by Jenn Hughes
“Try being the operative word. So, what is the deal with Sam Owens?”
“I knew it. You’ve been taken in by his pretty face.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t call him pretty.”
A jawline like that, cut from granite and covered by a hint of a five o’clock shadow, struck her as far from pretty. Not to mention the faint, pale scar on Sam’s dimpled chin. And those piercing blue eyes that brought to mind the words ice dragon. She smiled and tickled her tongue against her teeth at the thought.
“Ruggedly handsome with a subtle little nerdy professor thing thrown in for good measure. Probably the sweater vest he had on. Reminded me of Dr. Olsen from BU. Remember him?”
Richard rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “No, I don’t. Please don’t make the mistake of developing an interest in Sam. I’ve worked for him for seven years, and he’s a great boss, a great guy, but he’s complicated and has a particular type—young and gorgeous.”
The comment stung. A slap across Lillian’s old, average face. “Well, one out of two ain’t bad,” she snickered.
“I didn’t mean you aren’t—”
“Oh, I know. Only kidding. His type could be attorneys named Lillian Walker and it wouldn’t make a difference. I signed a nonfraternization policy when I took the job at Mythos. Sam Owens is legally off-limits in every capacity.”
Richard went slack-jawed, his eyes wide with shock. “Are you joking? Preston had you sign a clause preventing fraternization with Origin employees? So how are we—”
“No, not Origin employees. Sam. Specifically. Preston dislikes him on an atomic level. I thought it was a little strange, but it didn’t seem like an issue so I signed. Does make me wonder what happened to make them despise one another to such an extent.”
“Don’t know. The opening battle happened when Sam and Preston were roommates in college and way before my time. Hey, I meant to ask you what you thought of that article in the last volume of the North Atlantic Law Journal, the one about collaborative law and . . . ”
As Richard droned on, Lillian only half-listened. She was too busy congratulating herself again. A mental pat on the back. Years later, after falling in love and nearly losing her mind when he’d dumped her without so much as a second thought, she sat next to Richard Bryant and remained entirely in control.
Control over herself. Over Richard. Over the past. Maybe she didn’t even need an apology or explanation. Lillian finally felt like she was starting to put her hang-ups behind her. No more holding back for fear of getting hurt. No more keeping quiet to please anyone else. She’d taken her first step. Now she needed to take a few more. And soon she might be ready to let herself fall in love. If the right guy came along . . .
But then the weirdest image popped into her head. A zombie elf. Its drooping mouth groaning while it dragged one desiccated foot, and a little jingle-belled hat bobbing in front of an empty eye socket. Lillian grinned.
Sexy Sam Owens and zombie elves at The Electric. Now that’s a combo that’ll bring a smile to anyone’s face.
Chapter 5
Great Minds over Movie Matters
Port Bristol looked like Santa’s elves had puked all over it. As Sam walked to The Electric to catch the next slated Christmas film, twinkling lights bombarded him on every street. Holiday displays marred the storefronts and evergreen boughs strangled everything in sight. Everyone else called the garish decor “festive” and “traditional,” but it grated on Sam’s nerves as he navigated the busy sidewalks.
There were only two good things about the holidays that year: it was Sam’s brother’s year to entertain their parents, and The Electric was screening a movie about a werewolf Santa Claus terrorizing London. The ridiculousness of campy horror relaxed him, took his mind off the real-world problems waiting for him as soon as the credits rolled. As he approached the theater, his humbug of a mood improved exponentially.
The Electric was one of the few places in Port Bristol unaffected by the technological tidal wave Sam had started with Origin. Its stately but weathered gray marble exterior highlighted by ornate moldings provided an interesting contrast to the neon and bright bulb-framed original marquee above the entry doors. It had barely changed since its opening day back in 1953, as evidenced by the collection of black-and-white photos hanging in the lobby. Sam loved the continuity of the place.
