The Christmas Wedding Swap Read online

  Allison sulked. “You can’t sue me for breach of contract if I don’t.”

  “No, I can do worse. I’ll tell Molly to call you every day to talk about how much she wants that stupid doll. You’ll be begging for mercy.”

  “Fine,” Allison muttered. “I promise.” Maybe. She didn’t care what her sister said—she wasn’t going after the geriatric division.

  They hung up, mutually annoyed. Pulling her coat closer around her, Allison looked down the street for the next store she should hit, unenthusiastic about the prospect. She should try the toy store in the next town over, but her body was telling her that she was done for the day. And if the other toy store sold out of the doll before tomorrow, well, there was always the internet. She stood and headed for her car.

  The gods of the buy-local movement must have heard her thoughts—and disapproved.

  Her sneaker hit a patch of ice, and she went airborne.

  She managed to twist so that she landed on her hands and her hip, a sharp pain arcing down her side bringing a sting to her eyes and a filthy word to her lips. Her shopping bags landed upside down, scattering cellophane bags of pastel-colored Jordan almonds and boxes of white votive candles onto the cold concrete.

  Perfect. Just flipping perfect. Resting her head in the crook of one elbow, she sank back on her haunches. She rubbed her hip, knowing that a bruise would be forming. If that just wasn’t the cherry on this craptastic morning, she didn’t know what was.

  Until a pair of worn black motorcycle boots stepped in front of her. Then she knew that as bad as turfing it on the sidewalk in the middle of downtown was, it didn’t compare to being caught ass up by the next man she was supposed to flirt with.

  He squatted, the faded denim at his knees pulling tight and exposing another inch of the pair of sexy boots. Two straps of butter-soft leather held a round silver buckle in place at the ankle. Small scuff marks were etched around the squared-off toes. She loved the squared-off toe on men’s boots.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice a soothing rumble and genuine concern lacing his words. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

  Allison sat back on her feet, and sighed. She wanted nothing more than to retreat to her restaurant and grab a bag of ice for her hip and a shot of whiskey from the bottle she kept in her office. But a deal was a deal. Time to get her flirt on. “I’m fine. I just…” Her eyes caught up with her mouth, and she froze. He was beautiful, the hottest man she’d ever seen in person. Eyes the color of spring grass glinted at her over high cheekbones. His hair was a little darker than honey, lighter than caramel, and it looked as though it had gone a couple of weeks past its trim date. The tousled locks and stubbled jaw tempered any prettiness, making him appear a bit rugged, a little wild. The black leather bomber jacket stretched across a broad chest didn’t hurt either. The only imperfection in an otherwise symmetrical face was the slight crook in his nose, hinting at a misspent youth.

  She would never bitch about her sister and her interfering ways again.

  “You just…” He raised an eyebrow. His gaze drifted down her body before returning to her face.

  And that’s when she remembered just how bad she looked. Kneeling next to an Adonis, face-to-face, the contrast was as stark as ground chuck to filet mignon. A chill seeped up from the concrete through her sweatpants—baggy, burgundy sweatpants with a mark from last Wednesday’s chili on the left thigh that her stain remover had been no match for. If she was lucky, that splotch would draw attention away from the ugly red Christmas sweater her youngest sister had given her as a gag gift. It had been the only clean top in her closet when she’d dressed that morning. Add in well-worn sneakers and a pea coat that had seen better years, and all in all she was one red-hot mess—which only mattered to Allison when faced with a drool-worthy hunk, one she’d promised her sister she’d ask out on a date.

  Her face heated until she knew it matched her sweater. Perfect. “I just need to pick up my things, and I’ll be fine.” She opened the shopping bag and started pitching her purchases inside, reaching over the curb into the street where some boxes had landed, giving him another up close and personal view of her round bottom.

  She scuttled around until she faced his direction, humiliation sinking like a lead ball in her stomach. The sexy biker gathered up bags of almonds and placed them in her sack, keeping his eyes focused anywhere but her body. Her hideousness had managed to embarrass a stranger. Just flipping perfect. But she could hear Camilla’s voice in her head. Just because she looked like a frazzled mess didn’t mean she could weasel out of her deal. Allison pulled up her metaphorical big-girl panties.

