Page 2 of Resisting Fate
“Oo-oo-oh,” she said flatly, wiggling her fingers in the air. “Looking for a sweater?”
“Under grandmother’s orders.”
“Oh, the women’s sweaters are down the other end. Cheryl can help you.” She gestured to a woman at a second table full of knits.
“It’s for me. I’m buying my own Christmas present.”
She laughed out loud, a throaty soft roll of a laugh.
He lifted the jar of jam and gave her his approachable sexy charmer of a dimpled smile. “Got this too. Not sure if this is for me or for her.”
Her lips curved in a small smile. “What a good grandson, doing her Christmas shopping.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “She isn’t feeling well, but she didn’t want to miss out on all these fine knits. I’m her only grandkid. Obviously she spoils me.”
“Obviously. Size?”
He set the jam down and threw his shoulders back. “Large enough for this manly chest.”
“Uh-huh.” Her eyes lit with amusement. “So we’re looking for a petite?”
“Extralarge,” he drawled in a voice that implied more.
“Maybe a poncho, then?” she asked before pressing her lips together, clearly fighting back a laugh.
“Don’t quit your day job. You’re a terrible saleswoman.”
She smiled cheekily and started going through the sweaters. “I’m sure there’s something…” She pulled a dark green sweater out and held it up.
“There’s a bird on it.”
She glanced down at it. “It’s the bluebird of happiness.” She met his eyes with a straight face. “No?”
“No.”
She lifted another sweater. “Reindeer? Great for Christmas day with granny.” At his silence, she tried again. “Snowman. And look, there’s even some tiny snowballs.”
“Next,” he growled.
She held up another sweater and made a face. “This one is kind of boring, but maybe that’s your style.”
Smart-ass. It was a plain dark gray, the least hideous in the bunch, but if he said he wanted that one, he risked sounding boring.
The greater risk—looking like a complete dork with a bird, reindeer, or snowman emblazoned on his chest—had him narrowing his eyes. “Is there even a question?” He reached for the plain gray sweater, and she shoved the bird sweater in his hand instead.
“I knew it,” she said with a sly grin. “You’re a bluebird of happiness kind of…” She trailed off, stiffening, the color draining from her face.
“Are you okay?”
“Su-sure.” She swallowed visibly and met his eyes with a pinched expression. “Great.”
“Then why’re you as white as a communion wafer?”
His first Catholic joke fell flat. She regarded him gravely before leaning close and whispering, “Pretend you’re my boyfriend.”
He looked around. “Is there some guy—oh, hey.” She was next to him, closer than she’d ever been, her head level with his chest, her scent floral and fresh. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back behind the table with her.
Before he had a chance to put an arm around her like the possessive boyfriend he never was, she was pressed up against his front, her fingers running through his hair, smiling at him like he was the only man in the room. And it worked. Hell yeah, it worked. He slipped his arms around her waist, keeping her close.
