by Shirley Jump
“I’ll have the story,” Flynn said. “You know I will.”
“Yeah, I do. We’re all allowed one mistake, huh?” Tony chuckled, calmer now that he’d blown off some steam. “You’re the only guy who’ll work on Christmas, too. Hell, you never take a day off. What is it, Flynn? You got some extra ambition gene the rest of us missed?”
“Maybe so.” That drive to succeed had fueled him for so many years, had been a constantly burning fire, unquenchable by hundreds of cover stories, thousands of scoops. Then he’d faltered, and he’d been working himself to the bone to recover ever since. There’d be no messing up again. “I’ll have the story, Tony,” he repeated. “You can count on me.”
“That’s what makes you my personal Santa, Flynn.” Tony laughed, then disconnected.
Flynn hung up the receiver. For a moment there, he’d let himself get sidetracked by Samantha Barnett. Hell, last night he’d even talked about dating her, got caught up in a whole champagne-and-lobster fantasy. No more.
He needed to eviscerate the emotion from this job. Get back to business. Then he could get out of this town, and get back to his priorities.
Sam hadn’t spent this much time outside the bakery in…well, forever. She could thank Aunt Ginny’s matchmaking, though she didn’t want to be matched with anyone at all, but she was grateful for the break from work. The minute Flynn MacGregor had entered Joyful Creations and said he needed to talk to her, Ginny had practically shoved Sam out the door and told the two of them to go ice skating.
“Do you know how to do this?” she asked Flynn.
He paused in lacing up the black skates. “Not really. Do you?”
“You can’t grow up in rural Indiana without learning to ice skate. There’s practically a pond in every backyard.” She rose, balancing on her rented skates, then waited for Flynn to finish. Several dozen children and their parents were already skating on a small pond down the street from the park that was set up every winter as a makeshift rink.
He stood, teetering on the thin blades, reaching for the arms of the bench. “This isn’t as easy as it looks.”
She laughed. “Is anything ever as easy as it looks?”
“I suppose not.” He rose again, then let go, taking his time until he was balanced. “Okay, I’m ready to go.”
“If you’ve ever Rollerbladed before—” She cut off her words when she saw his dubious look. “Okay, so you’re not the Rollerblading type.”
“Limos, champagne and lobster, remember?”
Oh, yeah. She remembered. Very well. In fact, she hadn’t been thinking of much but that since their date—no, it hadn’t been a date, had it?—last night.
They made their way through the compacted snow on the bank and down to the ice. Sam stepped onto the rink first, then put out her hand. Flynn hesitated for a second, then took her hand and joined her, with a lot of wobbling. Even through two pairs of gloves—his and hers—a surge of electricity ran up Sam’s arm when Flynn touched her. This was so not in the plan for the day.
“Okay, so where do we start?” he asked. “Hopefully, it’s not a position that lands me on my butt.”
She laughed. “I can’t promise that.”
“Then I can’t promise to be nice in my article.”
She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. She hoped he was. But just in case, she held on to him, even as part of her told her to let go, because every touch awakened a stirring of feelings she hadn’t expected. “First, pretend you’re on a scooter. Take a step, glide, take a step, glide. Put your arms in front of you to balance.”
He let go of her and did as she said, while Sam skated backward, a few feet before him. He wobbled back and forth, scowling at first, frustrated with the whole process. “I give up.”
She laughed. “So soon?”
He swayed like a palm tree in a hurricane. “You said you wouldn’t let me—”
She caught him just before he fell, the two of them colliding together in that close—very, very close—position of the dancing he had mentioned last night. Hyperawareness pulsed through her, and she tried to pull back, but Flynn’s balance still depended on her, and she found her body fitting into the crook of his, as naturally as a missing puzzle piece.
“Fall,” he finished, his voice low and husky.
“I didn’t,” she answered, nearly in a whisper.
He bent down to look at her, his mouth inches from hers, and Sam held her breath, desire coursing through her, the heat overriding the cold air. “Thank you.”
“You’re…you’re welcome.”
A crowd of teenagers whipped past them, laughing and chattering, their loud voices jerking Sam back to reality. She inserted some distance between them, locking her arms to keep herself from closing that space again.
“Let’s try this again,” Flynn said. He started moving forward, one scoot at a time, while Sam slid backward, her gaze first on their feet, and the milky white surface holding them up, then, as Flynn began to master the movement, she allowed her gaze to travel up, connecting with him.
He was intoxicating. Tempting. Her skate skipped across a dent in the ice, and she tripped. Flynn’s grip tightened on hers. “Careful,” he said.
“I’m trying,” Sam said. Trying her best.
“Do you do this often?”
They swished around the rink, going in a wide circle, circumventing the other skaters with an easy shift of hips. “Not often enough. I love to skate. Love the outdoors.”
“You? An outdoorsy girl?”
She laughed. “I didn’t say I was Outdoorsy Girl, but I do like to do things outside. Garden, skate, swim.”
“Swim?” Heat rose in his gaze, the kind that told her he was picturing her in a swimsuit, imagining her body in the water. Another wave of desire coursed through Sam.
