The thump in her chest vibrated down her body. His hands slid from her arms, clasping her waist and drawing her near. Her breath came in short puffs. His closeness stole the air from her lungs. The heat building beneath her sweat pants had nothing to do with the crackling fire.
“How long has it been since you’ve decorated a tree? Then days later fought with strings of lights while packing them away?”
She shrugged.
“I’ll let you take the star off the top.”
A wash of memory engulfed her. She dropped her forehead to his chest. The last time she’d topped a tree with a star was with her mother.
He hugged her tighter, bringing his body against the length of hers. His mouth brushed across the top of her head, and he murmured something into her hair. It sounded like poor little Candy, but it had to be her imagination.
She should move away. He’d get the wrong impression. Or he’d get the right impression; feel her pounding heart, her breasts taut against his chest. The magnolias and bourbon she'd enjoyed at her college roommate's holiday celebration couldn’t compare with a real Christmas tree, a wood fire, a cup of hot chocolate, and Mitch.
“Why are you hurrying back to New York?” “What difference does it make?”
He rubbed her back, a soothing kind of motion without anything expected in return. But the unintentional friction he created flushed her face. She turned her cheek into his chest.
“Are you hungry?”
Oh, God was she. “Mmm…” The boots fell from her hand, and she encircled his waist. The muscles beneath his shirt tensed.
“I make killer cook stove pancakes.”
Oh, hungry for food? Her stomach answered for her. She leaned back to look up at him, thrusting her hips forward. What she felt against her belly nearly
stopped the words in her mouth. “Pancakes and hot chocolate?” She strained to keep a straight face.
“Sound good?” His voice, husky and low, shivered her thighs.
“Sounds a lot better than a five-mile walk in the snow with hacked off boots.” “I want you to have an old fashioned, holiday morning. The best way to start is with pancakes. Then we’ll finish putting away the decorations while we drink
hot chocolate. We’ll haul the tree outside and get chilled.” His hands rubbed her back, caressed her waist. “But I’ll keep the fire going…uh…in the fireplace. How does that sound?”
“An old fashioned, holiday morning.” This man had more than gorgeous looks. “Why?”
His gaze roamed over her face, his lips parted as if to tell her some huge secret. But he stopped. “Just because.”
Chapter Nine – The Odds Were a Million to One by Laura Breck
What were the odds? Mitch couldn't begin to calculate as he gazed into Candy’s familiar hazel eyes.
Like a bolt of lightning, it had all come back to him when she'd said her mother’s name. Marie Wright had been the cleaning woman at his parents’ penthouse apartment in Manhattan. She'd occasionally brought ten-year-old Candy with her to help in the kitchen during parties. Odds had to be a million to one that twenty years later he'd run into the adult version of that scrawny girl.
His lips curved into a smile.
Candy smiled back and blinked those same incredible eyes he’d stared into the first time he’d met her. During his twelfth birthday party, he’d snuck into the kitchen and found her elbow-deep in dishwater. She’d been startled, frozen like a deer, her large eyes watching him warily, obviously intimidated by the boy in a suit and tie.
He’d pulled up a stool and started talking. Asking her where she went to school, where she lived, what she did for fun.
It’d been fifteen minutes before his mother found him and hauled him back to the boring, family party. But in that short time, he’d succeeded in getting sullen little Candy to relax and talk to him. She’d even laughed a couple times.
“Mitch?” Candy’s voice dragged him back to the present. She slid her hands up his sides, over his abs, and across his chest.
“Yeah?” He tugged her closer, spreading his feet slightly to better fit them together. Mmm, how they fit. Perfect.
As she gazed into his eyes, her irises darkened, and her arms wrapped around his neck, pushing her breasts tight against his chest. “I'd like that.”
Her warmth seeped into him, sending spirals of desire that centered low in his belly. His brain couldn’t decipher what she was talking about. So he gave up trying.
Pressing his lips to hers, he breathed in her scent. The woodsy smell of his bath soap clung to her skin, melding with her sweet, feminine musk. The combination did even more damage to his lucidity. He fought to cage his lust, struggled to keep his hips still.
Soft, full lips. The kiss last night had been fueled by whiskey. This morning, it was pure desire that kindled his need to taste her. He slid his tongue along the crease of her lips.
She sighed and opened her mouth in invitation.
He accepted, twining his tongue with hers. Exploring every crevice of her mouth, her soft cheeks, her straight, sharp teeth.
Candy’s hips moved, and he groaned. He needed to pick her up into his arms, carry her he-man style. This time, into his bedroom.
As if an internal warning engaged, her stomach rumbled. She giggled, her tongue still gliding over the ticklish inside of his lip.
He slowed the kiss and pulled back, looked into her eyes, and murmured, “Pancakes first?”
