A Christmas Proposition. Jessica Lemmon
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her true identity in order to expand and give it the attention it deserved. But she couldn’t do that while living in the Ferguson shadow or tiptoeing around her brother and his career as mayor.
Yes, going public would mean she’d have to do a bit of pruning to her own reputation before next Christmas.
“Coming!” she called when the knock at the door came again.
She rushed to the door and held it open, but rather than ushering Emmett forward, she ended up walking outside into the cold with him.
“Is that snow? Oh my gosh, that’s snow!”
Snow in Texas was a rare occasion. Typically this time of year temperatures hovered in the forties.
“Yeah—hey, where are you going?”
She ignored him to step out onto her upstairs front stoop. The snow wasn’t sticking, sadly, but the flakes were enough to fill her heart with joy. Each delicate, sparkly and, yes, sloppy flake was a reminder that her favorite holiday was nearly upon them.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s wet. Inconvenient. And not why I live in Texas.”
She frowned at Emmett. In a black leather coat, his white collared shirt visible just beneath the open zipper, and his standard black pants and leather boots, he should look like a tall, attractive, sturdy man she could count on. Instead, he was a grousing, grumpy individual set on ruining her good mood.
“It’s magical. And I refuse to let you make me feel bad about that.”
She slapped a palm against his broad chest, shoving him aside. Okay, so she didn’t so much shove him as push against a chest made of solid muscle that had no give whatsoever. No matter! Emmett Keaton was not going to ruin her day. She’d already given that power away, and all too recently. It was a mistake she vowed not to repeat.
“I’ll just take these magical bags out to my mystical SUV and wait for you to float on down, then,” he said as he picked up her luggage.
Humming a Christmas tune to drown out Scrooge Keaton, she snagged her coffee thermos out from under the single-cup coffee maker and snapped on the lid. She might have to spend several days with him, but thank God the car ride was only four hours long.
How much damage could he do in four hours?
Hour One
“No Christmas music.”
“That’s inhumane.”
She stabbed the button on the radio to turn it on and Emmett pushed a button on the steering wheel to shut it off.
“Can you explain to me how I am on my way to a Christmas celebration—that you have volunteered to drive me to, by the way—and yet I’m not allowed to listen to Christmas music on the drive over?”
“My car. My rules.”
“That was rhetorical. Don’t be a grump.” She turned on the music again, and again Emmett turned it off. “What if the volume is really, really low?”
He didn’t pull his eyes from the road, not even to glare at her.
“Fine. I’ll talk instead.” She cleared her throat. “So, I found this dress for my mother’s art show next month. It’s blue and sparkly and goes perfectly with my new shoes that I bought from—”
A long-suffering sigh sounded from his chest, and Emmett powered on the radio in surrender. He thumbed down the volume button on the steering wheel, but she considered it a win.
Hour Two
“I don’t see why we couldn’t stop at a decent restaurant and order takeout.” She held the fast-food bag between a finger and thumb and eyed the grease spots that had seeped through the paper dubiously. “There are approximately a million calories in this bag. If I’m going to consume a million calories, it’d better be a gourmet meal.”
Emmett stuck his hand into the bag and came out with one of the cheeseburgers. She watched as he unwrapped the sandwich, took a huge bite and, because that move took both hands, drove with his knee.
Because he was big enough to drive with his knee.
One booted foot firmly on the floor, his left knee kept the SUV perfectly positioned in the center of the lane.
What an irritatingly sexy move that was. Why did he have to be so damn capable at everything?
She rummaged through the bag until she found her sandwich. A fish sandwich had been the least calorie-laden item on the menu. It was roughly the size of a silver dollar, smashed flat, and half the cheese was glued to the cardboard container rather than on the bun.
“Great.”
Emmett’s hand plunged into the bag again and he came out with a container of fries. The burger held in one hand, he wedged the fry container between his big thighs and shoved three or four fries into his mouth. Even with one cheek stuffed like a chipmunk’s, he didn’t appear any less capable.
She’d been around strong men all her life. Her father and her brothers were all strong, commanding, decisive men.
Emmett had those traits as well, but it came in a less refined package. Sure, he dressed well, but there was a rough-hewn edge beneath that Armani shirt.
It bothered her. It bothered her because it didn’t make any sense.
It bothers you because you find it attractive.
Just like she’d found Blake attractive? Just like she’d found plenty of other men who were all wrong for her attractive?
She nibbled on the edge of her fish sandwich, sending a longing look to the fries nestled between Emmett’s legs.
“See something you like?” He crumpled the empty burger wrapper and tossed it into the fast-food bag at her feet.
She jerked her gaze to his face and was alarmed to find him smiling over at her.
“No. I don’t,” she argued a little too fervently.
His smile remained. Eyes on the road, he proffered the container of fries.
Rather than resist, she plucked out three perfectly golden, salty potatoes and reminded herself that the bossy, attractive man in the driver’s seat was as bad for her as this meal.
Hour Three
Emmett slid a look over at Stefanie, who was intently scrolling through her phone and had been for the last several miles. What the hell was she doing?
“You’re going to make yourself carsick,” he grumbled.
He could feel her eyes on him. Wide, innocent eyes.
He didn’t understand that observation about her, but it was nonetheless true. The only Ferguson daughter wasn’t naive or immature. She was headstrong and mulish, and he knew from experience, since he had both those attributes in spades. When they belonged to a woman, however, people saw her as a trite, vapid troublemaker.
Frankly, it pissed him off. He’d known Stef for as long as he’d known Chase, and she wasn’t any of those things. But she must’ve been immune to what the public said about her. She never complained about her image or tried to make herself smaller because the media talked about her.
“You do your thing, I’ll do mine.” Her snide remark made him smile in spite of himself.
His “thing” at the moment was chauffeuring her safely from Dallas to San Antonio so that she could hobnob with her friends and ignore him. Which was what being around her was always like. He’d been joking about sleeping in the SUV, but he assumed he could find a last-minute room. San Antonio was a big city.
He