“You must have gone swimming a lot, growing up near an ocean.”
A shadow dropped over his face. “I used to. But then I…moved.”
“Oh.” Flynn didn’t seem to want to continue that line of questions, so Sam moved on. “What made you get into writing about restaurants?” She grinned. “Do you just like food?”
“I do,” he acknowledged. Flynn began to glide forward, his steps becoming a little surer, even as his conversation stayed at a near standstill. “As to the restaurant business, I have some personal acquaintance with it.”
Something cold and distant had entered Flynn’s gaze, like a wall sliding between them. Not that he’d ever been that open to begin with, but Sam had begun to feel like they were sort of making headway, and now—
He had gone back to being as impersonal as that first day. Was it because the issue wasn’t with her…
But with him?
“What happened in your life?” she asked, emotionally and physically invading his space by sliding her body a little closer, not letting him back down this time, or back away. She sensed a chink in his armor, a slight open window, something that told her there was more to Flynn MacGregor than a man who didn’t want to sing “Jingle Bells.”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you. And I don’t believe all that hooey about seeing one too many restaurateurs give up their lives to their restaurants. This all seems so personal to you, Flynn. Why?”
Sam was sure, given the choice, he would have moved away, but he was stuck on the ice, stuck holding on to her. He paused a long time, so long she wasn’t sure he was going to answer. “I know someone who chose their business over their family.”
“Over…you?”
Flynn swung his body to the side, breaking eye contact. He had clear natural athletic ability, which had allowed him to pick up the ice skating quickly, and he let go of one of her hands. “I’m not in Riverbend to talk about me.”
“Does every second of our time together have to be about the article?”
“No.” But he didn’t elaborate. Another group of teenagers whooshed past them, their raucous noise a stark contrast to the tight tension between Flynn and S
am.
She sighed. He was as closemouthed as a snapping turtle. Why? Perhaps she had treaded too close to very personal waters. Could she really blame him for pushing her off? If he had started asking about her grandmother, she would have likely done the same. “I guess it’s not too fun to be on the other end of the interview, huh?”
A slight grin quirked up one side of his mouth. “It’s not a position I like being in, no.”
“Join the club. I know it’s good for business and all, but…” She toed at the ice, stopping one skate so that she swung around to skate beside him instead of in front of him, figuring then he’d let go of her hand, but he didn’t. “But it’s uncomfortable all the same.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid I’ll say something I’ll regret. And you—” She cut the words off.
“And I’ll what?”
Sam cursed the slip of tongue. Now she had to answer. “You’ll write one of those tabloid type stories.”
“The ones the magazine, and I, am known for.”
She watched the ice pass beneath her, solid and hard, cold. “Yes.”
“You don’t trust me?”
She glanced at him. “Should I?”
The same group of teenagers hurried past them, one brushing past Flynn, causing him to wobble. “Let’s take a break for a little while.”
“Sure.” They made their way off the ice and over to the park bench where they had stored their shoes. The bench sat beneath two trees, long bared by winter’s cold. Before them, the skaters continued in repeating circles.
As soon as they sat down on the small bench, the tiny seat making for tight quarters, the tension between them ratcheted up another couple of notches. Sam wished for someone else to come along and defuse the situation. For the teens to rush by, for Aunt Ginny to pop out of the woods, for Earl to amble by, heck, anyone.
“Listen, ah, I didn’t mean to pry,” she said, diverting back to the earlier topic. It would be best not to make an enemy of this man. “Your personal life is your own.”
“And I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just not used to women who take such an interest in me personally.”
“I’m not, I mean…” She felt her face heat again. Damn. Why did he have to look at her so directly, with those blue X-ray eyes? “What are they interested in?”
“Let me put it this way. They’re not looking for deep, meaningful relationships when they date me.”
“And neither are you?”
He chuckled. “No. That’s not me, at all.”
“Oh.” Disappointment settled in her stomach. She couldn’t have said why. For one, he was here as a reporter, not as a potential boyfriend. For another, Flynn MacGregor was leaving town in a day, maybe two, and he wasn’t the kind who believed in permanence, settling down.
Besides, when did she have time to do either? She couldn’t have a relationship, even if she wanted to. Guilt pricked at her conscience, for even thinking she could. She had priorities. Priorities that did not include a man.
Yet, he was tempting, very much so, especially when he was this close. She could see why women would be attracted to him. He had a curious mix of mystery and charm, of aloofness, yet a hint of vulnerability, as if there was something there, something wounded, that he was trying to cover.
“I’m just not the settling down kind,” Flynn said. “And most of the women I date understand that.” He draped one arm over the back of the bench, then leaned a little closer to Sam. “But I bet you aren’t like that at all, are you? The kind that would understand a guy like me.”
“We may be more alike than you think,” she said quietly.
“You think so?”
She could only nod in response. The noise of the skaters on the pond seemed to disappear, the world becoming just the two of them.
“Maybe you’re right.” His voice was deep, the timbre seeming to reach crevices in Sam’s heart that hadn’t been touched in a long time. And all he’d said was three words.
