A Hamilton Family Christmas - Donna Kauffman Page 0,7
your choice the following day. I win, I get your infamous chicken Marsala.”
“So, I have to be present to win.” He grinned and was entirely too charming about it. “Are you encouraging me to stay now?”
Emma picked up her satchels and slung the straps over her shoulder. Not that she didn’t trust him, leaving them there while she hiked back out to the garage, but she suddenly felt like she needed to do something, anything, with her hands. Mostly because she couldn’t stop thinking about his. On her. All warm and broad and strong and—“We’ll work out the shipping details later if it comes to that. I’m sure you’re good for it.”
His grin only broadened at that, which she took as her sign to skedaddle. The low chuckle as she scooted toward the door leading to the enclosed passageway didn’t help much, either. Lord, but he was one very fine-looking man, with far too much charm and the kind of confidence that naturally came along with it.
“And, he’s richer than Croesus,” she muttered beneath her breath, feeling the heat bloom in her cheeks all over again as she recalled her bold assumption that he’d been suggesting some kind of intimate arrangement between the two of them. Not that she lacked at least a basic level of self-esteem—she loved dogs, but didn’t consider herself one—however, a super-model she was clearly not. And Trevor Hamilton could easily score in that range and probably did every damn day of the week. She cleaned up okay, but she wasn’t, and never would be, in that range. She chalked up the flirting to what was likely his natural condition around women of any age, size, and flavor.
“The multimillionaire and the pet sitter,” she muttered. “Yeah. That would happen.” She dug out her phone. Chelsea would flip out when she described the place. And it would help take her mind off of her unexpected houseguest. Only, there was no way she was going to be able to keep from telling her best friend about that part, too, and Chelsea had a much higher opinion of their collective worth on the dating market than Emma did. But then, Emma was a realist. She pocketed the phone and went into the garage. Looking over the gleaming cars, she wondered which one belonged to Trevor, then immediately rolled her eyes at her continued interest in the man. “Eye on the goal, head in the game,” she said through gritted teeth as she fought with the tailgate window of her Land Rover. “And Trevor Hamilton is not, I repeat, not, the goal. Nor are you even in the game.”
“Need some help?”
She spun around, hand clutched to heart, to find Trevor leaning against a shiny black Mercedes. Cheeks hot—again—she tossed her hair back and prayed he hadn’t overheard her little self-lecture. “If one of us is supposed to be a burglar, I’m thinking you’re definitely the one with the stealth skills.”
He shrugged and pushed away from the car. “Just thought you might need a hand. No need to get prickly.”
“You could help by not handing me a heart attack every five seconds. And I’m never prickly. I’m cheerful and sunny.” Even she had to smile a little at that acerbically delivered statement. “Animals love me for my warmth,” she added, dryly.
Grinning, he said, “I’m sure they do.” He stepped closer and nudged her out of the way, then popped the back door of her Land Rover with an easy twist of the handle. At her little huff, he turned to her. “I had this problem with mine, you just have to tug the handle down a little as you turn it. Here.” He closed it again, then took her hand and put it on the handle.
She was so flustered by his assertiveness, and maybe a little by his hands being on her again, that she let him.
“Pull down a little, like this, and—” The door popped open quite easily. “See?”
She was too happy to have a solution to any of the myriad problems her ancient Land Rover gave her to give him a hard time about being so pushy. But she did slide her hand out from under his. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
He peered inside. “Where’re all the bags?”
“What bags?”
“You’re staying for a few weeks, right?” He hefted out an old canvas army bag and a smaller gym bag. “Where’s the rest?”
He’d hefted the strap of the canvas bag over his shoulder and slung the red nylon gym bag