  She clawed her fingers through her hair, her pinky getting stuck in a knot, and pasted a smile on her face. “Are you new in town? I’m sure I’d recognize you if you’d been here awhile.”

  “Just passing through.” He didn’t meet her eyes.

  “Passing through Pineville, Michigan. Sounds like a bad country song.” Leaning forward she squeezed her arms tight to her sides, the surefire move to give her cleavage a little oomph—and remembered she was wearing a shapeless sweater with Rudolph plastered across the front. She didn’t have the girls to help her out with this one.

  “If you say so.”

  “There are some sights you should definitely hit before you leave town.” Allison searched her brain for something that would interest a sexy biker. “And you know, if you need a tour guide…”

  His eyes widened. In fear, most likely, at what she was offering.

  “Well, there’s always the tourist bureau two blocks over,” she quickly amended. Jesus, no wonder she was single. She was crap at flirting. It used to be simple: an interested smile, a coy line. It had been easy when she’d wanted nothing but a bit of fun. But now that she was determined to find the one, her gift for teasing banter had deserted her.

  She set her jaw. One more attempt before admitting defeat. “And everyone here is real friendly. If you want a more personal touch, I have some time to give you a tour.”

  “Uh, no thanks.” He filled one bag and opened another. “I won’t be here that long.”

  A tingling sensation swept up the back of her neck and across her face, and she squirmed. Okay, she’d officially bombed. It was time to call it. The humiliation was more than she could take on an empty stomach. She’d go to The Pantry, regroup, and get some lunch. A slice of her meatloaf with creamy mashed potatoes could make the hurt from any rejection fade.

  “You sure must like these,” he said.

  It took Allison a moment to realize he was talking about the twenty pounds of Jordan almonds he was shoveling into her bags.

  Was he judging her? Rejection she could handle. But mockery pushed all her buttons. It didn’t help that she’d been at a disadvantage with motorcycle man from the get-go. Or that she was still riled up from losing Caty Cowgirl. Her embarrassment was quickly swept away in a tide of anger.

  Shoving the last box of candles into her other bag, she pushed to her feet. She jerked away from the hand he put under her elbow to help her to stand. “They’re favors for a wedding, not my own personal stash.” She knew she was on the far end of curvy, but did he actually think she’d eat all of them? “Thanks for your help. I’ve got it from here.” She grabbed the bag of almonds.

  “Okay.”

  Slipping his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans, he gave her that look again, that quick up and down that assessed her appearance and found her wanting. She shifted in her sneakers. She wasn’t used to feeling out of place. Normally, she was comfortable in her own skin no matter what she was wearing. She owned a coffee shop, a house, and a shotgun full of rock salt to protect it all. She was a self-made woman, damn it.

  But standing in front of the sexy biker looking like a homeless person made her feel about ten inches tall, a feeling usually reserved for family events when her overachieving sisters with th
eir perfect families and perfect lives made hers pale in comparison.

  “Congratulations,” he said. He rocked back on his heels, the leather of his boots creaking. “On your wedding.”

  Allison blinked. It wasn’t for her wedding, but as maid of honor for her friend’s big day, she’d taken on a lot of the planning details—a lot. But sexy biker thought that there was a man out there who wanted to marry her. She was going to go with that.

  “Thanks. And thanks again for your help.” Shoulders back and head high, Allison skirted around the icy patch and marched down the sidewalk to her car. She opened the door, tossed her bags in, and slid behind the wheel. Only once she was seated inside did she let her shoulders slump.

  Stick a fork in her; she was done. She didn’t care what deal had been made with her sister. She wasn’t going through that humiliation again. Camilla was the analytical sister, but Allison was sneaky. She’d find a loophole in their agreement, because one thing was very clear.

  She needed to stop flirting with the men of Pineville before she scared them all away.

