Page 50 of Their Christmas Miracle

III

His Lucky Christmas Eve

Elle

Elle’s fingers tightened around the button. The man that had been casually leaning against his desk had stiffened. She forced a swallow, trying desperately to remove her fingers but failing.

“Did you just…?” the man pushed away from the desk with his butt and took a slow, menacing step toward her. “Did you just stamp your fucking foot at me?”

Shit, she had, hadn’t she? Where the hell had that come from? One second she’d been in charge and unstoppable, and the next she’d somehow reverted to the thirteen-year-old version of herself.

Ha, in charge?

She’d never been in charge of this situation. The man — she still didn’t know his damn name — hadn’t given an inch of ground since he’d interrupted her harangue of the mechanic downstairs.

And now, here he stood, less than two feet away from her, exuding wave upon wave of that same quiet, dominating air as before. It made her want to cringe and back away into the corner.

But, it was also what had made her start to work at that button in the first place. Because somewhere around the time he’d handed her the cup of coffee and their fingers had brushed, a tiny electric thrill had been working through her. And now, minutes later, it had gone and lodged itself deep in her belly where it flickered, flickered, flickered.

Maybe it was because her body was battling shivers from her two block walk in the snow from the Golden Goose to this workshop — in the snow — or the evening’s emotions roiling through her with every intention of drowning her.

“Well then, lady,” the man said. “Looks like we have ourselves a standoff.”

Elle’s hand trembled. She forced it to stop. Swallowed. And popped open her button.

The man’s eyes darted down, and then raced up to her face again.

“I’m sure we could…?” God, why on earth was this so difficult?” “…could come to some sort of… arrangement?”

The man shrugged. It was a tiny, almost insignificant movement, but it made the muscles on his arms and shoulders move in a very meaningful way.

It wasn’t even that he was that good looking. Sure, his brown eyes were warm and considerate-looking. His face — except for the scar crossing his chin — comely enough. But he had a streak of grease on his upper arm. His vest hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in days. And she’d smelled coffee and cigarettes on him when he’d held the door open for her.

When last had someone done that?

Right — the restaurant. Less than two hours ago when Sam had told her he was leaving her. How had it all gotten so turned around? One second she’d been steeling herself to tell her husband of thirteen years that she knew he was having an affair, and that she was no longer going to hang around waiting for him to start loving her again.

And then she’d been alone. Broke. Devastated.

The man smiled at her. “Lady, you don’t have it in you.”

Elle took a deep breath that brought another heady miasma of the man’s scent to her.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice sounding strained.

The man frowned. Ran a suddenly self-conscious hand through his hair. “Blake.”

“Well, Blake.” She took a step forward and lifted her chin at him. “I’ve had just about enough of men telling me I don’t have it in me. Guess it’s your lucky night.”

Blake’s eyebrow twitched. He took a step back when she advanced on him, his butt crashing into the side of the table. He caught her wrists, holding her a foot away from him and studying her with a bemused smirk on his face.

“No offence, Elle,” Blake said. “But you’re not my type.”

“Oh? Really?” She could hear the annoying cadence of her voice, but her heart was pounding so hard that thought was an almost impossible thing. “Well, guess what, buster? Neither are you.”

She tore her arms free, and tugged off her coat. Blake’s eyebrows shot up, his lips parting as she yanked at the slim belt around her waist.

“Hey, whoa. Just—” Blake caught her wrists again. “Easy there, tiger. I get it; you’ve had a rough day. A rough week, by the sounds of things.”

---