Merry Ever After (Under the Mistletoe collection)

Chapter Two Luke

Chapter Two

Luke

M y mug of coffee pauses halfway to my mouth.

What in the hell?

It’s her . Evie Crowe.

How did she find out where I live? As soon as I begin to wonder, I mentally scoff at myself. Finding out where the skyscraper-size farmer dwells wouldn’t be difficult. Any number of town residents could have told her. Whatever method she used to get my address, she’s coming up the pathway to my house now with a baby strapped to her chest and a brown bag dangling from a couple of her fingers. Let me tell you, it’s a sight. Something’s got her a little mad this morning, but not mad enough to step on the chickens in her path. No, even through the window, I can hear her apologizing to them as she closes the distance to my door, and that makes me feel some kind of way.

Not sure what the feeling is called yet.

Only that she’s the only one who seems to give it to me.

A married woman. Of course I told a married woman she’s one of a kind. I’m surprised her husband hasn’t shown up with a shotgun yet to put a bullet in me. I wouldn’t even blame him. If she was my wife, I’d put the fear of God into anyone who showed her interest. Especially out loud, like I did.

What’s she carrying in that bag?

I can hardly focus long enough to make an educated guess, because I’m distracted by the dark-auburn swing of her hair, how the morning light sets it on fire. She has a beautiful stubborn nose and an Irish chin. A wide mouth. I’m not going to marvel over her body now that I know she’s taken, but if I was ...

Ah, Jesus, she’s got nice sturdy hips.

A lot of men don’t notice that type of thing, but a man my size does.

She would handle me well.

And the fact that she already has a man should make me ashamed that I fucked my fist in bed this morning to thoughts of her bent over the counter of her shop, moaning while I gave it to her good and proper from behind, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in her hair. Yesterday, in my fantasies, I had her in the dressing room. I’ve had her all over town since the first day I saw her.

This infatuation needs to stop, but it only appears to be picking up steam. Case in point, my heart driving up into my throat now that she’s knocking briskly on my front door.

As much as I want to see her hazel eyes up close, I hesitate to answer, on account of still being embarrassed. First, I ripped a pair of jeans, thanks to my freakishly large frame. Second, I hit on a married woman.

Excuse me for wanting to remain hidden in the shadows.

“I saw you standing in the window.”

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, setting down my mug of coffee. Inhaling, exhaling, and crossing to the front door. Opening it to find the most beautiful woman to ever grace this property—hell, the planet—staring up at me, a touch defiant in itty-bitty jean shorts, a Santa Claus T-shirt, and red cowboy boots. Her sleeping baby has a little patch of red on the crown of its head, and I experience a sudden welling of envy toward whoever gets to call these two his family. Maybe it’s the holidays that have me wishing for ... more out of this simple life of mine. Craving someone to celebrate Christmas Eve with tomorrow night. But deep down, I know it’s not December at all. It’s this woman who’s got me pondering things I shouldn’t. “Good morning, Evie.”

“Good morning, Luke.” She holds out the bag. “Your jeans.”

A bus crashes into my chest. “What?”

“Go try them on, please. If they need adjustments, I’ll bring them back to the store.”

I can’t think of a single thing to say. This woman not only designed jeans big enough for my too-big body, but she also walked here to deliver them with a baby in tow.

It’s . . . amazing. Touching. Surprising.

It’s unacceptable, is what it is.

“I told you not to fuss,” I try to growl, but I sound winded instead. I am . She’s knocked the breath out of me. As the oldest of four siblings, I’m the one who goes out of my way to make sure everyone has what they need. I’ve never had anyone do the same for me. The gesture makes me feel unsettled, like I don’t deserve such a gift.

“Why do you have such a fixation on fussing?”

“I don’t like it.”

“That much is clear.”

“I haven’t done anything for you —” I cut myself off, feeling extremely foolish. “I’m sorry, let me get some money.”