  Chapter Two

  Luke Hamilton stared at the black and chrome of his Harley like it was a dying friend. After the mechanic had told him it would be at least a week until the part he needed would arrive, Luke had tuned the man out. It would take a day or two after the part got there to fix the damned thing. What in the hell was he going to do for a couple of weeks in Pineville, Michigan? When he’d driven through the town he had thought it quaint, charming even. A slice of Americana from a bygone year. But when his bike had spluttered, wheezed, and flat-lined in front of the old courthouse, the small-town charm had clogged his throat.

  “…probably gonna run you, oh, twenty-five hundred.” The mechanic ran a rag over a gear. A streak of grease stained the patch on his blue pinstriped coveralls, making the name “Fred” look like “Fled.”

  “Wait. Twenty-five hundred? Dollars?” Luke spluttered. That pulled his attention back quick.

  “Sure as hell ain’t donuts. And that’s if we can get the part through Bertie. If we have to find another supplier, well…” Fred shrugged his shoulders, an apologetic gesture that didn’t look sorry at all. Of course, Fred didn’t have to pay the exorbitant amount. But if it’d get him out of Pleasantville, Luke would pay it. He didn’t have much choice. The tow truck driver who had taken him to Gas and Stuff the day before had told him it was the only shop in town that worked on motorcycles.

  He rubbed his palm against his right eye, trying to ease the stabbing pain that had become an altogether too frequent visitor since his life had turned to crap. Twenty-five hundred bucks. He sighed. What the hell? That was a bill he could actually afford. “Okay, order the parts. And I’ll pay for any rush you can put on it.”

  Fred tucked his rag into his back pocket. “Will do. And I’ll probably get my loaner back in a day or two if you need it.”

  “Thanks.” Luke strode through the large garage door, zipping his jacket up against the biting wind. He didn’t know why he would need to rent a car in Pineville. The downtown was small enough to walk in twenty minutes. He’d found lodgings just a couple of blocks off Main Street, a lot with six small cabins. His unit had a kitchenette, a TV, a single bed, and not much else. But it felt more private than the other motel in town. And privacy was what he needed. He’d been able to pay cash for the week, a precaution that might have been wasted. Luke didn’t know if process servers could access credit card records, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. His restaurant, his livelihood, was at stake.

  An entire week in Pineville. Maybe more. Sighing, he hiked up the street and turned left when he hit the main drag. His steps sputtered to a stop. Yesterday, the town had been a work in progress, stores changing out their front windows from the oranges and browns of autumn to a blaze of reds and greens. Now it looked like Christmas had vomited all over the small downtown.

  He was used to nice Christmas displays. The big department stores of Chicago had their windows. Hell, he even had his staff decorate a little tree in the corner of his restaurant and hang twinkle lights over the exposed rafters. But downtown Pineville was like a Christmas theme park.

  Behind his reflection in the window next to him, a metal tree stood in as a makeshift hanger for delicate bits of lace and satin. His mouth dropped open. An array of panties, a mix of red, green, and white; polka dots and stripes; some with bows on the front; and one sexy red thong with a big bow hanging down the back were draped from the metal arms, making them the weirdest ornaments Luke had ever seen. A Santa hat topped the tree where a star should be. Luke stepped back and craned his neck to look at the flowery pink writing above the window: Satin & Lace. He’d never seen that in a Chicago window.

  The next storefront was a whirlwind of wintry whites and icy blues and pinks. Icicles and stars hung from the ceiling, the breeze from a shopper pushing through the front door causing them to sway. A little girl wearing a blue princess dress and an elf hat had her little fingers pressed to the window, eyes wide, trying to take it all in. He stepped around her parents, the couple so fused to each other’s sides as to make one block.

  Christ, even the lamp poles were wound with thick vines of green garland. Wreaths adorned with large red bows hung from each one. Christmas was all well and good, but this was a bit much.

  With time to waste and a desire to escape the Norman Rockwell image, Luke quickened his pace and made for the coffee shop across the street. The front windows were painted with snowmen and reindeer and who the hell knew what else. He rolled his eyes and pushed through the door. He released a deep breath when he saw the interior was fairly normal. A small tree of ornaments stood on the counter by the register, but aside from that and the front windows, The Pantry was Christmas-free.

