Page 13 of Carpenter's Christmas Bride

“Like a saloon theme?” he asked, stepping inside and suddenly looking more relaxed. “We could do batwing doors, too, if you want.”

She shook her head, trying to understand why he would want to put a cowboy saloon into her practice space.

“Okay, not like a saloon,” he said, looking at her strangely.

“Like for ballet,” she told him.

“I didn’t know dancers were big drinkers,” he said flatly. “But that’s fine with me.”

She stared at him for a minute with no clue what to say next.

“Though, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for you to drink and dance,” he confided, giving her foot a pointed look.

A joke. Oh wow, it’s supposed to be a joke.

She laughed weakly with relief and his mouth quirked again in that suggestion of a smile.

“So, do you have a rundown on the exact shape of the wood for the project?” he asked. “I haven’t done a ballet barre before.”

She talked him through all the materials and the height for the barre, and promised to get back to him with any details he asked about that she wasn’t sure on. It was hard not to notice how much more relaxed the big man seemed the moment he was talking about work. His deep voice was warm, and his eyes met hers more than once.

“And I’ll need full-length mirrors here and there,” she said, pointing to two opposite sides of the room.

“How big?” he asked.

“They should cover the walls,” she told him. “Or as much of the walls as possible. I need to be able to see from my feet to the top of my head.”

“Hmm,” he said, frowning. “How important is that?”

“It’s crucial,” she told him, wondering why this was an issue for a professional. “Otherwise, it’s almost better for me not to practice at all because I can’t see if my form is right.”

“Understood,” he said, nodding. “If you want to give me your contact, I’ll put together some numbers for you.”

He slid his phone out of his pocket and held it out to her.

She took it and put her name and number in. When she looked up, he was taking a few more measurements.

She glanced back down at his phone. It was in a thick black case that was as covered with nicks and scratches as his truck. Was everything about the man big, dark, and damaged?

“Thanks,” he said, holding out his hand.

She passed it to him, and he looked down at her contact.

“MacKenzie Forrest,” he said, nodding. “Wow, that’s a familiar name.”

He said it almost like he knew who she was, though she was positive he didn’t—at least not from school. Maybe the name was familiar because she had just been in the paper for getting hurt. The closest she’d ever been to him at school was when he’d been the emcee for the talent show, and she had been doing a juggling routine with Mal in matching clown suits. It wasn’t the kind of act a guy like Aidan Webb remembered.

She just nodded back at him stupidly, trying to equate this quiet grump with the animated teenager she and probably half the school had crushed on.

He looked down at her like he was expecting her to say something, but his eyes seemed to darken slightly, and a little zip of electricity went down her spine.

“Would you like a fruit roll-up?” she heard herself offer, feeling like an idiot the moment the words left her mouth.

“Sure,” he said politely, looking a little surprised.

She turned as quickly as she could and headed into the kitchen, wondering what had gotten into her. She had always suffered the curse of extreme politeness, but offering a grown man a fruit roll-up was a bridge too far—even for her.

It was that stupid zip and his annoyingly gorgeous eyes. What was I supposed to do?

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