He grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“Will, it’s Amanda Delmar Tucker. How are you?”
The ex–Chicago socialite turned farmer’s wife had also ventured into real estate in the past two years. Will had approached her about looking for a house for him. “I’m great, how are you? Feeling okay these days?” When he’d seen her a few weeks past, she’d been green around the gills from her pregnancy.
“Yes, the morning sickness is gone, thank God. I haven’t puked that much since I was rushing my sorority in college and I just about had to drink my weight in cocktails to prove my so-called worth. How stupid is that? Why do we go along with lame things like that when we’re eighteen? Anyway, the puking is past, and I have a house for you.”
“Really? Where is it?” He had been going slow on the house search, wanting to be in town, but not really in one of the cookie-cutter subdivisions that had popped up in the last ten years. He didn’t envision himself in a vinyl-sided box on Turkey Trail in the Pheasant Hills subdivision. He just wanted a solid house, with some character, and a place for him to toss his muddy boots by the back door. A garage for his weight bench and boxing bag. A house like the one Charlotte was living in with Bree, though maybe not so big.
“It’s the gray house on Second Street. The Weeping Lady house. Jessie Stritmeyer wants to unload it now that she bought a condo in Florida and is going snow bird on us.”
“Maybe she can say hi to my folks. They’re living down in Florida now, too.” Will immediately knew the house Amanda was talking about. It was on a street with a dozen other hundred-year-old Victorians. A five-minute walk from downtown, with big old oak trees lining the street in front of the sidewalks, the neighborhood was one of elegant wide porches and an eclectic mix of people. Families, singles, and older folks who were fifth-generation townies all lived there, along with the occasional yuppie newcomer who worked in management at the plastics plant, or the new-ager attracted to the reputation of Cuttersville as Ohio’s most haunted town.
He’d like it there. As would Charlotte.
“When can I see it?”
“Whenever you want. Jessie left the keys in the mailbox and said you can go in whenever you feel like it. I guess she trusts you not to vandalize the place since you’re a cop.”
That was heartwarming, in truth, because Will had found out over the years Jessie was a shrewd businesswoman who trusted about no one. “Alright, thanks. I’ll drop by tomorrow. I’ve never seen the inside.”
“It’s small. I lived there for two months when I first came to town. But it’s in good condition, new roof, five-year-old furnace, and a damn good price. Plus it’s charming, and all that.”
There was a knock on his door. “Cool. Thanks. I have to go, Amanda. Charlotte’s pounding on my door.”
“Alright, tell her I said hi and that I love her for bringing Caribou Coffee to Cuttersville.”
Will laughed. “I can do that.”
He hung up and called out, “Come on in, Char, I’m getting dressed.” Not waiting for her response, knowing she was comfortable letting herself in, he went back to his bedroom in search of pants. While he wanted to end the night naked, he didn’t think it would go over well if he started things out in his underwear. Could be a bit awkward.
But he did hurry, just cramming himself into a pair of jeans and pulling on a random T-shirt. When he came out, Charlotte was staggering into his apartment, carrying two shopping bags in each hand. He rushed to help her.
“What’s all this?” he asked, taking all four bags from her.
She brushed her hair off her forehead, looking a little flushed. “Christmas decorations.”
“Oh.” Will peeked in a bag. A giant glittery tabletop snowman stared back at him. “Wow, that was nice of you, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have.” Really. She shouldn’t have.
“I wanted to. You need to get in the spirit of things.” She smiled at him, and he knew he’d let her outfit his entire place in candy canes and angels, right down to his toilet paper, if she wanted. He was that whipped, and manly enough to admit it. “There are a few more bags in the car,” she added.
More? Either that was a sign of how pathetic she viewed his life, or she cared enough to spend a ridiculous amount of time and money foisting Frosties on him. He was hoping it was the latter. Charlotte was heading back to the door but he sprang into action, not wanting her rushing around in the snow on his account. Beside, he didn’t know what the hell to do with any of that stuff in the bags she’d already brought in. Decorating wasn’t something he’d picked up on in the police academy.
“I’ll get them. You stay here and start unpacking. Put everything wherever you want.” Will shoved his feet into boots sitting by the door on a mat and held his hand out for her keys.
When she put them in his hand, she gave him a strange look, head down, eyes peeking up at him from under her pale eyelashes. “Okay,” she said, and her voice was a little husky, her fingers brushing across his skin.
Holy crap.
Something had just changed between them. Bam. Just like that. It was different. Every day for ten years it had been the same—they were best friends, they cared about each other—but all of a sudden it was off. She was different. A little nervous, hesitant. Sly.
Alright then. This was good. He thought.
Will turned to the door. “I’ll be right back.” Because he was going to run.
CHARLOTTE LET OUT THE BREATH SHE’D BEEN HOLDING when Will went out his front door, his boots loud and aggressive as he obviously jogged down the stairs to the parking lot. She wasn’t sure she could do this. He’d given her a funny look when she’d handed him her keys. Like he knew she was up to something.
Which she was. She had a mistletoe sprig in one of those bags loaded up with lust symbols, and if she were smart, she’d toss it in the trash pronto before Will even came back. And she would not visualize his zipper going down ever again.
If he ever dropped his trousers in front of her it was going to be of his own free will.
Which would be never.
Argh. She was back to the beginning again.
Charlotte yanked a snowman votive out of a box and plunked it down on Will’s coffee table. She was noticing a snowman theme in Bree’s shopping. That was the third happy chunky snowman she’d pulled out in one form or another. No mistletoe in this bag. She turned and searched a different bag. Not in there, either. A quick search revealed it wasn’t in any of the four bags she had hauled into the apartment.
Would it be a bad thing if Will was carrying the bag with the lust-loaded mistletoe? Did he actually have to touch it, or if it was just in his vicinity, would it affect him? Could he be walking up the stairs, suddenly overcome with random lust, encounter the twenty-something waitress in 2B taking out her trash, and think it was her he wanted? Dang, Charlotte should have asked Bree for better instructions. All her sister had told her was to hang it up anywhere. That’s it. Nothing else to go on.
So the only thing she could really do was act normal.
Which wasn’t achieved by her yelling, “Give me those!” and yanking the final three bags out of Will’s hands the second he crossed the threshold.
“Uh…okay.” His eyebrows shot up. “Did I bring the wrong bags or something? I can take this back down if there’s something personal in them.”
Like what? Condoms or sex toys? Her face went hot. She was a wreck. An absolute appalling mess of a woman who was so in love with her best friend she was capable of mentally undoing his clothes. “Your Christmas present is in one of these.”
It was a decent save, pulled straight out of her behind. His face relaxed.
“You shopped for me already? You must really like me.” He swiped his finger over the tip of her nose and gave her a grin.
“I can live with you,” she said, because it was an auto-type response and she was trying desperately to act nonchalant, friendly, and totally nonsexual. Then she realized how exactly that sounded—like she wanted to live with him or something—and mentally kicked herself. Whirling around, she burrowed into a bag, ripping out a couple of red pot holders. Pot holders? Why the hell had Bree thought Will would want festive Christmas pot holders? Will was a guy. He probably used a dishtowel and cussed in pain when he lifted a lid.