Page 4 of Husband for the Holidays

She jerked her attention upward and recognition crashed over her along with a hormonal rush of yearning that nearly took out her knees.

Oh, my God.

Horror followed because she did not want Konstantin Galanis to see her like this.

He wasn’t even looking at her. His profile was every bit as remote and compelling as she remembered, every bit as dismissive as he stood to the side, holding the open door to give her room to exit while he looked toward the front doors of the building.

He was as impossibly good-looking as she remembered, too, broodingly handsome with his black hair and stern brow and strong freshly shaved jaw. His overcoat hung open over a cranberry-colored jacket, a pleated shirt and tuxedo trousers.

Did he live in this building? Or—

He started to turn his head, probably wondering what was taking her so long. She ducked her head in panic, wanting to dive into this giant sack of hers and disappear. Hunching her chin into her chest, she scurried past him, sack veering uncontrollably behind her.

“Hey. How’d that go?” the overly friendly doorman asked her as he brought her coat and boots from his parcel shelf behind his desk.

“Fine.” Horrible. Worst night ever and she had some doozies to compare to.

“Are you coming back tomorrow?” He was mid-twenties, same as her. His smile invited her to linger and chat, but she didn’t have time. Or inclination.

“Depends on the schedule. I’m a spare, covering for whoever calls in, but it’s only Day Four. I’m sure I’ll be back here at some point.” As she spoke, she hurried to toe off her silly shoes and zipped into her knee-high boots, then shrugged on her coat, still feeling as though Konstantin were standing over there staring at her when he had definitely already forgotten about her and was twenty stories up by now.

“Let me give you my number. Maybe we can have a drink—” The doorman’s expression changed into one that was more professional. “I’m sorry, sir. Is there a problem with the elevator?”

Eloise glanced up from tucking her curly shoes into the sack, realizing that Konstantin was still here in the lobby, still holding the doors open while he stared at her with a thunderstruck look on his face.

No!Her stomach curdled. She ducked her head again, skipped the switch of hat and finding her gloves. She didn’t even belt her coat before she yanked the sack toward the door, desperate to get away before—

“Eloise!”

No, no, no.

She pushed out the door, cringing more from hearing her name behind her than the slap in the face of a blustery winter evening in New York.

She kept walking, letting the door drop closed behind her. It was rude. So rude. But it had been bad enough that he’d seen her like this andhadn’trecognized her. Why should he? It had been six years since her brother’s funeral. Before that, it had been that awful Christmas when she had imprinted on him like a duckling on a drake.

“Eloise.” He was right behind her, commanding her to stop.

“I’m on a tight schedule,” she said, refusing to look at him. “Children are waiting.”

It was true. The sort of indulgent parent who booked twelve days of personal deliveries for their children were not the type to be inconvenienced. If they said the delivery should happen before little Sally went to bed at seven o’clock, then that was the time the knock should resound on the door.

And who had designed these stupid sacks? Satan? She felt as though she were pulling a fully loaded sled.

“You can spare me five minutes.” Konstantin caught her arm.

Even through the layers of her coat and shirt, she felt the sizzle. She had managed to convince herself that weird moment seven years ago had been the product of a desperate, juvenile imagination. That she was over her crush and didn’t expect any man to save her, least of all this one.

But, ugh. She immediately felt the pull. The draw.

She shook it and him off.

“I really can’t.” She pressed on to the end of the block, then had to stop to wait for the walk signal.

She couldn’t resist glancing up to see that he’d stayed right beside her, though. Damn him for keeping up with his long legs and no effort. He looked perfect, of course, with snowflakes landing on his dark hair and the collar of his overcoat turned up like a secret agent from the cold war. His eyes were still that depthless dark brown, not that she could tell in the flash of headlights and the liminal glow off the snow. She only remembered the color because she had been so fascinated by his eyes those other times. She wished she understood how his bottomless, steady gaze could cause such a trembling sensation inside her. When he looked straight at her this way, she felt as though he were pulling her soul from the depths of her body.

People began crossing the street. She lurched to go with them, to escape.

He caught the edge of her sack, preventing it from leaving the curb.

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