“Yes, please.” Her shining eyes and perfect smile hit him like a snowball to the head.
This was Candy. The little girl he’d teased and talked with and grown to care about. Their occasional kitchen visits had ended three years later when he’d left for prep school. His parents had downsized to a smaller apartment, and Marie had been let go. His gut squeezed when he recalled his distraught reaction to losing Marie—and Candy.
Anger surged when he remembered his father’s dismissal of Mitch’s feelings, with parental advice to move on, Michael. A phrase—and name—he would come to detest.
Mitch released her but bent for one more quick kiss. “Come on. Let's get something into that empty belly of yours.” Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he guided her to the kitchen. “Fresh blueberries in your pancakes?”
Grinning up at him, she taunted, “You don't have blueberries. It’s the middle of winter.”
He laughed. “I made a run to Atlanta before Christmas. Blueberries. Real maple syrup. Butter.”
Her stomach rumbled again. “Stop.” She put her hand on her stomach. “I'm going to start drooling like Major.”
At the sound of his name, Major trotted into the kitchen and sat at Candy’s feet.
After a few seconds, she bent and patted his head. Awkwardly, but at least she wasn’t cringing from the dog anymore.
“What about you, boy? Do you like blueberries in your pancakes?”
His tail swished back and forth across the floor like a windshield wiper in a deluge.
Mitch watched the two of them, startled by the warmth spreading from his heart, creeping its way through his chest to disrupt his breathing. Was it the homey feeling of a sexy woman wearing his clothes and petting his dog? Or was it Candy in particular who invoked some kind of freakishly un-macho nesting instinct in him?
She stood and looked at her hand as if it might sport hair, fleas, ticks, and assorted microscopic health hazards. Looking at him, she forced a smile and went to the sink, taking care to wash away at least one layer of skin.
He grinned and headed to the fridge, pulling out eggs, milk, and the promised blueberries. From the cabinet he hauled down flour, baking powder, and salt.
Candy sidled up next to him. “You're making them from scratch?” “Can't afford the boxed mix on my salary.”
Her smile wavered. Was she feeling sorry for him? Or did she suddenly realize she’d been flirting with a man who hovered on the low end of middle-class?
He handed her a bowl and a fork. “Two eggs. Beaten.”
; “Yes, sir.” She took the bowl and the egg carton to the island and got cracking.
Digging in a drawer for measuring spoons and cups, he asked, “Do you cook?”
“I used to. My mom taught me. But lately, I haven’t had time.” She beat the eggs with the fork. “Do you cook a lot?”
“No. I work long days and eat sandwiches, mostly.” Up until ten years ago, he’d never even turned on a stove. His parents employed a cook, and when Mitch had moved out to attend college, they’d sent the cook to his on-campus apartment four times a week to prepare meals for him.
When he joined the family business, he hired a full- time chef, equipped to cater his weekly client dinner parties, Saturday evening social gatherings, and noon staff meetings.
Scraping something crusty out of the one-cup measure, he smirked. Times had sure changed. Circumstances reversed. For both of them. They’d each gone from one extreme to the other.
He glanced at his unexpected guest. How, and when, would he tell her who he really was? Did he even have to tell her? Or would this be just a hit-and-run for Ms. Candy Wright? The thought spiked his blood pressure.
Chapter Ten – Boxers or Briefs?
Candy took her first bite of Mitch’s homemade blueberry pancakes and closed her eyes. Heaven. Oh my God, curl-my-toes -in-his-socks heaven. He’d even heated the bottle of syrup in a pan of hot water. The sweetness of the warm syrup and tartness of the blueberries struggled for dominance on her tongue. She moaned, opened her eyes, and looked into inquisitive blue ones.
“Well?” His lips twitched. “What do you think?”
She forked in another bite, broke a cardinal rule, and talked with her mouth full. “I think you should come to New York and work for me.”
A faint redness crept up his neck, and he stilled. “What?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking as soon as the storm’s over, I’ll take you back to New York and set you up as my house boy. You can clean—” She took another bite of pancake. “—cook, and iron my blouses. How are you at catering parties? I throw them from time to time for The Wright Way.” She cut another bite of pancake.
“Candy?” His voice was deathly quiet.
She gazed into stormy blue eyes that held an emotion she couldn’t identify. A bubble of laughter broke from her chest. “I was just teasing.”
He rubbed his temples. “You know what would be great?” Her giggles ebbed. “What?”
“If you would shut up and eat.”
Not very gentlemanly, but she deserved it. She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Guess I should just…”
“I guess you should just eat.” Mitch extended a pancake to the dog who whined beside him. “You irritate me sometimes.”
“Really? Do you have a short fuse?” What put that odd look on his face? “I’m sorry. I was joking. Don’t get your briefs in a twist.”
He blinked twice. “I don’t wear briefs.”
