Read Online Too Hot to Handle: A Loveswept Classic Romance by Sandra Chastain - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandra Chastain
Ads: Link
his shoes. Groaning at the thought of the upcoming activity, he stood up and jogged, loose-limbed, across the yard to the driveway. He stopped and turned, jogging in place while he took a look back at Callie’s cabin.
He was immediately reminded of a Christmas-card catalog he’d gotten the year before from a company in Oklahoma. The cards carried a western theme of mountains, rustic cabins, and sanctified wilderness.
He was always drawn to the scenes because of the permanence and peacefulness they pictured. Now, here in a little valley at the base of a mountain chain in north Georgia, he prayed that permanence and peace had come to life for him.
Callie was frying thick slices of country ham when she heard footsteps outside the back door. “Come on in the kitchen. Breakfast is almost ready,” she called.
“I assume you’re talking to me, not William,” Matt answered.
“Oh, William doesn’t like ham. He never eats anything he’s known personally, and this ham came from a pig of Tom Hicks’s. You want orange juice or my specialty?”
Getting no answer, she turned around. Matt stood in the doorway, his head cocked at an angle and a humorous look in his eyes that told her he was considering a rakish answer to her question.
“Good morning,” he said slowly.
Her heart skipped a beat and her knees quivered at the sight he presented.
“Good morning,” she finally managed to say.
His light-colored hair was damp and thick. He filled the doorway, and his head barely cleared the top frame. His T-shirt clung to the muscles that rippled in his stomach as he raked his fingers through his hair.
And the shorts. Oh, dear. Callie forced her gaze away from their brevity. They barely covered the essentials, and the slits in the sides hinted at the hollows in his lean haunches. Those shorts were definitely not boring. Definitely not.
“Your specialty?” he asked in a throaty voice that made her feel suddenly warm all over.
“My special apple juice,” she explained hastily. “Red apples grown right here in the valley, canned by Tom Hicks’s wife last fall.”
He peered at the stove. “What, no alfalfa sprouts?”
“Now, look, I fed you pot roast and mashed potatoes and peas with butter last night, so you know I’m not a fanatic about health food. Sit down, city slicker.”
He settled on a rickety stool and watched her as if she’d hypnotized him. Which she had.
She was wearing a short culottes outfit in a bright cotton print. The leg hems and the edges of the sleeveless bodice were decorated with ruffles. Her thick hair tangled with the bodice ruffles in an enchantingway. The outfit must have been out of style for ten years, Matt thought, and on any other woman it would have looked silly. On Callie it looked great.
“Sleep well?” she asked.
“No.” He made himself sound comically disgruntled. “I dreamed about William. I wanted to dream about you.”
“What did William do?”
“He was in my garage in Atlanta. He methodically bashed each of my antique cars. They were covered with wildflowers, and he ate the flowers before he left. He had a laugh just like Walter Brennan’s. It was a nightmare all right.”
Callie giggled so hard that she had to put her spatula down for a moment. Wiping her eyes, she gazed at Matt tenderly.
“You made all of that up, you disgusting liar,” she told him with glee. “What an imagination you have. That’s great.”
Matt grinned at her. He had never considered himself an imaginative person. Her compliment flattered him immensely.
“Thanks.”
He continued to enjoy the sight of her. The short, wide legs of the culottes proved to him that he had an active imagination; in fact, an overactive imagination. She poured a small glass of apple juice, placed it before him, and turned back to the stove.
He watched her move around the kitchen. There was an intimacy between them, a warm, gentle feeling of friendship, even though it was new and still fragile.
The night
He was immediately reminded of a Christmas-card catalog he’d gotten the year before from a company in Oklahoma. The cards carried a western theme of mountains, rustic cabins, and sanctified wilderness.
He was always drawn to the scenes because of the permanence and peacefulness they pictured. Now, here in a little valley at the base of a mountain chain in north Georgia, he prayed that permanence and peace had come to life for him.
Callie was frying thick slices of country ham when she heard footsteps outside the back door. “Come on in the kitchen. Breakfast is almost ready,” she called.
“I assume you’re talking to me, not William,” Matt answered.
“Oh, William doesn’t like ham. He never eats anything he’s known personally, and this ham came from a pig of Tom Hicks’s. You want orange juice or my specialty?”
Getting no answer, she turned around. Matt stood in the doorway, his head cocked at an angle and a humorous look in his eyes that told her he was considering a rakish answer to her question.
“Good morning,” he said slowly.
Her heart skipped a beat and her knees quivered at the sight he presented.
“Good morning,” she finally managed to say.
His light-colored hair was damp and thick. He filled the doorway, and his head barely cleared the top frame. His T-shirt clung to the muscles that rippled in his stomach as he raked his fingers through his hair.
And the shorts. Oh, dear. Callie forced her gaze away from their brevity. They barely covered the essentials, and the slits in the sides hinted at the hollows in his lean haunches. Those shorts were definitely not boring. Definitely not.
“Your specialty?” he asked in a throaty voice that made her feel suddenly warm all over.
“My special apple juice,” she explained hastily. “Red apples grown right here in the valley, canned by Tom Hicks’s wife last fall.”
He peered at the stove. “What, no alfalfa sprouts?”
“Now, look, I fed you pot roast and mashed potatoes and peas with butter last night, so you know I’m not a fanatic about health food. Sit down, city slicker.”
He settled on a rickety stool and watched her as if she’d hypnotized him. Which she had.
She was wearing a short culottes outfit in a bright cotton print. The leg hems and the edges of the sleeveless bodice were decorated with ruffles. Her thick hair tangled with the bodice ruffles in an enchantingway. The outfit must have been out of style for ten years, Matt thought, and on any other woman it would have looked silly. On Callie it looked great.
“Sleep well?” she asked.
“No.” He made himself sound comically disgruntled. “I dreamed about William. I wanted to dream about you.”
“What did William do?”
“He was in my garage in Atlanta. He methodically bashed each of my antique cars. They were covered with wildflowers, and he ate the flowers before he left. He had a laugh just like Walter Brennan’s. It was a nightmare all right.”
Callie giggled so hard that she had to put her spatula down for a moment. Wiping her eyes, she gazed at Matt tenderly.
“You made all of that up, you disgusting liar,” she told him with glee. “What an imagination you have. That’s great.”
Matt grinned at her. He had never considered himself an imaginative person. Her compliment flattered him immensely.
“Thanks.”
He continued to enjoy the sight of her. The short, wide legs of the culottes proved to him that he had an active imagination; in fact, an overactive imagination. She poured a small glass of apple juice, placed it before him, and turned back to the stove.
He watched her move around the kitchen. There was an intimacy between them, a warm, gentle feeling of friendship, even though it was new and still fragile.
The night
Similar Books