The red neon signage at the top of the theater screamed out bloody murder in the evening darkness. The Electric in unmistakable red and Santa Klaws in black letters on the marquee lured him like a big obnoxious beacon in the night. Overstuffed leather chairs, a barrel of popcorn, and a double shot of cheap bourbon meant one thing—Sam had set a collision course with fun at warp speed.
But with the latest blockbuster slated for fifteen minutes before Santa Klaws, an abysmally long line stretched past the building’s marble exterior and down the block. Sam groaned at the sight. Okay, so not warp speed. Impulse speed, maybe. Most new multiplexes had large lobbies where patrons could queue in warmth, but The Electric was old school—as in, more than a handful of people inside put it in violation of the fire code. It desperately needed renovating, but he thought the place was cool as hell.
As he jogged to the back of the line to endure the wait in the cold, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, shielded it from the steadily falling snow, and then promptly groaned when he got a good look at the screen.
“Hi, Dad,” Sam said, trying to sound cheery.
“Hi, Sammy. Your mother wants to speak with you . . . Here’s the phone, Patty.”
Sam scrunched his eyes shut and tried not to groan again directly into the phone. His mother enjoyed being announced, like the trumpeting of royalty in the Dark Ages as they entered the great hall. “Of course she does. So what’s wrong this—”
“Sam? Sam, can you hear me? It’s your mother.”
And with those words, Sam saw his December flash before his eyes. His mother never called when traveling unless there was a problem and there could be only one problem—his useless brother had bailed on playing host for their parents during Christmas.
“Mom, you’re in Sweden, not the rainforest. Cell reception works fine there so, yes, I can hear you. Did something happen—”
“Sam, I set my curling iron onto the bathroom counter, and it melted into it. Then the countertop refroze and now, cord and all, it’s stuck there like Excalibur. Maybe some worthy bellhop will remove it and rule the North country.”
That’s a new one. Sam let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Okay, well, don’t let that spoil the trip. It’s an ice hotel, so I’m sure those sorts of things happen. I can have someone deliver a new curling iron to the hotel. The world’s best curling iron. Nuclear-powered if you want. No expense spared.”
“Oh, don’t worry, dear. The staff can use a hairdryer to melt it out, but I could not go to dinner with flat bangs. Your father and I decided to stay in a hotel in Stockholm. I wanted to let you know, and I also wanted to remind you to meet us at Port Bristol International when our flight arrives.”
“Yes, I remember your threat not to fly out to California for Christmas with Wes until you’ve seen me . . . ”
Sam locked onto a pair of warm brown eyes staring back at him from several feet ahead and beneath a fur-lined parka hood. Familiar eyes. A familiar smile. Gorgeous and hot cocoa popped into his head at the same time, and her name worked its way out from his memory to the tip of his tongue . . .
“Lillian,” he whispered.
“Who? Vivian who?”
Sam sucked in a sharp breath. “Lillian . . . I mean, no one . . . I . . . I have to go, Mom,” he stuttered as Lillian waved at him. “I’m heading into a meeting. A late one. Very important.”
“Oh. Have a fun meeting, dear. Love and hugs!”
He watched Lillian slide out of her spot in
line and walk back to join him. The moment she reached him, Sam panicked and answered his mother—very, very loudly.
“Love and hugs!”
“Love and hugs, hmmm?” Lillian said with a sexy grin. “Is that your standard greeting?”
Sam ended the call, shoved his phone back into his pocket, and then looked down at the ground to avoid any painfully awkward eye contact. “No. I was . . . talking to my mom and dad.”
“That’s wonderful.”
His gaze darted back up. “Wonderful? I’m thirty-five and have been using that goodbye with my parents since I was three. You sure you don’t mean lame?”
“Why would it be lame to let your parents know you love them? I never end a phone call with my parents or my sister without telling them that. Too many people let it go without saying.” Then she pointed up at The Electric’s neon sign. “So, great minds, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” Sam glanced back up at Lillian’s now-filled former spot in line. “But you’ve lost your spot.”
