Her Holiday Prince Charming. Christine Flynn

in the driveway.

      “Are you Mrs. Linfield?”

      Surprise colored the deep tones of his voice. Or maybe what she heard was disbelief. His pewter-gray eyes ran from the wedge of auburn hair skimming her shoulders, over the camel peacoat covering her black turtleneck and jeans and up from the toes of her low-heeled boots. His perusal was quick, little more than an impassive flick of his glance. Yet she had the unnerving feeling he’d imagined her every curve in the brief moments before she realized he was waiting for her to speak.

      “I didn’t think anyone was here.” The admission came in a rush. “I didn’t see a car, so we were just going to look around—”

      “I flew over. Floatplane,” he explained, hitching his head in the direction of the water. “It’s down at the marina.

      “I’m Erik Sullivan.” Stepping closer, he extended his hand. His rugged features held strength, a hint of fearlessness. Or maybe it was boldness. Despite its lingering shadow, the square line of his jaw appeared recently shaved. He looked hard and handsome and when he smiled, faint though the expression was, he radiated a positively lethal combination of quiet command and casual ease. “I’m handling the sale of this property for my grandparents.”

      “You’re a Realtor?”

      “Actually, I build boats. I’m just taking care of this for them.”

      Her hand had disappeared in his.

      She could feel calluses at the base of his fingers. He worked with his hands. Built boats with them, he’d said. What kind, she had no idea. The white-gold Rolex on his thick wrist seemed to indicate he was successful at it, though. The words capable and accomplished quickly flashed in her mind, only to succumb to less definable impressions as she became aware of the heat of his palm, the strength in his grip and the deliberate way he held that strength in check.

      What she felt mostly, though, was a wholly unexpected sense of connection when her eyes met his.

      Everything inside her seemed to go still.

      She’d experienced that sensation only once before; the first time Curt had taken her hand. It had been a fleeting thing, little more than an odd combination of awareness and ease that had come out of nowhere, but it had dictated the direction of her life from that moment on.

      As if she’d just touched lightning, she jerked back, curling her fingers into her palm, and took a step away. The void left in her heart by the loss of her husband already felt huge. It seemed to widen further as she instinctively rejected the thought of any sort of connection to this man, imagined or otherwise. Because of what she’d learned since Curt’s death, it was entirely possible that what she’d thought she’d had with her husband—the closeness, the love, the very rightness of the life they’d shared—hadn’t existed at all.

      Having struggled with that awful possibility for over a year, she wasn’t about to trust what she’d felt now.

      Conscious of the quick pinch of Erik’s brow, totally embarrassed by her abrupt reaction, she rested her hand on her son’s shoulder. Just as she would have introduced her little guy, the big man gave the child a cautious smile and motioned her toward the building.

      “The main entrance to the living quarters is around back, but we can go through the market. Come on and I’ll show you around.”

      Whatever he thought of her reaction to him, he seemed gentleman enough to ignore it.

      She chose to ignore it, too.

      Living quarters, he’d said?

      “There isn’t a separate house here?” she asked, urging Tyler forward as the sky started to leak.

      “There’s plenty of room to build if that’s what a buyer wants to do. The parcel is a little over three acres. Living on premises has certain advantages, though.” He checked the length of his strides, allowing them to keep up. “Shortens the commute.”

      If she smiled at that, Erik couldn’t tell, not with the fall of cinnamon hair hiding her profile as she ushered the boy ahead of her.

      Mrs. Rory Linfield wasn’t at all what he had expected. But then, the new owner of the building next door to Merrick & Sullivan Yachting hadn’t given him much to go on. He wasn’t sure what the elegant and refined wife of Harry Hunt was doing with the building Harry had apparently given her as a wedding gift—other than providing Erik and his business partner an interesting diversion with her total renovation of its interior. It had been his offhand comment to Cornelia, though, about a place he’d be glad to sell if Harry was still into buying random pieces of property, that had led him to describe the property his grandparents had vacated nearly a year ago.

      The conversation had prompted a call from Cornelia yesterday. That was when she’d told him she knew of a widow in immediate need of a home and a means to produce an income.

      When she’d said widow, he’d immediately pictured someone far more mature. More his parents’ age. Fifty-something. Sixty, maybe. With graying hair. Or at least a few wrinkles. The decidedly polished, manicured and attractive auburn-haired woman skeptically eyeing the sign for Fresh Espresso and Worms as she crossed the wood-planked porch didn’t look at all like his idea of a widow, though. She looked more like pure temptation. Temptation with pale skin that fairly begged to be touched, a beautiful mouth glossed with something sheer pink and shiny, and who was easily a decade younger than his own thirty-nine years.

      He hadn’t expected the cute little kid at all.

      He opened the door, held it for them to pass, caught her soft, unexpectedly provocative scent. Following them inside, he had to admit that, mostly, he hadn’t anticipated the sucker punch to his gut when he’d looked from her very kissable mouth to the feminine caution in her big brown eyes. Or the quick caution he’d felt himself when she’d pulled back and her guarded smile had slipped into place.

      What he’d seen in those dark and lovely depths had hinted heavily of response, confusion and denial.

      A different sort of confusion clouded her expression now.

      He’d turned on the store’s fluorescent overheads when he’d first arrived. In those bright industrial lights, he watched her look from the rows of bare, utilitarian grocery shelving to the empty dairy case near the checkout counter and fix her focus on a kayak suspended from the ceiling above a wall of flotation devices. Sporting goods still filled the back shelves. After the original offer to buy the place fully stocked had fallen through, he’d donated the grocery items to a local food bank. That had been months ago.

      The little boy tugged her hand. “Why is the boat up there, Mom?”

      “For display. I think,” she replied quietly, like someone talking in a museum.

      “How come?”

      “So people will notice it.” She pointed to a horizontal rack on the back wall that held three more. Oars and water skis stood in rows on either side. “It’s easier to see than those back there.”

      With his neck craned back, his little brow pinched.

      “Are we gonna live in a store?”

      “No, sweetie. We’re just...” From the uncertainty in her expression, it seemed she wasn’t sure what they were doing at the moment. “Looking,” she concluded.

      Her glance swung up. “You said this belongs to your grandparents?”

      “They retired to San Diego,” he told her, wondering what her little boy was doing now as the child practically bent himself in half looking under a display case. There were no small children in his family. The yachting circles he worked and played in were strictly adult. Any exposure he had to little kids came with whatever family thing his business partner could talk him into attending with him. Since he managed to limit that to once every couple of years, he rarely gave kids any thought. Not anymore.

      “They’d had this business for over fifty years,” he explained, his attention already