It Happened One Christmas. Leslie Kelly

himself and to everyone else that he could make it on his own and didn’t need to go to work in the family business—to care much about celebrating.

      His mom suspected that was why he wasn’t coming home for Christmas, because he didn’t want to get another guilt trip or have another argument with his dad. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

      “Okay,” he said, seeing the shop owner smiling broadly at him from behind the counter, obviously thrilled that even more expensive holiday junk could be shoveled in front of potential customers within the hour. “Just give me a few minutes.”

      “Oh, thank you!”

      The freckled blonde turned and headed not for her friend in the back corner, but toward the door of the shop. Like she was making herself scarce so her friend could make her move. He grinned, wondering why girls went through these motions. He would probably have been even more interested if the brunette had just come up to him herself and said hello.

      Finishing up with a customer, the owner came out from around the counter. He offered Ross his exuberant thanks for having squeezed in this job so quickly. Ross accepted the check for final payment—which, he noted, included a nice holiday bonus—then shook the man’s hand and picked up his tools. Then it was decision time. Head for the exit and get busy doing what he needed to do? Or take a few minutes out of his day to possibly be hit-on by a very pretty girl who’d gotten her friend to play matchmaker?

      Hell. He might be hungry, might need work to pay his bills. But he was twenty-four, human and male. Pretty girl trumped food any day of the week.

      Heading toward her table, he brushed some sawdust off his arms, nodding politely at the several women who smiled and murmured holiday greetings. The brunette hadn’t moved from her seat, though he did see her look from side to side, as if she wanted to turn around to see if he was coming over, but didn’t wish to be too obvious about it.

      She so set this up.

      Frankly, Ross couldn’t bring himself to care.

      He walked up behind her, about to clear his throat and introduce himself, when he heard her say something. She was alone, obviously, and had to be talking to herself. And what she said pierced a hole in the ego that had been telling him she’d sent a friend over to get his attention.

      “You know you’d have been scared to even pick up a chainsaw,” she muttered. “Or even an electric knife!”

      Damn. She really was talking about tools? Some project that she needed to do?

      Ross had to laugh at himself. Wouldn’t his youngest sister—always his biggest critic—be laughing her ass off right now? He’d been all cocky and sure this sexy coed was about to come on to him…and she really was interested only in his toolbelt.

      “Forget the electric knife,” he said, intruding on her musings, the carpenter in him shuddering at the thought. “They’re not made for cutting anything other than meat.”

      The girl swung her head up to look at him, her eyes rounding in shock and her mouth dropping open.

      Big brown eyes. Full, pink-lipped mouth.

      Then there was the perfect, heart-shaped face. And oh, that hair. Thick and shining, with soft brown waves that framed her face, and curls that tumbled well down her back. There wasn’t a guy alive who wouldn’t imagine all that hair being the only thing wrapped around her naked body; well, except for his own naked body.

      He stared, unable to do anything else. She’d been pretty from across the room. Up close, she was beautiful enough to make his heart forget it was supposed to beat.

      “Excuse me?” she said, shaking her head lightly as if she couldn’t figure out what was happening. “What did you say?”

      He cleared his throat. “I said, you need to use the right tool for the job. Electric knives are for cutting meat. Now what is it you were thinking about cutting through?”

      “Meat,” she replied, then quickly clamped her lips shut.

      He laughed, admiring her quick wit. “Beef or pork?”

      “I’d say pork loin,” she replied, her mouth twisting a bit. “But I was joking. I definitely don’t need to cut any meat.”

      “I figured,” he said. Without waiting for an invitation, he walked around the table and sat in the vacant chair, facing her. He told himself it was because he’d promised her friend he’d offer her some construction advice. In truth, he just wanted to look at her a little more. Hear her voice. See whether she had a personality to go with the looks.

      Most guys his age probably wouldn’t care. Ross, though, did.

      He might be young, but he wasn’t inexperienced. And he’d learned very early on that a pretty face and smoking-hot body were enough before hitting the sheets. But after that, if there wasn’t a great sense of humor, big heart and a brain to go along with the sexiness, he just couldn’t stay interested. Some of his old college buddies used to joke about being happy with tits-on-a-stick. Ross preferred a real woman, from top to bottom.

      She seemed like she had a brain. Right now, though, he was wondering about that whole personality thing. Because she just kept staring at him, her face turning pink, as if she didn’t know what to say.

      Or she was embarrassed.

      Hmm. So maybe this wasn’t about some mystery project. Because the way she was blushing made him suspect she’d had something wicked on her mind.

      More interesting by the minute.

      “So, what is this big project?”

      “Project?”

      “Yeah. Your friend came over, told me you needed some advice on tools for a project you’re doing.”

      She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and closed her eyes for a second, then whispered, “I’m going to kill her.”

      “Maybe that’s why she left—she needed a running start.”

      “She left?”

      “Yep. Right after she came to ask me to help you.”

      Groaning, she shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”

      “So, she was trying to set us up?”

      “I think so.”

      “What kind of friend does that?” he asked. “She doesn’t know me—what if I’m some kind of serial killer or panty thief?”

      Her brow went up. “Are you?”

      “Am I what?”

      “Either of those things?”

      He grinned. “No on the first. I’ll take the fifth on the second until we get to know each other.” Certain he wanted that—to get to know her—he stuck out his hand. “I’m Ross.”

      She eyed it, then reached out and shook. Her hand was small, soft. Fragile against his own. Having worked only with his hands for months, he knew he had calluses on top of blisters, but she didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, she was the one who held on for a moment, as if not wanting to let go.

      Finally, though, she pulled away, murmuring, “Lucy.”

      “Nice to meet you, Lucy.”

      “You, too. Especially now that I know you’re not a serial killer.” She flashed a grin. “As for the other, remind me not to walk into Victoria’s Secret with you…wouldn’t want to get arrested as an accomplice.”

      “What fun would there be in stealing brand-new panties?” Then, seeing her brow shoot up, he held up a hand. “Kidding. Believe me, stealing underwear isn’t my thing.”

      “Helping mystery girls with mysterious projects is?”

      “Uh-huh. Now, mysterious girl, back to the mysterious project.”

      “There