“No problem. You know how the line works. If I’d invited you up with me, the glares would’ve burned holes through our backs.”
“Right. So are you here for Santa Klaws, or to see if that guinea pig makes it home from another one of his adventures in time for Christmas?”
The corner of her mouth curled and her eyes narrowed. “Does the guinea pig wield a chainsaw in that one?”
“Probably not. It’s rated PG.”
“Not interested then,” she said, that lovely smile creeping across her lips and setting Sam’s skin on fire.
“You’re my kind of woman.”
She was exactly his kind of woman. A hell of a problem to have since it couldn’t go any further than occasionally standing in line on snowy sidewalks. Brain understood, but no other part of his body did. A pyroclastic flow of lust rolled over him. Sam stood in the middle of a Maine winter and sweated. And he wasn’t the only one. He thought he caught a slight blush on Lillian’s cheeks.
Flirty blush? No, probably not. Embarrassed blush? Embarrassed for me? Oh, God . . .
“Are you planning on being here every night until Christmas?” he mumbled, staring back down at the ground and dragging his foot through the newly fallen snow.
“I hadn’t planned on it, but I recently had my workload lightened, so I’m going to try to make it. Otherwise, it would never happen. Some days I’m the zombie. Work drains the life from me and I don’t have the energy for anything else.”
“I know the feeling.”
A gust of wind blew Lillian’s hood back. As she struggled to pull it up again, Sam stepped in front of her to block the wind. A gallant mistake. The wind changed and he caught a whiff of her perfume. Amber and vanilla . . .
And he got hard again. Without a table top in sight.
Sam shoved his hands into his pockets, pushing his coat down as far as it would go. A thousand little confused, horny voices chirped at him all at once, urging him to make a move. But he knew better than to listen.
Not during the holidays. Not with Rik’s maybe-lady. And sure as hell not with one of Preston’s hired guns. Over and over, he told himself to keep cool. But somehow the words twisted up in his brain until he kept mentally repeating Lillian, which made things even worse . . .
“Hey, you know, Rik never told me your last name,” he finally blurted out.
“Walker. Lillian Walker. And I like my martinis shaken, not stirred,” she said with a smile as she yanked her hood back over her head. “Richard does tend to leave out information from time to time.”
“Like the fact you work for that snotty little prick Preston Lavery.”
Her smile faded. “Preston isn’t that bad.”
“Are you serious? Don’t be fooled by all his spiritual, meditative crap. It’s a front. The guy’s a jerk who can’t write a line of good code. I should know. Tried to teach him when we were in college and he managed to brick my computer. It actually caught on fire. So the only reason Mythos exists and stays in the news is because he likes to pretend he’s good at something and his rich dad hires every promising coder before they graduate from preschool. And Preston has a handshake like a bowl of mashed potatoes.”
“A bowl of mashed potatoes?”
“Oh, come on. You know what I mean. It’s all weak and soft and weird. Here.” Sam grabbed her ungloved hand, and then pumped it up and down firmly. “Now that’s how you give a handshake.”
Nice skin. Better than nice. Her touch charged him up like lightning striking a flux capacitor, and evidently fried his brain in the process. He kept pumping her hand like a moron. Afraid to stop, but past the point of being weird. So he ran with it. After several seconds of awkwardness, Lillian grabbed their hands and saved him from himself.
“I get it. If they were giving out medals for handshakes, you’d win gold.” She slipped her hand away and left him standing there beet-red. “A little competitive, hmmm?”
“Only when I want something.”
Suddenly, carolers struck up a tune in front of Talbot’s Toy Store across the street. The singing distracted Lillian and granted Sam a reprieve. He tried to come up with something to dig himself out of his never-ending nightmare of foot-in-mouth syndrome.
“But I wasn’t so competitive when I was younger. Far from it, actually. You would have called me a—”
“Hey, you two gonna move up or what?” growled a guy behind them.