“I don’t want it.” She still has that temper up. Why? Did her husband piss her off? Because I’d be more than happy to go sort him out ... “You trying them on and having them fit will be payment enough. We’ll call it an early Christmas present.”

A discomfiting thought occurs to me. “You don’t want me to come back to the store anymore. Is that it?” I hold up the bag. “That’s why you did this.”

Her hazel eyes soften slightly. “What? No.” The temper reengages. “I just wanted to show you what I’m capable of. A single mother made those jeans, okay? The fact that I made them in between feedings and naps and work and bath time is what makes me one of a kind. Not my tits. Got it?”

Single mother.

She’s a single mother.

And I’m ... an unbelievable idiot.

I made an incorrect assumption based on my own upbringing and preconceived notions about what a family consists of ... and damn, guilt is worming its way through my gut. But what I don’t understand is her implication that I somehow think she’s less impressive—or simply less —because she’s unmarried with a child. “Why don’t you explain why you’re pissed off at me so we can straighten it out?”

“You dismissed me when you heard Sonny crying. I saw it. And I shouldn’t even care. We don’t know each other. I guess ...” She adjusted the sling around her shoulders, and I check the urge to help carry the weight. To ... hold the baby. Do something . “Maybe you didn’t mean it, but I’ve gotten that look a lot in the last five months and just had to do something about it. For me.”

“I didn’t dismiss you, Evie. When I heard the baby crying, I assumed you were married.” She’s not. She’s not married. What the hell am I going to do about that? “I’d just got finished telling you ... well, what I said. And I walked away because that’s the right thing to do when someone is attached.”

She loses her head of steam while absorbing that. “Oh.”

I raise an eyebrow.

She raises one back.

I put mine down.

Hell. This woman has me tied up in all kinds of fucking knots this morning. The first time I saw her, I decided she was out of my league. The second time, I confirmed it: Yup. Way out. I haven’t changed my mind, either. She’s young and sexy and good God , she’s full of fire and spirit. Talent. She loves that baby, too. I can see it in the way she cradles his head like she’s trying to protect him from the world. She’s nurturing on top of everything else.

A man could fall in love and stay there with this one. Stay there forever.

Something about her on my doorstep feels right. Like she was meant to show up sooner or later. What if there is a chance she could feel the same? Sure, I’m a farmer constantly covered in dirt; I have zero romance or wooing skills to speak of; and I’m a lumbering, assumption-making giant to boot. But maybe it’s true what they say and there is someone for everybody.

I don’t know. But I’ll regret it for a long time if I don’t try.

“If you come in, I’ll try on the jeans.” I replay that back and quickly clarify, my neck going hot. “I’ll try them on in another room, that is.”

It’s kind of comical the way she leans to one side to peer into my home, as if searching for torture devices, and I wonder what she thinks of my eight-foot undecorated Christmas tree that I propped up in the corner of the living room. I cut it down and brought it home myself, just for the smell of fresh pine, but I wouldn’t know where the hell to start buying shiny things to hang on it.

“Entering a stranger’s home is frowned upon where I come from, but it would be nice to sit down for a minute,” she says. “I realized about halfway here that these boots are more style than substance.”

My pulse stutters. “You got a blister?”

She nods, though it’s grudging—and I’m already mentally riffling through my first aid kit. I don’t bother bandaging my own cuts and scrapes, so I have no idea what’s in there. Cobwebs, probably. “If you’re not comfortable coming in, I’ll bring a chair outside.”

A little more softening on her end.

Damn. Maybe I’m not so useless with women after all?

Or maybe it’s just this one I’ve got a knack for. I hope so.

“No,” she says slowly. “I’ll come in.”

I swallow my relief and step aside, trying not to stare at the sight of a beautiful redhead entering my house. Ordering myself to pay attention, I scrape a chair out from beneath the table. I only have two, and they’re massive. I had to make them myself out in the barn, on account of my size. She doesn’t comment on the extra-large dimensions, but she does seem slightly amused that her feet don’t touch the floor.

