A Guy for Christmas - K.C. Wells Page 0,7

musical, and I know how much work goes into pulling it all together.”

Robin gaped. “You sing? I didn’t know that.”

Dad coughed. “The less said about my singing skills, the better. I was there to make up the numbers, I think.”

“I did teach Ryan though,” Mr. Quentin added. “He took drama with me.”

Dad bit his lip. “I’ll bet that was a very interesting class.” The phone rang in the outer office, and he raised his eyes heavenward. “Damn, I need to get that. I’m so sorry, but I’m been expecting a call, and we’re finishing shortly for the day.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Robin interjected. “I’ll take care of Mr. Quentin.”

Dad gave him a grateful smile, then patted Mr. Quentin on the arm. “I’m sure Robin can answer any of your questions.” He dashed through the door, closing it behind him.

Leaving Robin alone with Mr. Quentin.

Robin swallowed. Somehow, he didn’t think ‘God, you look good’ was the correct way to begin a conversation. As it was, Mr. Quentin was gazing at his surroundings with obvious interest. Robin took advantage of the fact to take a good look at him.

His eyes are stunning. They were a clear green, morphing into amber near the pupils. The dark beard that hugged most of his lower face was all kinds of sexy, as was the way his hair was longer on top, slightly curly in comparison to the shorn sides of his head. He had neat dark brows…

…that arched up toward his hairline as he gazed at Robin, displaying a wide grin.

Fuck. He caught me staring.

“So…” Robin coughed. “Good to see you again, Mr. Quentin. I didn’t know you canoed.” Let’s start talking so I can forget I was ogling you and got busted.

Mr. Quentin smiled. “And I didn’t know you worked with your dad. Is this a recent thing?”

Robin nodded. “Since graduation.”

“That figures.” He glanced at the gunwale Robin was working on. “You always were good with your hands.”

Robin’s tongue had apparently decided to tie itself into a knot, and he was sure his face was bright red. It was like being back in high school, when Mr. Quentin used to wander onto the set while Robin was working on it, and Robin never had a clue what to say. “So… canoeing… Are you into any other sports?”

Sports? For God’s sake… He must have sounded like a total loser.

Mr. Quentin gave no sign he thought the question idiotic. “Oh yes. I love snowboarding, ice skating, and skiing. In fact, I’m a qualified ski instructor.”

“That’s cool.” He cleared his throat. “So…”

Mr. Quentin laughed. “If Miss Martindale could hear you now, she’d have a fit.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Didn’t you get a lecture in your English classes on the evils of starting a sentence with the word so?”

Robin blinked. “How did you know about that?” It had been almost a weekly occurrence. He didn’t recall seeing Mr. Quentin at the back of his English class. He would definitely have noticed that.

“She’s a friend of mine.” Mr. Quentin leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “To be honest? I get the same lecture.”

Okay, that was cute. “You’re here to order a canoe?” God, could I sound any more like an idiot? What else would he be here for—to buy a car?

Mr. Quentin nodded, straightening. “I’m setting myself a challenge for next year. I’m going to take part in the Adirondack Canoe Classic.”

Robin widened his eyes. “Okay, I am seriously impressed. That’s ninety miles, isn’t it?” It was a dream of his, only Dad wouldn’t hear of it. Robin was tired of hearing the old refrain of ‘Wait a few years.’

Waiting was boring as fuck.

“Yup, over three days. My old Royalex canoe is nearing retirement, so I decided it was time to buy a new one.” He folded his arms and stared at Robin, his eyes twinkling. “What would be your recommendation?”

“A RapidFire,” Robin responded without hesitation.

Mr. Quentin arched his eyebrows. “That was fast. Now tell me why.”

“That’s easy.” Robin was on safer ground. “It’s incredibly light, weighing only about twenty-six pounds. It’s fast, and if you’re going to do the Classic, you can fit a lot of camping gear and firewood in it. There’s plenty of space. It’s a carbon composite, with cherrywood gunwales.”

“Is that what you’re working on?” Mr. Quentin gestured to the wood he’d been rubbing down. He crouched down to stroke it. “This is cherry, right?”

“Yeah, that’s cherry. I think it’s such a beautiful wood.”

Mr. Quentin rose to his feet and peered at a canoe perched on stands