Page 22 of Wrapped with a Beau

His scent surrounds her, something warm and homey, quite unlike the man himself, but just as undefinable. A jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces scrambled up. She smooths her hands over her corduroy skirt—the color of a roasted pumpkin, cold slipping in with each step—and does her best not to tremble.

Elisha shrugs, swallowing past her dry mouth. “Could have been a past-tense girlfriend. As in ‘We broke up, but I’ll always cherish her by this gift she gave me.’ ”

“You keep presents from your exes?”

That tinge of horror in his voice makes her blink. “You don’t?”

“If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you wear anything gifted by another man.”

Let her? His? The shiver running down her spine has nothing to do with the weather. Annoyingly, while she’s feeling flustered, he shows no sign of realizing how outrageously sexy his words were. Like everything else he says and does, it’s offhand and blasé. Already, he seems to have moved on, while Elisha’s stomach is as tangled as badly stored Christmas tree lights.

With a glossing-over cough, she says, “You’ll have to tell me the story behind this whole cryptic ‘I don’t date’ thing over lunch.”

He says nothing, as if unwilling to commit his mouth to anything other than eating.

Not that she wants his mouth for any other purpose, either. Obviously.

“We’re here,” she says in relief. She reaches for the door handle, but somehow, Ves gets there first.

“After you,” he says, holding it open for her. It’s such a small, mannered gesture, but one that squeezes her heart. It’s been a while since she’s been on anything resembling a—

No. This is not a date.

And then he promptly confirms-slash-ruins it by saying, “I want you in front where I can keep my eyes on you.”

Chapter Eleven

Ves

When Elisha flounces into the restaurant—a nondescript little place with an iron sign that reads fireside—with a tight jaw, Ves knows she’s taken what he said the wrong way. He never meant to imply that he doesn’t trust her or that he’s still holding a grudge—okay, he is a little bit, but it’s nothing a little teasing won’t get out of his system.

In truth, Elisha isn’t the worst person to spend time with. She’s easy on the eyes, has good chat and a rapier wit. He wouldn’t mind getting to know that sharp tongue better. And since the state of the house is so horrendous, it looks like he’ll get the chance. The week he’d allotted to dealing with his surprise inheritance now seems woefully underestimated.

Ves follows her into the narrow entry, his shoulder brushing against the coat rack. There’s just one peg left, so he hangs his coat on top of her inadequate shirt-jacket-type thing that he doubts keeps out any of the cold at all. He eyes the clumps of mistletoe tied with red ribbons hanging from the ceiling. The place is what his New York real estate agent would delicately call bijou and other people would call small and pokey. But the modest square footage isn’t what hits him first or most.

Fireside doesn’t feel like a restaurant; it feels like being invited into someone’s home. A fire crackles in the hearth on the back wall, and in front of it are a pair of plaid wingback armchairs occupied by two older gentlemen nursing drinks and playing a game of checkers. Covering the exposed brick walls are framed newspaper clippings and local art. There’s even a painting of the Christmas House in the springtime, flowers in full bloom, the way Maeve liked it best.

Customers are seated shoulder-to-shoulder at long refectory tables that remind Ves of what he always imagined sharing a meal with a big family might be like. A gaggle of grandmotherly-looking women clink wineglasses at the far end. It’s... nice. More than nice. It’s welcoming in a way Ves doesn’t think he’s ever had before.

Elisha must see his dazed expression, because she says with just a touch of shyness, “I guess I’ll just have to give you some good memories to replace the horrid first one you have of me.”

There’s a twinge in his chest. Damn it. “Elisha, I—”

He’s cut off when a stunning Black woman in a blazer raises her arm and calls Elisha’s name. That’s all it takes for the entire restaurant to start elbowing one another, moving down to make space for two more seats. He trails after Elisha, waiting for her to make introductions.

“Ves, this is our mayor, Danica Pereira, and her daughter, Solana.”

Elisha scooches in next to the mayor, leaving Ves to slide in opposite her. Their knees brush, but she doesn’t jerk away. Interesting, Ves thinks. In fact, she lets it linger long enough for both of them to relax. And then they’re just... touching. Like it’s normal. Like they’re friends who don’t think twice about it.

It should be weird how not weird it is.

With difficulty, he drags his eyes away from her face long enough to shake hands with the other two women. They share the same high cheekbones and impish, pointed chins; same warm smiles aimed his way.

“Ves Hollins,” he says, ready to be quizzed about why he’s in town over the holidays.

Danica smiles, revealing deep laugh lines. Unlike her daughter’s cloud of golden-brown curls, her head is shaved, showing off a cluster of star tattoos behind her right ear. “Maeve’s great-nephew. You’re all grown up now. I remember you when you were about yea high.” Her hand hovers three feet in the air.

“I’m surprised you remember me,” he says honestly. “I only visited here once when I was seven.”

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