Once Upon a Christmas (17 page)

David looked about to choke on a green tortilla chip with
the effort of holding back a laugh.

“Well, I dunno.” He gazed speculatively at Sam. “Are
you worried about your masculine ego, Sam?”

If that chip didn’t get him, Sam promised himself
he
would.

He frowned at Holly. “You really believe that?”

“No, but I really do want to help. I’ve been working
all week and I haven’t had a chance to do anything. Come on, Sam. I’m a quick
study, you’ll see.”

She smiled encouragingly.

Sam decided to surrender to the inevitable before she dug
any deeper. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Her smile deepened. Sam’s didn’t. He felt like a sap. Holly
headed for the bedroom to change clothes. Too bad he couldn’t persuade her to
keep on the raincoat and lingerie.

“Be sure to put on something old,” he warned. “Whatever
you wear is going to get wrecked.”

She waved a hand over her head. “Okay. I’ll be right
back!”

Sam turned to David.

“We’re in for it now,” he grumbled.

He was more right than he’d expected, but not in the way he’d
thought. A few minutes later when Holly emerged from the bedroom, Sam stopped
in mid–scrape to stare. Holly’s wild new hairstyle was small change compared
with how she looked geared up for renovating.

“These are the oldest, grungiest things I could find.”
She waved her hand at her faded University of Arizona T–shirt and old denim
cut–off shorts. “Okay?”

“Uh, okay.” Sam tried to quit staring, but it was
impossible. In those shorts, Holly looked completely different. It was a
glimpse of the kind of woman she must have been before Brad and his tight–assed
ways got a hold of her, before she’d plotted out her plan for life and set the
map in stone. He wondered if it was too late to smash the map and start over.

But that would have to come later. For now he’d have to
settle for teaching Holly how to tear up an old linoleum floor. Kneeling next
to her, Sam showed her how to look at the edges of the floor for places that
had lifted over the years, then pry them up further with a heavy metal spatula.
He showed her how to pour in a little adhesive solvent to loosen the glue, and
how to scrape up the stubborn pieces that sometimes remained, so the subfloor
would be level.

When Sam turned to check on her progress a few minutes
later, Holly was working diligently. Beside her sat the evidence of her labor—a
tidy stack of linoleum pieces, a dustpan filled with debris, and the tortilla
chip bag, now filled with linoleum shards. For a radius of two feet around her,
the floor was swept conspicuously clean.

Holly crouched on her hands and knees, mopping it with a
sponge.

“We’re not going to eat from this floor.” Sam
tried—and failed—to keep his grin hidden. “Work first. Clean later.”

She didn’t stop. “A neat workspace will make the job go
quicker.”

She sounded breathless from her enthusiastic mopping. She
whipped out an old towel and dried the floor, her backside swinging enticingly
in rhythm with each stroke of the towel.

Her denim cut–offs revealed more than they hid, especially
in the places where she’d dried her damp hands on them. Beneath the soft, thin
fabric of her old T–shirt, her breasts kept time too, swaying gently as she
worked. Sam’s gut tightened. He really was crazy.

Clapping his hands to dislodge the worst of the dirt, he
looked at David and Holly in turn. “What do you say we break for lunch?”

When they didn’t answer, he raised his eyebrows. “Lunch?”

David glanced at the tortilla chip bag. “I’m still
pretty full from the Christmas chips.”

Scowling, Sam got to his feet. “Then you can stay here
and finish up while Holly and I go to lunch.” He turned to her. “You’ll
want to change first, right?”

She looked exasperated. “I just did, remember? What’s
wrong with what I’ve got on?”

“Nothing.” Nothing except that it made Sam want to
take all of it off. Nothing except that it showed him a side to Holly he’d
never seen before, and he liked it. Too much.

“Nothing. I just thought you’d want to wear something
more…ahhh….” He searched his brain for a reason that would appeal to
her. “Something more appropriate.”

Something
un
sexy.

“You sound just like Brad,” Holly accused,
scrambling to stand on the slippery linoleum. She pointed her finger in Sam’s
face. “Well, I’m through with men telling me what to do and what to wear
and whom to see. Do you hear me?”