The baby is starting to squirm in the sling around her chest. She rocks subtly side to side, cooing to him while I locate the first aid kit in one of the kitchen cabinets. During one of my many glances at her over my shoulder, I notice her wince and straighten her spine.

“Carrying the baby all this way must have been hell on your back.” Finally, I locate the first aid kit, then set it on the counter so I can check the contents. “Do you want to lie him down on my bed?”

A small hesitation. “Maybe just for a minute or two.”

I indicate the back hallway with a nod. “It’s just through there.”

She mutters something about having lost her survival skills, but she does toe off the red boots, stand up, and carry the child to the rear of the house. As soon as she gives me her back, I see the twin red splotches of blood seeping through her socks. And I reckon that tells me a lot about this woman: she’ll bleed to make a point.

She returns a moment later, looking like her load has been lightened, and sits down once again, her gaze heating my back while I gather the supplies I need. What does she think when she looks at me? Is it possible she admires my size? Or does she simply want to gawk, like everyone else?

“You said you don’t enter strangers’ homes where you come from. Where’s that?”

“Chicago.”

A moving mental image of her in the distant city dances in my head. She’s walking through a maze of people in a crosswalk while horns blare and sirens whine. I don’t like it very much. “How did you end up here?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

A centering breath expands her chest. “I took a road trip with my mom when I was thirteen, and we stopped for lunch here. At the diner. There’d been a sign on the road boasting the world’s biggest ant statue—you know, the one on the roof of the hardware store.” She smiles and my heart beats faster. “We looked at the ant through the window of the diner while we drank milkshakes and ate fries. We named him Andy, by the way, and Mom made up this whole story about how I’d kiss Andy and he’d turn into a handsome prince, climb off the roof of the hardware store, and carry us into the sunset on his back—excuse me, thorax . It was silly, but ... it was a good day after a lot of bad ones.” She doesn’t elaborate on that, and I don’t ask her to. Not yet. “Ever since I moved to town, she’s been texting me to ask if Andy has proposed yet. I send her pictures of me blowing him kisses or looking at him with googly eyes. I’m sure the hardware-store owners think I’m one nugget shy of a Happy Meal.”

A rumble kicks up in my chest.

Am I jealous of an ant statue? Christ, I think I am.

I pick up the slightly rusted blue metal box and cross the kitchen, then kneel down in front of her, glancing up in time to watch her mouth pop open, her hands flying to the edges of the seat, gripping. Have I surprised her by kneeling? How else did she think I was going to get down here to tend to her feet?

From this position, I’m close enough to see tiny peach fuzz hairs on her thighs, the subtle shift of muscle under supple skin. She has a scar on her right knee that looks like it’s from childhood, freckles scattered about. I try very hard not to look at the seam of her shorts, but I fail, my attention ticking there long enough to memorize the denim swell of her pussy, how her inner thighs are extra soft the higher they go.

What would it be like to have a woman like this welcome me between her legs?

Fucking paradise, that’s what.

“A handsome prince,” I say hoarsely, ripping open the tiny alcohol-swab package with my teeth. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

“No.” She doesn’t hiss or wince when I apply the alcohol to her wound, cleaning it, that lack of reaction telling me more about her. “I’m just focused on earning a living and taking care of my son. I’m not looking for a man at all. Or an ant.”

Shit. “You can’t always time these things. What if someone came along and started looking interesting to you?”

Evie doesn’t answer right away. She watches me apply Neosporin to two Band-Aids and put them on her blisters, smoothing the adhesive with my thumbs. Are those goose bumps popping up on her legs? Is it cold in here?

“If someone looked interesting to me,” she starts, voice husky in a way that makes my skin hot, “I guess I’d propose a casual arrangement.”

My mouth is suddenly dry. “What’s a ‘casual arrangement’?”

“You know . . .”

And then she says three words that I immediately form a love-hate relationship with.

“Friends with benefits.”