Read Online Too Hot to Handle: A Loveswept Classic Romance by Sandra Chastain - Free Book Online Page A

before, he’d wanted to make love to her, and she’d known it. He’d wanted her in the swingbeside him, nestled against the curve of his shoulder, her thick, dark hair tickling the base of his chin as they moved slowly back and forth. That was what he’d planned.
    He’d gracefully gotten her out to the porch, even had her sitting by him in the swing, when a sudden invasion of mosquitos big enough to carry off William descended, and they’d been forced to end the evening. She’d given him a flashlight and a rueful smile that said she had her own regrets.
    “Sorry you didn’t sleep well,” she told him now. “Was the bed awful?”
    “No. But at about three A.M. I debated whether to elope with Ruby.”
    She chuckled. “What stopped you?”
    “The fear that I’d encounter William if I went outside the smokehouse.” They both laughed. “So what’s on for today?” he asked, taking a swallow of the crisp, cold fruit juice. “This is great. Tastes like cinnamon.”
    “Well, as a guest, you’re on your own for a while. I have to clean out the barn. The garden needs fertilizing.”
    “I see. Nothing like good physical labor to work out my city tensions. Good idea.”
    “Your help isn’t necessary, Holland. I don’t think you’ve had a lot of experience with cow manure.”
    “You’re right, Carmichael, but I can learn.”
    “It’s very old manure. You love old things, so maybe you’ll want to collect a sample to take home.”
    “Hah.”
    Smiling, Callie placed an oversized red plate filled with scrambled eggs and ham on the counter beside him, then sat down on a stool nearby, with her ownplate. On the counter between them she placed a plate of buttered toast and a large mason jar of luscious-looking preserves.
    “Dig in, Matthew. The bread’s homemade. The eggs are courtesy of Esmeralda, the ham you already know about, and the homemade strawberry preserves are courtesy of William.”
    “Wait a minute. I can understand everything else, but what does William have to do with the preserves?”
    “Last year he ate all the strawberry plants, so I didn’t have any preserves. This year I fixed the garden gate so he couldn’t get to the strawberries. I have to keep him away from the preserves too.”
    Matt took a thick slice of toast and spread it generously with the thick, sweet berries. “Does he prefer preserves on toast, or straight from the jar?”
    “Oh, he likes them straight out of the jar if he can get into the jars when I’m cooling them on the windowsill. I learned about his sweet tooth when he knocked off half of my first batch.”
    “What else do you do, Callie? You garden. You’re an artist. You obviously sew, if all the matching cushions and quilts around here are any indication, and you cook like a dream.” Matt chewed the salty ham and swallowed it with obvious relish. “Has it occurred to you that you’d be a perfect mail-order bride for some settler from the early west?”
    “Mail-order bride?” she chortled. “I’ve been called a lot of things, Matthew Holland, but never a mail-order bride. Tell me about you. About your house in Atlanta. About all the girlfriends I’m sure you must entertain there.”
    Matt blinked. The intrusion of his Atlanta life intothe cozy kitchen was wrenching. He lifted his shoulders uneasily.
    “Go on, tell me,” she insisted. “Suppose we were eating breakfast at your house. Tell me where we’d be sitting. You do live somewhere, don’t you? Let me see.” She licked her lips and stared off into space. “You have the penthouse apartment in that elegant building near the Peachtree Plaza downtown. Or … you have one of those big, old-money homes off West Paces Ferry in Buckhead.”
    “No,” he retorted, “not even close. I live in a new-money house I built up in Roswell. Very suburban. And in the summer, when I eat at home, I usually eat at a glass-topped table by the pool.”
    “Ah-hah! I knew it. By the pool. And you eat fresh fruit,