Читать книгу Kissing Santa Claus - Jill Shalvis - Страница 9

“Hey, let me help you with that.” At the sound of the deep voice, Holly spun around. Sean Gallagher. The living, breathing embodiment of every single one of her high school fantasies. Feverish fantasies, they’d been, too. Of course, popular Sean, football and basketball star Sean, cheerleader-of-the-week girlfriend Sean, had never once paid her the slightest bit of attention. When they were in school, anyway. Of course she’d seen him almost every day of her life outside of school, given their parents ran businesses across the street from one another.

He’d nod on occasion, even wave to her when he was alone. But most often he was surrounded by a half dozen teammates and friends, or two to three times that in Gallagher’s, and Holly hadn’t the first clue what to do with a person like that. Especially when that person featured very prominently in every daydream and night fantasy she’d ever had. So, like the awkward geek that she’d been back then, she’d stare back at him, likely with a deer in headlights look, then duck into the shop and hide. All the while bitterly chastising herself for not being more forward and confident in herself when given such perfect openings.

Thankfully, her mother had never had a clue. One of the few times Bev Bennett’s total absorption in running the shop had worked in Holly’s favor. The instant Holly had popped into the store after school, or debate team practice, or art club, her mother would sigh in relief at the extra pair of hands and put her straight to work. On those days where Sean had privately favored her with that big smile of his, she was thankful for both the haven and the distraction. Today, neither were readily available. The store was locked up and there was no bustle of customers to demand attention.

Just big, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, dark-haired, brightly smiling Sean Gallagher.

Who, at thirty-two, was only about a million times hotter than he’d been at eighteen. She was afraid the same could and would never be said of her. No amount of London polish would turn the small town mouse into a big city swan. She clutched the handle of her suitcase like it was her only lifeline to safety. “I—that’s okay,” she stuttered as he drew closer. “I’ve got it.”

Her less-than-commanding self-confidence didn’t exactly stop him in his tracks.

“Those boots look great, but I’m guessing they’re not much on traction,” he said quite genially, as if they were longtime friends who’d simply bumped into each other. “I’m sure you weren’t expecting to come home to slush and ice. Here.” He reached her side and gently, but quite decidedly, took hold of her suitcase handle. He propped his elbow out in an offer of personal support as well.

Clearly he had no clue whatsoever that he was a far greater threat to her equilibrium than any ice storm or three-inch boot heels could ever hope to be. The thought that, after all these years, he was not only standing right in front of her, talking to her, and smiling that devastatingly gorgeous smile at her, but wanted her to put her hands on him? Okay, just one hand. But still. It made her feel utterly ridiculous to still be so affected by him this many years later, when, obviously, the reverse had always been, and forever would be, true. Which…duh.

So, with everything else she was struggling to deal with at that moment, including a maelstrom of emotions ranging from confusing, heart-tugging homesickness to abject terror that she wouldn’t be able to run away from it ever again, the additional hormonal surge of seeing Sean Gallagher up close and personal was simply one too many things to tackle.

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine,” she said, striving to sound a little more in charge of herself, made harder by the fact that, even in heels, she still had to look up what felt like a mile or so, to where he towered over her.

“Holly Bennett,” he said, making her name sound almost…reverent.

Clearly she was hallucinating that last part. Leftover dregs of her teenage fantasies. Serious jet lag. Whatever. She was exhausted and stressed out and he was just standing there, all casually godlike. Anyone would have a hard time thinking straight. “Yes,” she said, somewhat stupidly, in response, but not knowing, really, what else to say to that.

“It’s me, Sean,” he said, then added, “Gallagher.”

As if she might not be aware.

“I—right. It’s—uh, yes. Yes, I know who you are. And—well, it’s a pleasure. Sean. To see you. Again.” She stuck her hand out. It was that or start digging a hole straight to China. And there she was, with no shovel.

He grinned and took her hand, but rather than give it a polite, casual little shake, he held on to it. In fact, went so far as to cover it with his other hand, apparently completely unaware what that did to her already overloaded hormonal circuits, considering he just stood there, smiling down at her with something that looked like a mix of delight and affection plastered all over his handsome face.

It was that affection part that totally froze her up. Reverting her back to sixteen, when all she could do was stare. God only knew what expression was on her face. All she knew was that his hands were big and warm…and her body was swiftly following suit on the latter part.

She’d like to think a dozen years living independently in London, in the fast-paced world of advertising, would have long pushed her past her shyness and the paralyzing fear that always came with speaking in front of groups. Sometimes groups of one. Especially when they looked and sounded like Sean Gallagher. And, back in London, she most definitely had. She wouldn’t have made a very successful art director if she hadn’t. And she had been. Successful. But that was business. This…she didn’t know what this was. All she knew was she was a long way from London, and her smart, confident, savvy London self hadn’t apparently made the trans-Atlantic flight along with her.