He backed up, pushed more by the impact of her unexpected
temper than the pink fingernail she was poking at him. He’d obviously touched a
nerve by telling her to look appropriate.

It wasn’t a mistake he wanted to repeat in the future.

“I’ll do what I want, when I want to do it.” Holly’s
voice rose. “If I want to dance naked on
my
floor, in
my
kitchen, in
my
house, then I’ll do it! And you can’t stop me!”

“Why would he want to?” David put in, grinning.

Holly threw her wet sponge at him. It landed with a wet
splat on his nose, then plopped to the floor.

She was spoiling for a fight. She looked at Sam as though
she were mentally rolling up her sleeves, a prize–fighter ready for the next
match.

He held up both hands in surrender. “Okay! Wear what
you want.”

“I will.” Holly flounced away.

So much for his brilliant plan to get her into some
different clothes. Maybe next time he ought to try reverse psychology. For now
he’d have to admit defeat. Maybe if they went someplace dark….

Hell, he was a grown man, wasn’t he? It would take more than
the sight of Holly in a pair of short shorts, looking fresh from a roll in the
hay, to take Sam McKenzie down.

In the foyer, she paused, keys in hand. “You fellas
coming, or not?”

Sam nodded.

“We’ll take my car,” she announced when he and
David got to the front door.

She seemed about six inches taller, flush with the thrill of
running the show. Proud of herself. Despite everything, Sam felt glad for her.
Maybe that roadmap of hers was splintering a little already.

Holly could have kicked herself for saying they’d take her
car. She’d been so pleased with the way she’d asserted herself with Sam, she’d
forgotten there were three of them going to lunch—one more than would fit
comfortably in her two–seater convertible.

To their credit, neither Sam nor David said a thing about
her mistake as they piled into Sam’s old pickup truck instead. Sam got behind
the wheel. Holly slid across the wide bench seat to take her place in the
middle, leaving David smashed up against the passenger–side door. To give him
more room, she scooted a little closer to Sam.

The truck was just like Sam—big and messy, but in perfect
running order. When he turned the ignition key, the engine purred to life
quietly as a luxury sportscar’s. The stereo system he turned on sounded even
better than the expensive one Brad had so rudely repossessed after their split.

Sam raised his eyebrows, seeking her approval of the radio
station he’d tuned. Holly nodded, surprised he’d bother to check with her at
all.

She probably shouldn’t have been. From the day she’d met
him, Sam had wanted to please her. To pleasure her. In that, too, he was
exactly
un
like Brad. She shivered and turned her attention to the things
jumbled inside the truck, a much safer subject than Sam’s feelings for her.

Her inspection ended abruptly with the warm, unexpected
feeling of Sam’s hand on her bare thigh. Her gaze shot downward as he slid his
hand along the inside of her thigh. He moved toward her knee until his tanned
arm lay against her, then he gripped…the gearshift. It was right between her
legs.

Their eyes met.

“Excuse me,” Sam said. “I hope this won’t be
too uncomfortable for you.”

The sparkle in his eyes told her he wasn’t
too
sorry
about their driving arrangement. Trying to retain the upper hand, Holly shrugged.

“As long as you’re not uncomfortable,” she said
solicitously. “I guess I can stand it as long as you can.”

He stroked her thigh with his thumb. “I’ll remember
that,” he promised with a wink, then he set the truck into motion.

Sam could make a grocery list read like erotic innuendo,
Holly thought. She didn’t know how he managed it.
Maybe you want it to sound
that way
, a part of her nudged.
Maybe you’re the one who wants him.

She shoved the thought aside and tried to focus on her
neighbors’ holiday decorations as they drove into town. She tried not to think
about the hungry way Sam had looked at her this morning, when he’d realized how
little she had on beneath her trench coat. She tried not to remember the feel
of his body against hers, to relive the kisses they’d shared, to re-experience
the heat and intensity of his mouth on hers.

Who was she kidding?

Holly sighed. Being around Sam made her priorities go so far
underground she couldn’t remember what she wanted anymore. She remembered
feeling certain Brad was the right man for her, that marrying him was the only
sensible thing to do. She’d thought he was the ideal man to share her future
with.

All of a sudden, that future looked awfully bleak.

