Can't Fight This Feeling (4 page)

CHAPTER THREE

B
RETT
RESISTED
THE
urge to watch Angelica walk off and instead turned to his truck, parked just a few feet away. Apology made, apology accepted and that should be enough to put her from his mind forever.

The breeze picked up as he fumbled with his keys. Autumn was doing its thing in the mountains. Warm sun, cool air, both energizing, and he should be looking forward to a day of vigorous outdoor work. Instead, he felt as if a weight was tugging him down.

We’ll likely never see each other again.

It had nothing to do with that.

The door unlocked, he jerked it open. The tall pile of paperwork he’d forgotten he’d set on the driver’s seat when he had exited the car began to slide off the cracked vinyl. He lunged for it, just as a rough, rogue gust caught at the sheets and sent them swirling. They flew about in the air, some behind the truck, some above the truck, some somersaulting like tumbleweeds along the asphalt in every direction as the wind blew.

He swore out loud and tried corralling the mass by stomping on the sheets near his feet and trapping others against his body. No way was he going to collect them all, he thought on a groan, snatching another that flew past his head. This was going to be a bookkeeping disaster.

Then, he glimpsed a figure in the periphery of his vision. He turned his head to see Angelica dashing about the scene, gathering up the errant documents. He allowed himself one second—okay, two—to admire her upturned ass when she bent over, then he continued on with his own search and seizure.

Several minutes later, the crisis seemed to have passed. When he turned in a 360, he couldn’t see any more fleeing papers. Angelica came toward him, her hair messy and her cheeks flushed, a mass of invoices and handwritten notes clasped against her chest. “I think we might have gotten them all.”

His own arms were full. “A good portion, anyway.” With his toe, he pushed on the lever that folded the driver’s seat forward and then stowed what he held on the narrow rear seat. Turning to Angelica, he said, “Let me take those.”

“I’ve got it.” She shuffled forward. “You stand behind me and block the wind while I set them down.”

He pivoted and she half turned to sidestep into the narrow space he created between his body and the truck. The wind picked up again, tossing her hair so it slid across his face in a silky caress. It smelled amazing and he instinctively moved closer, blocking the breeze and also blocking her in.

She set down her stack, then moved back, her behind meeting his groin. At the contact, she froze.

He told himself not to bury his face in her hair. He told himself not to slide an arm around her waist and pull her closer.

So he didn’t do either of those things.

But he also didn’t step away. Which meant that when she spun around, they were face-to-face. Chest to chest. If he bent his head, they’d be mouth to mouth.

They stared at each other and all he could think about was how damn beautiful she was. It was the face of a heartbreaker, with fine-grained, golden-tinted skin and large eyes framed by sooty lashes. The lush mouth was maddening.

Tempting.

She put her hand over his heart, attempting to push him back.

The thrust didn’t rock him. He covered her fingers with his, then frowned at how chilled they were. “You’re cold.”

“A little,” she admitted. This time, when she shoved at him, he retreated, though he still had her hand.

“Let me buy you a hot chocolate,” he said. Her cool skin, that killer face... It compelled him to offer her warmth. Sweetness.

She hesitated.

Her reluctance twisted something inside him. Did she consider him not good enough for her? He let go her hand. “You can still have a nice life,” he muttered. “Just after the damn drink.”

Then he ground his back teeth, instantly regretting his harsh tone. Why the hell was he like this around her? She put up his hackles. Made him feel prickly and irritable.

He was never the most genial of fellows, but he was actually considered by some women to be charming. No charm for her, though. No wonder she didn’t want to spend another minute around him.

“Never mind,” he said, making to climb into the truck. “Sorry.”

This time it was she who grabbed his elbow. “I’d like that. The hot chocolate.”

He blew out his breath, waiting a long moment to see if she’d change her mind. When she continued to stand there, he shut the vehicle’s door and pointed toward the corner. “Oscar’s Coffee.”

Inside the small shop were picnic tables painted a soft yellow. Brett directed her to one as he went to retrieve the beverages. He said yes to whipped cream and dark chocolate shavings without asking her.

Her gaze brightened when he put the oversize ceramic mug with its peak of fluffy stuff in front of her. “Yay. You got me the extras.”

“I don’t believe for a second you’re one of those women who denies herself. I’ve smelled the cookies you bake.”

She eyed his beverage, which was exactly the same as hers. “And here I expected you to order a cup of dark and bitter brew for yourself.”

“I like my sweets, too.”

“But not my cookies.”

He refused to squirm on the bench. For months every instinct had warned him against getting “cookies” close. Those instincts were still clamoring at him even now, but she must have entranced him with those warm, melted-chocolate eyes.

Her hands surrounding the cup, she delicately sipped her drink. Then she set it down and licked at the cream on the top of her lip.

He told himself the little action didn’t make him hard, but that was a lie. Clearing his throat, he attempted to think of something else. “Fund-raisers, huh?”

She glanced up.

“You told Mac about the one for the historical society.”

“Oh. Right.” Lifting her cup, she delicately blew on the liquid surface she’d revealed with her last sip.

Her pursed lips didn’t do anything to ease his tight muscles. “You learn how to do that in school?” he asked.

“Plan fund-raisers?” At his nod, she shook her head. “I was actually an international finance major in college. I had the mistaken idea that studying the subject might win my father’s approval and that he’d then bring me into his business.”

Somewhere along the line, Brett had learned her father was a well-known and wildly successful hedge-fund manager, whatever the hell that was. “But he dashed your hopes?”