  He made his way across the black-and-white-tiled floor to an empty seat at the counter. Sliding onto the red stool, he plucked a laminated menu from behind the napkin dispenser in front of him. He sniffed the air, and his shoulders unclenched a bit. At least he wouldn’t be deprived of good food that week. The main restaurant and the areas he could see behind the counter all looked clean, and the waitresses were tidy in black slacks and cream-colored smocks.

  Except for the woman chatting with a customer at the end of the counter. Even just seeing her profile, he knew it was her—that mess of a woman he’d helped the day before after she’d slipped and spilled her bags. He’d been distracted over his bike, but he remembered a round bottom, an obnoxious sweater, and a cute pink blush on her cheeks.

  Today, she didn’t look quite so messy. Her clothes weren’t fancy: tight jeans that fit her just right and a white V-neck t-shirt. Half of her platinum blonde hair was pulled off her face, with a long trail of curls falling down to her shoulders. The way she was resting on her elbows, Luke knew the customer she was talking to was getting a nice view of her cleavage.

  Luke pursed his lips. Maybe he’d been too hasty turning down her tour guide offer.

  She threw her head back and laughed at something the man in front of her said, her neck arching just the way Luke liked when he—

  She straightened and looked right at him. Shit. He tried to school his features. No need to be caught ogling the crazy bag lady. She nodded to her customer and made her way down the counter, stopping in front of Luke with her pad out.

  “What can I get for you?” Her smile was friendly, professional, and held no hint of recognition.

  Luke narrowed his eyes. What the hell? Had she hit her head when she’d fallen? Luke might not be a model, but he knew he was far from forgettable. Women came onto him all the time at his restaurant. Shit, he even got propositioned by men on occasion. Part of that might have been because of his position as head chef and owner of Le Cygne Noir. The restaurant industry had its own subculture of celebrities, fans, and groupies, and Luke Hamilton was one of its rock stars. But even before his fame, he more than held his own when it came to the fa
irer sex.

  So when a crazy bag lady—okay, a cute crazy bag lady—acted like he was as unremarkable as last week’s blue plate special, it kind of ticked him off—and got his competitive juices flowing, making him want to wipe that feigned indifference right off her face. It had to be an act. A woman didn’t flirt with a guy one day and forget him the next.

  Game on, lady.

  Then he remembered she was getting married. He drew his eyebrows together. Why had she asked him out if she was engaged? Was showing strange men around town something the residents of Pineville did automatically? Michigan’s version of being neighborly?

  His gaze flickered to her left hand. No ring. Running a restaurant, it was understandable that she might not wear one. And she did run this place; Luke could tell. She either owned it or managed it.

  “Do you need more time to look at the menu?” she asked. “I could get you some nuts while you wait. Maybe some almonds?”

  A slow smile curved his lips. So she did remember.

  She raised an eyebrow and tapped her pen against her pad, bored.

  Luke cleared his throat. That wasn’t the usual response he got from women. “What’s good today?” he asked, leaning in and upping the wattage on his never-fail smile. She was engaged, and his code wouldn’t let him plow in another man’s field. But he would at least charm her into a little harmless flirting or a sincere smile. Something. A coffee shop owner in Podunk, Michigan, wouldn’t be the one woman immune to his charms.

  Palms flat on the counter, she edged toward him, a hint of cinnamon and vanilla coming with her. “Honey, everything I do is good.”

  He chuckled. Sassy. He liked sassy.

  She lifted an eyebrow, her dark brown eyes glittering under the fluorescent lights, calling him on his bullshit. She would be no man’s pushover.

  “I like a woman with confidence in her work, but everyone has a specialty.” He glanced down at the menu. Solid comfort food, and all sure to clog the arteries by the time a person hit fifty. He wondered what type of oil she used back in her kitchen. “Or a recipe you’re exceptionally proud of. For a man who helped clean up your little spill yesterday, I’m sure you must have some good recommendations.”