Geez. She really needed to get out more.
Flynn closed the gap between them. For the first time, Sam noticed how the light blue of his dress shirt seemed to make the blue of his eyes richer, deeper. Her pulse began to race, thudding through her veins. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Sam swallowed hard, her heart beating so loud, she was sure Flynn could hear the pounding. “Find out what?”
“If you would be interested in me.”
He caught a tendril of her hair between his gloved fingers, letting it slip through the leather. “We’ve been dancing around the subject all week.”
“Have we?” she asked, the slight catch of laughter in her voice, a clear giveaway of her nerves. “Or is this…”
“What?” he prompted.
“Nothing,” she said, not wanting to voice her greatest fear, not wanting to break the sweet, yet dangerous tension.
The silence between them stretched one second. Two. Three. Heat filled the few inches separating them, building like a fever. Sam gazed up at Flynn, her breath caught somewhere in her throat, as if her lungs had forgotten their job. He released her hair, then pulled off his glove and cupped her jaw, using the same hand that had slid down her zipper. A hundred times over the last couple of days she had stolen glimpses of his hands, fascinated by the definition of his fingers, the implied power in his grip, and now, now, he was touching her, just as she’d pictured, and she leaned into the touch, into his thumb tracing along her bottom lip, the desire building and building.
Flynn leaned forward. Slow. Tentative. Taking his time. Because he was unsure? Waiting for her response? His gaze never left hers. Then his fingers slipped down to her neck, dancing along the sensitive skin of her throat—
And he kissed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FLYNN HADN’T INTENDED to kiss Samantha Barnett—he could honestly say in all the years he had covered the restaurant business that he had never kissed anyone that he had interviewed. But something had come over him, and the temptation to taste those lips—to see if his theory about neither of them being interested in the other would hold up—had overwhelmed him.
He knew it wasn’t her grandmother’s cookies; he hadn’t even eaten any of those. And either way, truth be told, he’d wanted to kiss Sam pretty much from minute one. Okay, maybe minute two. And now that he finally had—
The experience had lived up to his every expectation. And then some. Kissing Samantha Barnett was like coming home, only Flynn had never really experienced a home, just dreamed of one. She was soft, and welcoming, warm and giving, and yet, she inspired a passion in him, a craving, for more.
But that would be unwise. He was a bulldog, the one who got the article at all costs, not the puppy cowed by a sweet treat.
So Flynn pulled back. “That, ah, won’t be part of the article.”
“Good.” Sam let out a little laugh. “I definitely don’t need Bakery Owner Kisses Reporter in Exchange for Good PR as part of the headline.” She traced a line along the edge of the painted green bench. “Then what was that? Research?”
He chuckled. When was the last time he’d laughed, really laughed? Hell, if he couldn’t remember, then it had definitely been too long. Sam was intoxicating, in more ways than one, and that was dangerous ground to tread. “No, not part of the research. Though, if there is a line of work that lets me kiss you as part of my job—”
“Sorry, no. I’m not part of anyone’s resume.”
“Pity. And here I was all ready to fill out a job application, too.”
What was he saying? He needed to grab hold of his objectivity, and not let go.
A smile slid across her lips, and something that approached joy ballooned in Flynn’s chest. The feeling was foreign, new. “You’re turning into a joke a minute, Flynn MacGregor. Before you know it, you’ll be appearing on a late night comedy special.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s me. Flynn the comic.” He chuckled. Again. Twice in the space of one minute. That had to be
an all-time personal record.
He watched her join him in laughter, and the temptation to kiss her again rose inside him, fast and furious. Flynn jerked his attention away and began to unlace his skates. “I should probably get back to work.”
“All work and no play?”
He looked up at her. “I could say the same for you.”
“Oh, I play. Sometimes.”
“When?” He moved closer to her, ignoring the warning bells in his head reminding him he should be working, not flirting. “Is there a nonbusiness side to Samantha Barnett?”
It was a pure research question. The kind he could use to delve deeper, expose a vulnerable vein. He’d done it a hundred times—
Except this time he found his attention not on how he would write up her answer, or what his next question would be, but on whether her answer would be something that would interest him, too. Something they could do together.
She brushed her bangs out of her face, revealing more of her heart-shaped countenance. “Well, Christmas, for sure. I love this time of year.”
“I think it’s a prerequisite for living in this town.”
“You might learn to love the holiday, too,” she said. “In fact, if you’re looking for something to cultivate your feelings for Christmas, you could go to the Riverbend Winterfest.”
“Winterfest?”
Sam nodded, her eyes shining with excitement, a fever Flynn could almost imagine catching. “The town recently started holding this really big Christmas celebration. C. J. Hamilton does it up big, bringing in all kinds of decorations and moving props. He dresses up as Santa, and his wife is Mrs. Claus. Even Earl gets into the spirit. This year, I hear he’s dressing up as an elf and handing out candy canes to all the kids who come to Santa’s workshop. That alone should be worth the price of admission, which is free anyway. It’s a really fun time.”
What it sounded like was another date. Another temptation. Another opportunity to be alone with Samantha Barnett.