She didn’t want to fail. That’s what would happen if her plan
didn’t bring her and Brad back together again. She’d fail.

She’d probably ensured failure by giving Brad a deadline to
decide about their future together. Holly hadn’t been able to think of another
alternative. She didn’t want to end up like her mother had after the
divorce—alone. Alone and…yes, a little bitter, too. Holly supposed that a
great, passionate love gone wrong could do that to anybody.

Even Sam? She glanced at him. As usual, he wore low-slung
jeans and an attitude so relaxed that being with him was like the best vacation
she’d ever had.

As though he sensed her gaze on him, he gave her a smile,
then looked back at the road. No, Holly decided, probably not Sam. Love wouldn’t
dare go wrong on Sam.

They had lunch at the Downtown Grill, and afterward they
brought David back to pick up his car at Holly’s house. Still sitting in the
driveway in Sam’s truck, they watched him make a U-turn in the street, then
drive away.

“So, should we go in and finish up the floor?” Sam
asked.

He looked as if he’d rather dye his hair green than go back
inside and scrape more linoleum.

“No. I’ve got other plans for you.”

“Really?” He nudged closer and wrapped his arm
around her shoulders. “Tell me all about it.”

“Well.” Holly smiled up at him, feeling better now
that she’d been fortified with a double cheeseburger and fries—and a hefty
helping of Christmas cookies from the City Bakery. “First we’ll go to the
formal wear shop downtown…”

“Yeah…?”

“Then we’ll pick up your tuxedo. Did you forget my
mother’s Christmas party at the Cheshire is next weekend?”

Sam groaned and started the engine. “I thought you were
kidding about wearing a tuxedo.”

“Nope. I already ordered one for you. Just in case you,
um,
forgot.”
Her smile broadened.

“You don’t leave much to chance, do you?”

“Not usually. Let’s go.”

At the formal wear shop, Holly picked up the dress she’d
ordered for the party. Sam reluctantly accepted a black tuxedo and the full
dress regalia that went along with it.

“Can I try on the dress, please?” Holly asked the
salesperson. “Just to make sure it fits before I take it home?”

“Certainly.” The clerk nodded toward a curtained
area at the rear of the small shop. “The fitting rooms are right through
there.”

Murmuring her thanks, Holly headed to the changing rooms.
She chose one of the three mirrored alcoves and pulled the curtain closed
behind her. After hanging her dress on the hook provided, she shucked her
shorts and T-shirt at warp speed.

Brad had always hated shopping with her. Holly supposed most
men were the same way—including Sam. She wanted to hurry so he wouldn’t have
long to wait.

Someone entered the cubicle next to hers and dragged the
curtain shut with the metallic scrape of the hanging rings against the chrome
rod. Whoever it was, she was tall. Holly glimpsed a headful of shaggy blond
hair over the partition before she bent down again.

She shrugged and stepped into her new dress. One zip, thirty
seconds of fiddling with the shoulder straps, then… voilà. She looked in the
mirror.

It was a great dress, the sexiest one she’d ever owned.
White, mid-thigh length, and close-fitting, it needed only a matching sheer
chiffon scarf to accessorize it. Holly arranged the scarf over her throat,
leaving the ends to trail down the dress’s low-cut back. Uncertainly, she scrutinized
the effect.

“You look great in white,” Sam said. “It sets
off all that red hair of yours.”

He winked down at her from the neighboring dressing room. At
that moment, Holly decided the expensive designer dress was worth every single
cent it had cost her.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” she
whispered. “What are you doing?”

“Trying on my stuff,” he answered reasonably. He
propped his arms on the partition, making it wobble. “There are only these
three little rooms, you know. Was I supposed to change out there in front of
the three-way mirror like one of those Chippendales guys?”

Holly pictured him doing an exotic dancer’s bump and grind
routine, slowly stripping off his clothes in front of the big mirror. The idea
had merit.

“Of course not.” The way he was looking at her,
she couldn’t resist preening a little in her new dress. Pivoting, she glanced
over her shoulder at him. “Do you really like it?”

“Come next door and I’ll show you how much.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Sam grinned. He disappeared from sight
behind the partition. There was a rustle of fabric, then the sound of a zipper.
He reappeared. “Pants fit.”