Callie, Get Your Groom

“How clear would you like them to be?”

Mike crossed his arms over his stomach and stared at her grimly. His shoulders were broad, tanned and intimidating. A dark whorl of hair descended down his chest, narrowing until it was a thin line, disappearing beneath the top button on his jeans. Abruptly the muscles in Callie’s throat had trouble working, so she set the glass on the counter.

“You’re not my brother, Mike. And I stopped needing a guardian a long time ago.”

From the flicker of his eyes she knew she’d hit pay dirt. As long as he could object to her clothing like a brother, he was safe. He didn’t have to see her as anything but his sister’s friend—the preacher’s daughter who was expected to act and dress in a certain fashion.

Criminy. Mike had moved away from Crockett sixteen years ago to attend college and he still had the same ideas as the ninety-year-old widow who always sat in the same pew every Sunday. This was going to be even tougher than she’d thought, and a flutter of uncertainty hit her, stronger than before.

The sound of a vehicle driving up the hill only increased the tension in the air.

Callie drew a deep breath. “That must be Donovan. I’d better go out to meet him.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t wait up for me.”

A bleak, frustrated anger filled his eyes. “Not a chance, doll.”

“Well…I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Whatever.”

Mike watched Callie leave, feeling like the ground had been ripped from under his feet. He didn’t know the woman who had just walked out of his house. She was a stranger in a black dress, high heels, and scented with the seductive fragrance of an expensive perfume.

Her legs couldn’t be as long as they looked—her head didn’t even reach the top of his shoulder. She had a body that wouldn’t quit, fiery green eyes and a set of wonderfully kissable lips.

A stranger.

“God, I’m losing it,” Mike muttered and grabbed his tea, draining the bottle. For the first time in his life he really needed a drink. He tried to remember if there was any alcohol in the house. Not being much of a drinker, he couldn’t remember.

None in the pantry.

And none in the refrigerator—not even beer. Mike slammed the door shut and scowled. A vision of Callie bending over and searching the interior made him choke. He backed away from the appliance.

Wait a minute.

He still had the bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch Ross had given him for his birthday. It was a shame to use fine whiskey for the sole purpose of getting smashed, but what the hell—it was medicinal.

The last time he’d gotten drunk was the traditional blowout after college finals. His last finals. Graduation. Freedom from cracking the books. Sometime in the middle of that evening he’d kissed the hottest girl on the face of the earth. He couldn’t remember her name, her face or where she’d come from, but he remembered that kiss.

That’s why he hadn’t gotten drunk since. Too many questions. Too much wondering if she was as hot as he’d thought, or if it was an alcohol-induced fantasy. A fantasy lady for a fantastic kiss.

Mike dropped onto the couch in his living room and poured himself a shot of the Scotch. He wasn’t “waiting up” for Callie, he was just enjoying a pleasant drink as he watched the view. He’d paid a lot for that view and was entitled to watch it anytime he wanted. For that matter, Callie had been awfully impressed with the entire house.

His eyes narrowed. She’d made it clear she didn’t want his protection, but if she came in crying, he’d make Donovan pay.

Hours later Mike was still “not waiting up.” The sun had set shortly after 10:00 p.m. They hadn’t reached the summer solstice yet, but it wouldn’t be long. A wide yawn split his mouth and he realized he was dead tired. They’d been pulling double shifts lately, trying to cover the office and fly and run the business at the same time.

“Mike, why are you sitting in the dark?” Callie asked from behind him.

The question made him jerk upright. He’d fallen asleep and hadn’t heard her come in. Mike lifted the bottle and blinked at it. Almost full. That’s right, he’d only had two drinks. Unfortunately the alcohol had gone straight from an empty stomach to his weary head.

“Just watching the view, doll.”

“In the dark?”

He tried to shake himself wider awake, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. “I’ll do it my way, and you do whatever you want. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

“Actually…I said we should keep out of each other’s way.” Callie switched a table lamp on and he sighed. While it was dim, the extra light hurt his head, and he wasn’t too tired to ignore the exhilaration in her eyes, or the mussed condition of her hair.

She certainly wasn’t crying, so he wouldn’t have to kill Donovan after all.

Even if he wanted to.

Callie had certainly flung him into a highly illogical state. Of course, women had been doing that to men for thousands of years; why should anything be different now?

“Turn that off,” he ordered. And to his complete astonishment, she complied.

“Have a little to drink?” she asked.

“Just a little, and it’s quality Scotch, not a bender,” he said defensively, though she didn’t seem offended. “I’m just tired.”

“I know. Elaine says you hardly drink at all.”

Had his sister volunteered that information, or had Callie asked? For some reason Mike liked the idea of Callie keeping tabs on him. She’d always been a nice person.

Nice…? Wrong. His brows drew together. She didn’t want to be called nice. “Did you have a good time?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

“The best.” Callie sat on the end of the couch and tucked her feet beneath her. “The northern lights were really wild. Donovan said it was unusual this time of year, so he took me up in his plane to see them better. We opened the windows up and the wind blew in…. It was incredible.” She laughed and shook her hair across her shoulders. “I’m all tangled, but it was worth every minute.”

Hmm. Mike felt better. At least Donovan had kept his hands to himself for that part of their date—even Donovan had never mastered the art of flying a Cessna with his feet.

“I hope you wore a coat. It gets pretty cold up there.” He yawned again and his eyelids drooped.

“Don’t worry—I won’t get pneumonia and deprive you of an office manager.” The slight edge in her voice hinted she was still angry over their earlier “discussion.”

“I’m not worried. You’re a pal to help out.”

Callie glared at Mike, getting provoked all over again. He’d been dopey and endearing, and she’d been almost ready to forgive being called trashy—almost. And now he was calling her a pal. She wasn’t his pal. Why couldn’t he simply see her as a desirable woman?

Maybe she could throw herself at him. Kiss him senseless. But that would be rather obvious. And it might ruin things altogether.

What if she got up and slipped on her high heels…? She could fall across him and see what happened.

Yeah, it was a possibility.

Callie stretched. “It’s late. I’d better get some sleep so I can start work early. Donovan says the office is a horrible mess.”