Standing there, staring, she still felt exactly like the awkward sophomore she’d once been, looking at all of his senior perfection and feeling her tongue tie into knots. Right along with her stomach.

“I miss your folks,” he said as they continued to stand there, and stare. “But I got a postcard and note from your mom from their cruise ship. Sounds like retirement is agreeing with them.”

“Yes, yes it is,” she said, finally coming out of her pheromone stupor and slipping her hand from his. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you. I’d—I’d better get inside and—” She glanced at the store and faltered. She had no idea what she was going to do when she got inside, so she just plastered a smile on her face and grabbed the handle of her suitcase before he could again. “Good to see you.”

“I heard you were coming back to take over the store,” he said as she bumped her suitcase up the curb and fumbled with the keys.

“I—” She didn’t know yet what she’d come back to do, or not do, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “Right.” Finally, blessedly, she turned the lock and the dead bolt and swung the door open.

“I’m glad you’re back in town, Holly Bennett.”

She glanced back at him, standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, chef apron tied perfectly around his hips, somehow looking all the more manly for it. He also looked like he was freezing.

“Me, too,” she said inanely, for the lack of any real reply of substance. Or honesty.

Just then someone stuck their head out of the front door of the restaurant. Where Sean’s hair was a dark, thick mop of waves, this head was closely shorn and red. But the easy grin and dancing eyes proclaimed him yet another Gallagher. And, if that wasn’t enough, the thick brogue was final proof.

“Sean, me boy, we’re sinkin’ in here, doncha know. And O’Hara’s called back twice now. I think you can get quite a deal on the mahi mahi and the scallops both if you play it right. You can flirt about later.” He sent a small salute and a wink toward Holly. “Unless I finish me chores first.”

“Right, Mick,” Sean called back, never once taking his own twinkling eyes off of Holly. “My cousin,” he told her, by way of explanation. “Come from Cork to spend the holidays. And make my life even more impossible, that one,” he finished, doing a fine imitation of a brogue himself.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” Holly said, feeling just as she had all those years ago, watching his unruly, boisterous clan tumble and wrestle about. Part envious of what it must be like, to always know you had the bosom and embrace of a big family to sink into anytime…and part petrified of what it would be like to never have a moment or thought completely and entirely to yourself. She tore her gaze away and dragged her bag through the door.

“Welcome home,” Sean called out, sketching a salute of his own before jogging back across the street and through the door his cousin was still holding for him.

“Home,” Holly echoed as she closed the door behind her. She turned to look at the shadowed room, lined with crammed full shelves and dotted with the odd, eclectic antique furnishings. It was a place she knew like the back of her own hand…every aisle, every shelf, every tile of the floor. And which, at that moment, seemed completely alien to her now that she was totally in charge of them. Owned them, in fact. It was cold. And dusty. And dank smelling. Things her mother’s place had never been.

Except it wasn’t her mother’s place any longer.

She tucked her hands under folded arms, trying to ward off a chill that had little to do with the heat being turned down and the electricity switched off.

Home.

All that was left of it, anyway. Holly started to tremble a little as she allowed her gaze to travel the depth and breadth of the place. Her place. Now that she was standing here, the real enormity of the decision her mother had left her to make hit her full force. It made her want to call her mother right then and there and angrily demand to know how in the hell she could do something like this to her. Or jump back in the taxi, race back to the airport, and flee once again to London, where she’d send word to Florida that, thanks, but no thanks, then simply get on with her life.

But the taxi was gone. And so were her parents. At least until after the new year. She glanced across the street, to the yellow glow that emanated through the windows and door of Gallagher’s. Warm and inviting. With people talking, working, knowing, and understanding their purpose.

She looked back at the interior of the shop, her shop…and wished like hell she had even an inkling of what that felt like. Because, standing there, finally ensconced once again in the cheerful, fairy-tale world of Christmas her mother had so lovingly built and tended to, Holly felt no rush of longing, no ache of homesickness that made her want to cling to the familiarity of the past. She hadn’t realized until just then that, somewhere in her mind, perhaps she’d been hoping—praying—that that would be what happened.

Instead, the reality was that she felt even less connected to this place than she ever had before.

“Bah, humbug, dammit,” she muttered, giving in to the feelings that had plagued her since her mother had handed her the keys with that knowing smile and face full of hope. She dragged her bag farther inside and locked the door behind her. “Merry freaking Christmas.”