“I can’t believe businesses are even open this early,” he complained, eyeing the three-story white clapboard building. The big glass windows were painted with a pastoral winter scene beneath the words Happy Holidays.
“Come on,” she said, releasing her seatbelt. “We’ve only got a couple of minutes.”
“To do what?”
“To get you outfitted.”
“I don’t need new clothes,” Ryan complained as Sammy shoved a heavy work coat on top of the mound of clothing he already held. “I’m not going to be here long enough—”
“Long enough to what? Get frostbite? Because I’m not going to be responsible for your favorite calculator fingers freezing and falling off.”
“I realize you’ve had more medical training than I have but I still don’t think that’s how frostbite works.”
“Go try this stuff on,” she said, shoving him toward the dressing rooms. Her tight schedule was getting tighter by the minute. But she couldn’t in good conscience let him go stomping around farms in damp jeans and nice loafers.
While he changed, she ran upstairs to check out the new thermal layers. A snarky donkey had taken a bite out of the sleeve of her favorite top last week. She grabbed two new tops, one in serviceable white and one dotted with mistletoe—because why not?—and headed back downstairs with her finds.
It wasn’t her fault that Ryan chose the dressing room with the saggiest curtain. Or that she just happened to have an excellent view from the stairs. At least, that’s what she told herself when she was stopped in her tracks to take in the view of the hungover accountant’s naked torso.
If she added up last night and this morning, she’d seen almost every square inch of the man without clothing. She’d also managed to feel several rigid inches of him.
“See anything you like, dear?”
Sammy jumped and nearly lost her footing on the stairs. The thermal shirts and their clothes hangers flew over the railing down to the first floor.
Mrs. McCafferty was a short, round woman with no-nonsense gray hair, a wardrobe of flannel shirts in every color, and shrewd green eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. She ate gossip for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
She peered down at Sammy from a few steps above.
“Morning, Mrs. McCafferty,” Sammy said, avoiding the woman’s question. She didn’t need it spread all over town that she’d been caught slobbering over a half-dressed stranger in the middle of the store. “Are you ready for the Solstice—” The small talk died on her lips with the whoosh of the curtain being drawn back.
“Well? How god-awful do I look?” Ryan stood in front of the dressing room in insulated work boots, fleece-lined jeans, and a thick thermal shirt under a heavy work jacket. His hair was disheveled from the rainbow vomit hat, and that rugged stubble that had sprouted on his jaw overnight made him look… good.
Better than good. Downright sexy.
She swallowed. “You look… warm,” she decided.
Mrs. McCafferty gave a pointed throat clearing. “Ahem!”
Sammy descended with the shop owner on her heels. “Ryan, this is Mrs. McCafferty. She owns the store. Mrs. McCafferty, this is Carson’s great-nephew,” Sammy said, making the introductions and trying not to stare too hard at Ryan’s chest or crotch or jawline.
“Your uncle is a pain in my ass,” Mrs. McCafferty announced.
“That sounds about right,” Ryan agreed.
“But I love him like a brother. Well, maybe like a distant third cousin.”
“He’s a lovable pain in the ass,” he said.
Sammy checked her watch. “Can you put these on my account?” she asked, holding up the thermals. “And could you ring up the clothes while Ryan wears them? We’ve got to be at Hershel’s by eight.”
“Not a problem,” Mrs. McCafferty said, ushering them to the pine counter. “I’ll get you out of here in just a jiffy.”
“How long exactly is a jiffy?” Ryan whispered in her ear.
Sammy jumped at the heat of his breath on her neck. Fortunately the helpful storekeeper chose that moment to drag him into position to get at the price tag on his coat.
While the woman was pulling Ryan this way and that to scan tags, Sammy grabbed a cap with fleece-lined ear flaps. It was only slightly lower on the ridiculous scale than his rainbow puffball hat, but it would perform the dual jobs of keeping his ears warm and distracting her from his overall yumminess.
“Do you happen to know where Rainbow Berkowicz is this morning?” Sammy asked the woman, plucking a pair of gloves from the display and producing her credit card.
Ryan elbowed her out of the way and dug through his old jeans for his wallet.
“It’s my treat,” she insisted, wedging herself between him and the counter.
“No.” He manhandled her like a sack of feed and moved her aside. That wasn’t supposed to be hot. But her libido didn’t seem to mind.
“I can write this off as a business expense,” she tried again, appealing to his practical side.
“Nice try. Still no. You already made me breakfast.”
Across the counter, Mrs. McCafferty’s eyes flicked to Sammy’s face. Shit.
The gossip radar had been activated. Ryan had no idea he’d just bashed open a hornet’s nest.
“I stopped by this morning to show him how to pasture the sheep and chickens,” she explained quickly. She felt beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. The front door opened, and Ernest Washington walked in, rubbing his hands together to ward of the chill.
Great. Another witness.
The entire town was going to be gossiping about Sammy’s one-night stand with Old Man Carson’s nephew by lunchtime.
“She’s too nice,” Ryan complained to Mrs. McCafferty, completely unaware that his audience was taking actual notes on a yellow legal pad as he spoke. “If a man was rude to you and so drunk he took his pants off in front of you not once but twice, would you make him breakfast?”
Mrs. McCafferty wrote down “No Pants” and underlined it twice.
Sammy stepped between him and the counter once again and shot him her best death stare. “Stop. Talking. Now,” she hissed.
Mrs. McCafferty leaned around her to give Ryan a once-over and an answer. “That depends. Does he look like you?”
Ryan gave an amused snort.
The store phone rang, and Mrs. McCafferty reached for it. “McCafferty Farm Supply,” she said, accepting Ryan’s credit card. She didn’t look like she was in any hurry to finish the transaction. The longer they stayed in the store, the later they’d be for her first appointment, and the more fodder the Blue Moon gossip group would compile.
Sammy took matters into her own hands and started stuffing Ryan’s old clothes into a bag.
“IRS Collections Department?” Mrs. McCafferty said shrilly. “What do you mean… Hang on… You’re saying I owe the IRS how much?” The woman’s face turned an unhealthy shade of tomato.
Thinking quickly, Sammy grabbed the legal pad off the counter and fanned Mrs. McCafferty with it.
“I didn’t get any notices in the mail!” She was yelling now, and Ernest Washington wasn’t even bothering to pretend to browse. “You’ll accept a credit card?” Mrs. McCafferty looked wildly about.