A Hamilton Family Christmas - Donna Kauffman Page 0,6
problem?”
“No—no problem. But, can I see some identification? No insult, it’s just—”
“No, no,” he said, reaching into his back pocket. He smiled. “Lionel was smart to hire you. I’ll be glad to put in a good word for the thorough job you’re doing.” Not that Lionel would have any interest in his great nephew’s opinion, but she didn’t have to know that. “Make up for scaring ten years off your life up there in the hallway.”
“That’s all right,” she said, peering at the driver’s license he flashed at her. “Chapel Hill?” she said, looking up.
He nodded. “Went to college in North Carolina and stayed there. Go Tarheels.” He got the tiniest flicker of a smile from her then.
“You’re speaking to a Hokie, here, so don’t expect any enthusiasm on that score from me.”
He made the sign of the cross with two of his fingers. “An ACC rival. However will we survive under one roof?”
“As long as that roof isn’t the one covering Cassell Coliseum, you—and your Tarheels—are probably safe.”
The stubborn had been replaced by smug. It was a damn cute smug, too. He really had no business noticing. “Very amusing. It won’t be so funny when your boys are at the Dean Dome this weekend.”
Her smile went from smug to downright insouciant. “Big talk. Care to make a wager on that, Mr. Hamilton?”
He smiled, pleasantly surprised by the sudden shift to what could be described—almost—as easy banter between them. Amazing what college rivalries could do to lower defenses. Or at least distract them for a short time. “A betting woman, huh? And it’s Trevor. Please.”
“Okay, Trevor Please, I’ll wager twenty and spot you the spread.”
“Very generous. Why don’t we go double or nothing? Seeing as you’re so sure and all.”
“I’m a loyal alumni, but I’m also a new business owner, so—”
“Say no more. I understand the fiscal fears there.” She smiled, but her eyes said she didn’t believe for one second he understood what it was like to lose sleep, sweat bullets, and yank out your hair over the start-up of a new company. He was a Hamilton, after all. They had piles of money just lying around. Which, was not altogether untrue. He’d just never once happened to touch his own pile, that was all. But why bother explaining?
“I’ll tell you what,” he offered. “Skip the monetary bet. We can wager food.”
Her eyebrow edged up until it was lost beneath the cascade of curls. “Food?”
“You said you were a great cook. I win, and you’re my cook. For one meal. Your pick which one.”
“And, if I were to agree to this bet, and win, which I probably will, what would I get out of the deal?”
He gave her a mock affronted look. “I’ll have you know the chicken Marsala I personally prepared for my last dinner party is still talked about in certain circles.”
“As long as those circling weren’t standing in the emergency room at the time, then I suppose I can agree to that. Except, how do you propose one of us collects on this bet? FedEx the ingredients?”
“Still trying to get rid of me?” He pushed open the doors to the kitchen, where they were both enthusiastically greeted by Martha, Jack, and Cicero.
“Welcome! Right this way!”
It wasn’t until she moved past him as she crouched down to scratch Jack’s head that he finally got a whiff of those softly scented curls, and he realized…“I don’t know your name.”
She stood but misjudged her footing, and he had to make a quick grab for her arms to keep her from stumbling backwards and falling over Martha. Which had the added benefit of bringing her flush into his personal space. They were, indeed, hazel, he thought, looking into her startled eyes, leaning toward green when her pupils dilated, as they were now. He discovered he was in no hurry to let her go.
“Emma,” she managed, the word hardly more than a whisper. “Lafferty.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Emma Lafferty.” He smiled. “So, what are you going to cook for me?”
3
“Awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Hamilton.”
“I thought we’d progressed to Trevor. Please.”
Her lips curved a little at that, but she stepped back, breaking his hold. “Trevor, please let me know when you’re done in the kitchen. I’m going to go unpack and settle in, and I don’t want to be in your way.”
“We haven’t settled the terms of the bet.”
“Why don’t we leave it at this: If you’re still here on game night and you win, I’ll cook you the meal of