“All for the best,” she said, waving a hand and directing her gaze back to her drink. “I’m not suited for that kind of risk, and it turns out I like to keep myself busy with more tangible activities.”

“I have a degree in landscape architecture,” he heard himself say. “But I can’t stand being cooped up in an office for so much of the day, sitting at a desk. So I don’t design landscapes as much as put my hands on them.”

She looked up, her eyes widening. “Oh.”

His voice turned dry. “Not quite the uneducated country bumpkin you thought, huh, uptown girl?”

Her brows slammed together. “It wasn’t that. I was surprised you managed to share three sentences about yourself.”

God, there he went again. If he could manage it, he’d kick his own ass. “I—”

“And that we might actually have something in common.”

That shut him up. All he’d been doing since the moment he’d caught sight of her the very first time was telling himself they were opposites in every—wrong—way. He’d used that thought as a wedge, a shield, an impenetrable wall that prevented him from eating her cookies, from asking her out to dinner and from doing what he really, ultimately wanted—taking her into his bed.

He rubbed his hand over his hair, aware she was studying him. Suppressing the urge to touch his scars, he wondered what she thought of them. What she’d think if she knew that he liked them as a reminder of important lessons learned.

“So...” she said now, a thread of amusement in her voice. “That’s quite a filing system you have.”

Glancing up, he enjoyed the way her small smile curved her lips. “You’d think six years in the army would have drilled organization into my marrow, but the minute I got out, I went back to sloppy paperwork.”

“You were in the service?”

“Tenth Army Mountain Division.”

“Mountain,” she said. “That must have significance.”

“It was formed during World War II for warfare in the Alps. The civilian ski patrol was used for recruiting purposes, and they found soldiers on the slopes and in ski clubs all over the States. Those same soldiers developed skiing as a vacation industry after the war.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do.” He sipped at his chocolate. “Our grandfathers came back and laid out the ski runs and designed the lifts and operated the ski schools that this area became known for. So when mountain kids join up, the Tenth is tradition.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“Fort Drum, New York. But I spent time in Florida and a year in Afghanistan.” Just saying the word brought the whop-whop sound of choppers into his head, the taste of red dust to his tongue, the pungent scent and the oily feel of blood onto his skin. Pushing it from his mind, he rubbed his hand over his hair and switched subjects. “When my time was up, I was ready to come home.”

“No career as a military man for you?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to get away for a while, save some money. But my life is here in my mountains with my family. So I started my business, thus giving birth to my really lousy filing system.”

“You can get help for that, you know.”

“Yeah. And I’ll have to hire someone and a crew eventually, after I sweat out a bit more of my restlessness and start soliciting design work. Maybe next year.”

“Until then, paper chaos.”

He shrugged. “I had a part-timer working in my office at the end of the summer. But then high school started and she’s much too busy for me now.”

At her raised brow, he added a little more. “Kid’s a whiz with just about everything. She’s my sister Shay’s stepdaughter-to-be.”

“Your sister’s getting married?”

“Two out of the three of them. Both Shay and Poppy.”

She opened her mouth, but he pointed at it before she could get a word out. “Don’t ask me a damn thing about the weddings. I make it my job not to absorb a word they say about them.”

“You don’t approve?”

“The men they’re marrying, Ryan and Jace, are great. It’s the constant chatter about dresses, rehearsals and seating arrangements that make me want to bash my brains in with a shovel.”

“Something else we have in common. I’m not a big fan of weddings, either.”

Okay, now
she
surprised
him
.

“Don’t look so shocked. Not every woman dreams of that big day. Between them, my parents have been married seven times. For all but the first, of course, I’ve been standing by in something itchy or ugly, pretending I believe they’ll have a happy-ever-after.”

“Seven divorces then?”

“Six. My mother’s still married to her current, though I doubt they’ll last.” She gave a little shrug.

The small, indifferent gesture felt like a punch to the gut. For some reason he’d assumed she was like his little sister Poppy, who walked through life with stars in her eyes. She wore her open heart and her belief in happy endings right there on her sleeve.

But Angelica had a more jaded view and it wasn’t sitting well with him. Just as he’d felt compelled to chase away her chilled hands with hot chocolate, now he wanted to gather her up and soothe those old hurts he sensed.

It was a damn dangerous urge, because going soft for a woman was a sure way to get himself crushed.

Had that T-shirt.

Brett looked down at the table. Their cups were drained, meaning it was time to move on and move her out of his life. He hitched back his chair and she immediately took the hint and rose from her own. He stood, too, and they were close enough that if he had all the time in the world he could count each one of her luxurious lashes.

We’ll likely never see each other again.

With that in mind, maybe he could kiss her.

His hand drifted toward her. He snagged an errant lock of hair with his forefinger and brushed it away from her cheek. Her color heightened and he saw her fight a shiver—and lose.

Hell.
He closed his eyes a moment, willing himself to keep still. But her visceral response to his touch only made him want more...more access to her hair, her skin, her body. More opportunities to watch her react to his hands on her, his mouth on hers...

Opening his eyes, he saw she was staring at his shirt buttons, hard. Her fingers were curled into fists and as he watched, she swallowed. “Time to go,” she said.

Neither of them moved. That weight was back, anchoring him to the floor, slowing his heartbeat to a funeral dirge. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” She edged back, now far enough away that it would take effort to claim that kiss he shouldn’t be thinking of.
Smart girl.