paused at the sink in the tack room to wash and dry his hands, then walked out to join her. Saw her shiver in the brisk, wintry air.
Aware the day looked a lot warmer than it actually was, he turned away from the evidence of her chill and drawled, “I think I might know who you’re talking about.” Rubbing his jaw in a parody of thoughtfulness, he stepped purposefully into her personal space.
Watching her amber eyes widen, he continued, “That rancher brother of mine, Wyatt, down the road. None too bright, is he?”
Molly made a strangled sound deep in her throat. Rather than step away, she put her hand on the center of his chest and gave him a small, equally purposeful shove. “I’m talking about you, you big lug.”
Delighted by her unwillingness to give any ground to him, he captured her hand before she could snatch it away and held it over his heart. “Ah. Endearments.” He sighed with comically exaggerated dreaminess.
Temper spiking even more, she tried, unsuccessfully, to extricate her fingers from his. “You’re playing with fire here, cowboy.”
So he was. But then he had to do something with all the aggravation she caused him. And had been causing, if truth be known, for quite some time.
He let his grin widen, surveying her indignant expression. Dropping his head, he taunted softly, “The kind of fire that leads to a kiss?”
“The kind that leads to me hauling off and kicking you right in the shin!”
It was good to know he could get to her this much. Because she sure got to him. The pressure building at the front of his jeans told him that.
He lowered his lips to hers. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you that you can catch more flies with sugar than spite?”
Abruptly Molly’s face paled.
Too late, he realized he should have bothered to find out what kind of life she’d had as a kid before hurling that particular insult.
She drew a deep breath. Serious now. Subdued.
Aware he’d hurt her—without meaning to—he let her hand go.
She stepped back. Regaining her composure, she lifted her chin and said in a solemn tone, “I want you to talk to Braden. Tell him you were wrong. Santa doesn’t bring little boys live bulls.”
At that particular moment, he thought he would do just about anything for her. Probably would have, if she hadn’t been so socially and monetarily ambitious and so out of touch regarding what really mattered in life, same as his ex.
But Molly was. So...
Exploring their attraction would lead only to misery.
For all their sakes, Chance put up the usual barbed wire around his heart. “Why can’t you tell him?” he asked with an indifferent shrug. “You’re Braden’s momma, after all.” And, from all he’d seen, misguided goals aside, a damn good one.
Molly’s lower lip trembled, and she threw up her hands in frustration. “I have told him! He won’t believe me. Braden says that you’re the cowboy, and you know everything, and you said it was okay. And that’s what he wants me to write in his letter to Santa, and I cannot let him ask Saint Nick for that, only to have his little heart broken.”
She had a point about that, Chance realized guiltily. He’d hate to see the little tyke, who also happened to be the spitting image of his mother, disappointed.
Sobering, he asked, “What do you want Braden to have?”
Molly’s features softened in relief. “The Leo and Lizzie World Adventure wooden train set.” She pulled a magazine article out of her back pocket that listed the toy as the most wanted preschool-age present for the holiday that year. Featuring train characters from a popular animated kids’ television show, the starter set was extremely elaborate. Which was no surprise. Since Molly Griffith was known for her big ambitions and even more expensive tastes.
It made sense she would want the same for her only child.
Even if Braden would be happier playing with a plastic toy bull. Or horse...
Sensing she wanted his approval, Chance shrugged. Wary of hurting her feelings—again—he mumbled, “Looks nice.”
As if sensing his attitude was not quite genuine, she frowned. “It will bring Braden hours of fun.”
Enough to justify the cost? he wondered, noting the small wooden pieces were ridiculously overpriced—even if they were in high demand. He squinted at her. “Are you sure you don’t work for the toy company?”
She scowled at his joke but came persuasively closer, even more serious now. “Please, Chance. I’m begging you.”
This is new, Chance thought, surprised.
He actually kind of liked her coming to him for help.
She spread her hands wide, turning on the full wattage of maternal charm. “Braden just turned three years old. It’s the first Christmas holiday he’s likely to ever remember. I really want it to be special.” She paused and took a deep breath that lifted the lush softness of her breasts. “You have to help me talk sense into my son.”
* * *
FOR A BRIEF MOMENT, Molly thought she had finally gotten through to the impossibly handsome cowboy.
Then he folded his brawny arms across his broad chest and let out a sigh that reverberated through his six-foot-three-inch frame. Intuitive hazel eyes lassoed hers. “I want to help you.”
Pulse racing, Molly watched as he swept off his black Stetson and shoved a hand through the rumpled strands of his thick chestnut-colored hair. “But?”
Frowning, he settled his hat squarely on his head. “I can’t do to your son what my parents did to me.”
“And what was that?” she asked curiously.
“Try and censor and mold his dreams—to suit your wishes instead of Braden’s.”
Had Lucille and the late Frank Lockhart done that to Chance? The grim set of his lips seemed to say so. But that had nothing to do with her or Braden.
Molly stepped closer, invading his space. With a huff, she planted both hands on her waist and accused, “You just started this calamity to get under my skin.”
His sexy grin widened. “I was already under your skin,” he reminded her, tilting his head to one side.
True, unfortunately. Molly did her best to stifle a sigh while still stubbornly holding her ground. She wished he didn’t radiate such endless masculine energy or look so ruggedly fit in his gray plaid flannel shirt and jeans. Never mind have such a sexy smile and firm, sensual lips...
She could barely look at him and not wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
Just as an experiment, of course.
“So you’re really not going to help me?”
Chance’s