She forked in another bite and eyed the last pancake on the platter. “Ah, a boxer kind of guy.”
Mitch raised his mug and took a long gulp. She watched his throat move and wondered what would happen if she snaked the tip of her tongue over his Adam’s apple and down his torso. Good Lord, what had come over her? Being sexually aggressive had never been her style. She eyed that last pancake again. Maybe she'd better resist. Evidently blueberries were an aphrodisiac.
“Don’t wear boxers either.” He rose and carried his dirty dishes to the sink. Her gaze followed his very magnificent behind.
He turned and came back for more dirty dishes. Plates in hand, he leaned over and placed his lips next to her ear. An involuntary shudder went through her.
“Commando all the way, baby,” he whispered.
Candy’s gulp sounded like a gong in the silent kitchen. He was naked under those jeans? Her eyes darted around the small kitchen, trying to focus on anything but his crotch. Her tummy did its fluttery thing and her nipples evidently loved the commando visual because they were certainly standing at attention.
Mitch poured hot water into the sink and started washing dishes.
“I’ll wash.” She stood, attempting to regain control of her sensually overloaded system. “You cooked. I’ll wash.”
“Are you sure you know how?” His voice sounded strained, but he didn’t wait for an answer.
While Mitch headed outside to the woodpile, Candy stood at the sink and gazed out the window. Major jumped through the snowdrifts blown deep by the wind. His tongue lolled out, catching snowflakes. The dog was like a spoiled child. She shook her head and rinsed off the silverware. Her gaze cut to Mitch who'd loaded his arms with wood. The man was moody today. Maybe cabin fever was getting to him the same as it was with her. Still, if he remained silent and surly, their snow prison could get mighty uncomfortable. Which was why she was better off alone. Bad enough she had to deal with men flexing their egos at work; there was no way she would happily endure one in her private life.
Michael. The old memory resurfaced every time she did dishes. She smiled. A cherished memory she unfolded and relived when emotional needs upset her. How many times had she taken out the few memories she had of Michael, then folded them into a compact square and tucked them back into her heart?
Her memories were from a fragile time in a girl’s life, when hormones were just beginning to bud. Emotions bounced from one extreme to another. She'd been too old for childishly familiar things and not old enough for others. And, oh how she’d missed Vermont. Making friends in Manhattan was next to impossible, except for Michael. While she washed dishes, the son of her mother’s employer kept her company. He had a way of getting her to talk about herself, making her believe he was truly interested. Endearing qualities in a gangly kid—kind, gentle, caring, and incredibly honest.
Then suddenly Michael was gone from her life. Twin tears tumbled down her cheeks.
For some reason, that loss left scars as deep as the loss of her childhood home and watching her mother work herself into exhaustion cleaning houses for rich people.
The door opened and Major bounded in, shaking off snow. Her vision was tear-blurred when she looked at Mitch.
“Candy?” He bent to lay the logs on the floor and removed his gloves, tossing them onto the pile of wood. “What’s wrong?” He approached and cupped her face in his hands.
“N…nothing.” She sounded like a needy woman. Damn, grow a backbone here.
He leaned in and kissed away her tears. “Honey,” he breathed on a moan as his lips covered hers. “I didn't mean to snap at you. I…I’ve got a lot going on right now. Forgive me?”
His kisses grew deeper, more passionate. Tender nips at her lips turned to mind-numbing kisses that made her system do twitchy things. She wrapped her
arms around his neck and poured all her emotion into the kiss. For a brief few seconds she wondered just whom she was kissing—Mitch Johnson or Michael Crawford, III?
Chapter Eleven – The Temperature is Hot and Rising by Vonnie Davis
The woman had a mouth made for kissing. A man could live happy the rest of his life feasting on her sweet mouth. She was slowly driving him mad. A moan escaped from somewhere deep inside her. In response, he gently bit her lower lip and soothed it with his tongue.
Her wide eyes hazed with passion. “Mi…Mitch,” she murmured against his lips.
Did she say, My Mitch? Had he heard her correctly? He fisted his hands in her hair and blazed a trail of kisses down the side of her face and neck. “You’d better stop me while you can. Tell me to stop, Candy.”
She shook her head, her eyes hiding her emotions. What was she thinking? Was she afraid to say no?
“What I'd really like…” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. Slowly she unzipped his jacket and tugged off his knitted cap. “Pick up that wood and stoke the fire in the fireplace. Then take me to the bedroom and stoke mine.”
Did she mean it? His hands slipped under her shirt and found warm skin. Her lips parted as she leaned forward and bit his earlobe. Don�
�t analyze it, man. Just take her to bed. Slaking his needs—needs she’d stirred to a fevered pitch—was certainly how he wanted to spend the day. The entire day, because once wouldn’t be enough.
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