The line in front of them had disappeared, and Sam hadn’t even noticed. He followed Lillian into The Electric, and they waited in warmth while the line gradually crept closer to the ticket counter. Lillian stood next to him, cash in hand and curiously quiet. Sam planned to jump ahead and buy her ticket before she had a chance—
Then she elbowed him. Not hard, but hard enough to distract him while she slipped ahead and bought his ticket. Lillian turned around with a satisfied smile, and stuck the ticket in his face.
“Here you go.”
“You cheated,” he complained, rubbing his side. “I was going to—”
“I know. Your treat next time.” With a toss of her hair, she headed to the bar on the other side of the lobby.
Nice. Very nice.
He’d never been elbowed out of buying something for a woman. In fact, most women he knew tended to elbow if he didn’t buy them something. Again, Lillian Walker had managed to be beautifully different.
She has got to stop doing that.
Sam joined her at the crowded bar while she waited for a drink. The muscle-bound hummingbird of a bartender paid her no attention, too busy flitting about mixing drinks and taking orders. Sam slapped down a fifty to catch the guy’s attention. That move never failed, and after ordering a neat bourbon for himself and a beer for Lillian, Sam leaned against the bar and beamed.
“You must get your way a lot,” Lillian commented.
“Yeah, I do. Most of the time.”
The bartender slid their drinks across the counter, and Lillian grabbed her beer. “Probably makes you unbearable, but I suppose it helps in some cases.”
“You must be an expert on unbearable men. Working for Preston and agreeing to join in on Rik’s hare-brained scheme to get Emily back.”
Lillian’s eyes narrowed, and a smug little smile spread across her lips. “I was right. You were at Old Henry’s in case I, what? Hadn’t aged quite as well as expected or went Fatal Attraction on him and you’d save the day by giving him an excuse to leave?
Sam held up his hands in defeat. “Hey, I had no idea about his plan until I got there, so don’t shoot the wingman. This whole thing will inevitably blow up in his face. Why in the hell would a woman as sharp as you agree to help Rik out?”
“Richard and I hammered out an agreement that benefits both of us.” Sam’s face got hot, an inexplicable anger pu
shing heat through his body. Lillian’s smile quickly faded. “Oh . . . No. Not those kinds of benefits. Dinner on him at two ridiculously expensive restaurants.”
“Dinner? That’s it?”
“You might be surprised to learn that inviting a woman to dinner at a nice restaurant is an offer too good to refuse, regardless of the motivations. And there’s the bonus of irritating Emily Bradshaw. It might sound catty, but that’s because it is. Can’t be helped.”
“Now that makes a little more sense. Sounds like some ugly history there. Emily’s the supervillain in your comic book origin story. The Green Skull to your Captain Patriot.”
“Definitely. She’s one bad hair day away from enslaving humanity. But, I’m a mature woman with a career, and I’m ready to move on from the past . . . after I stick it to Emily for once.”
The woman had a dark side, and Sam wanted to come on over. “So what happened? Why schedule a high-noon showdown now?”
Lillian’s eyes darted around like she needed an escape route. “Oh . . . um . . . ”
“Hey, none of my business. Forget I said a thing.”
“I’m guessing it’s already your business. I suppose Richard told you we were dating around the same time he proposed to Emily?”
Sam fidgeted a little and then nodded, expecting some backlash to his nosiness. But Lillian pursed her lips and threw him a tired smile.
“He made a choice, and she was it. It hurt at the time, but Richard presumably had his reasons. Emily, on the other hand, simply took every opportunity to make me feel third-class, so maybe I want to do the same to her. Once. That sounds mature, right?” Lillian said with her irresistible grin.
“Oh, yeah. Definitely. But I have to say I’m glad to hear—”
The lobby lights dimmed and brightened. Ten minutes till showtime. Lillian pointed at the doors to the auditorium where Santa Klaws was scheduled to play, and then walked off in that direction. Lucky for Sam. He’d nearly headed down the all-too-familiar path of flirting his way into bed with a beautiful woman.