shouldn’t have been wet with sweat. Dammit, he was nervous. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation. He’d been in the worst hellholes one could imagine, and here he was about to face an innocent woman and he couldn’t function.
Only he knew she wasn’t just any woman. She was his son’s guardian.
Dammit, he had to get hold of himself or he couldn’t even get out of the truck, much less rein in his splattered emotions. Losing control was not something he had patience with. That could get him dead.
That sudden trek back into the past brought on a curse as Cal lunged out of the truck, making him aware that while he might be out of the jungle physically, he had a long way to go before he was out mentally.
He’d hold that thought and dissect it another time.
Right now, he had other fish to fry. Grabbing his clipboard, Cal made his way around the front of the vehicle. When he saw Emma coming toward him, he pulled up short.
While she was not nearly as attractive as Connie had been, it was obvious they were sisters. Both had the same shaped face and eyes, though their eyes were different colors. And the mouth—there was a resemblance there, too.
But that was where the likeness ended. The closer Emma came, the closer he stared with far more interest than necessary, especially since he had sworn off women.
Most Southern women he knew would never be caught dead without makeup. Emma Jenkins was the exception, and it served her well. Her skin appeared soft and radiant and wrinkle-free, though he knew she was in her mid-thirties. You go girl, he thought; buck the status quo.
But it was the way she was dressed that really captivated his attention. She had on a pair of bright-purple overalls with loose-fitting straps. Underneath was a skimpily-cut T-shirt that hugged her well-endowed breasts and left a smidgen of her ribs bare. He’d bet his last red cent that she was braless. On closer observation, she didn’t need one.
Those breasts were upright and perky….
Whoa, cowboy! It had been a long time since he’d noticed a woman’s breasts with any interest whatsoever. And he wasn’t about to start with her—his ex-wife’s sister. God forbid.
Cal dragged his eyes off her chest and back to her face. Unlike Connie, she wasn’t beautiful in the true sense of the word, nor was she as blatantly sexy. Yet in her own right, she was lovely. And classy.
She was tall—he’d guess five feet eight—with dark hair worn in a short, bobbed style, which accented her creamy skin and full lips. But it was her eyes that held him spellbound. They were a unique color—Windex-blue—and surrounded by an abundance of sooty lashes.
“Mickey, it’s about time you got here.” She paused, a frown marring her brows. “You’re not Mickey,” she added inanely.
“No, ma’am,” Cal drawled, “I’m not.”
“Where’s Mickey?” she asked bluntly, her eyes giving him the once-over.
He wondered what she was thinking. If he were to hazard a guess, he probably wouldn’t like it. In no way would he come near measuring up to her expectations, remembering his reflection in his mirror this morning.
His hair was too long and his jeans and T-shirt both had holes in them. And his face—well, that was another story altogether. He knew he looked drawn and disheveled—not at all pleasing to the eyesight. But give him time, he told himself. When he had to, he cleaned up real well. He just hadn’t had the time or the inclination to do so.
“I understand he’s now on another route. I read about the vacancy in the paper.”
She leaned her head to one side and gave him a suspicious look, like she wanted to say more. She didn’t, though, at least not about Mickey. “So who are you?”
Cal hesitated for a moment, then shot out his hand, a hearty smile on his lips. “Bart McBride. But my friends call me Bubba.”
Three
Wow!
That was the first thought that came to Emma’s mind when she met his eyes, dark and direct. She’d had lots of delivery guys since she’d been in this business, but none had ever looked like this one. She couldn’t exactly say he was the best-looking thing that had come down the pike—that would be an exaggeration—yet there was something about him that definitely got her attention.
When it came to men, that wasn’t an easy feat.
Maybe it was the hard, dangerous look he seemed to wear so comfortably. Jeez Louise, Emma thought, swallowing nervously, feeling a fluttering of butterflies in her stomach. Who was he? More to the point, how could she have such an irrational reaction to a stranger? A truck driver, to boot.
She wasn’t a snob—that wasn’t it at all. It usually took more than a tall, tanned, muscular man with salt-and-pepper hair to make her take a second look.
This time she’d taken more than one look, for heaven’s sake. Her eyes were camped on him. Even though she felt color seep into her cheeks, Emma still didn’t turn away. Maybe it was those kick-ass dimples in his cheeks that were the culprit. Or maybe it was his even white teeth that appeared even whiter under his tanned skin.
So he was an awesome specimen of manhood. A moment’s worth of eye candy. So what? She’d been exposed to his type before, and it hadn’t come close to striking a nerve.
Why now?
He certainly wasn’t her type; that was a given. Much too rough around the edges, too menacing to suit her. In the mounting silence, instead of averting her gaze, however, she perused his body. Her eyes started with his faded and tight-fitting T-shirt, then traveled down to his jeans that had no chance of hiding the impressive bulge of his sex or the powerful strength of his legs.
Emma’s flush deepened, and her skin prickled.
Realizing how crazily she was behaving, how totally out of the norm this was, she jerked her eyes back up, but not before she caught the same look of blatant appreciation and interest mirrored in his.
To her dismay, the air around them turned suffocating with sexual tension.
“I’m assuming you’re Emma Jenkins,” he said, finally.
His low, sandpaper-edged voice now seemed as sexy as his appearance. For another moment, she was speechless, trying to assimilate her feelings. What was this all about? What was she all about?
Nothing, she told herself, feeling a surge of defiance flood through her. She was just reacting to a good-looking man, that was all—something she hadn’t done in a long time. While that felt good, it also scared the bejesus out of her as her sister’s lifestyle flashed before her eyes.
Emma cleared her throat and forced herself to say, “Uh, that’s right.” He didn’t extend his hand again, which was good in light of her crazy reaction to him.
Nope, touching him would definitely not work, mainly because she wanted to. Emma gritted her teeth, then pasted a smile on her face. “I hope everything’s okay with Mickey,” she commented, trying to lessen the tension that was threatening to mount again. “He was here so often, we actually became friends.” She paused. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell me he’d been reassigned.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll get around to that,” Bubba drawled, peering down at his clipboard, then back up. “Everything in my truck belongs to you.”
“That’s not a surprise.”
“You must have a super business.”
“I do.”
Bubba grinned, which played more havoc with her insides.