Wayne.” She took two long-handled spoons from a drawer. “Not only is it a great movie, but it has sentimental value. My father loved it. I remember sitting on the couch watching it with him after my mother went to bed. Unlike you, she liked the movies with the singing and dancing and he needed a good dose of the Old West afterward. I was allowed to stay up as long as I wanted on Christmas Eve. I still do that.”
“You are a big girl, so you can do whatever you want.”
She was just going to ignore that. He was deliberately provoking her. “I always have done what I want. Make a note of it. Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“That sounds good. It’ll keep me awake for the drive back to the resort later.”
The reminder that their evening would come to an end caused an odd sinking in her stomach, one she immediately chided herself for. After all, it wasn’t like she planned to invite him to spend the night, no matter how attractive she found him. The softly falling snow outside might be adding to the ambiance of the evening, but her guarded heart was resistant to even the most romantic of trappings.
She believed in love. In loving your child, your family, and of course, she’d thought she was in love with Slater what felt like a million years ago, but that just hadn’t worked out.
It would have been easy to accept his proposal once he knew she was pregnant, to settle into a comfortable life as a Carson, but she’d known from the start that neither of their hearts would have been in it. They were friends—she genuinely liked the father of her child and was grateful for the good relationship they shared—but that wasn’t the same as love.
For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why it was Mick Branson who apparently inspired more than friendly feelings in her. She couldn’t have picked a man more different from her if she’d tried.
Not in a million years was she Hollywood. Not in a million years was he Mustang Creek.
Though when he settled next to her on the roomy couch, ice cream in hand, he seemed comfortable enough despite the designer slacks and tailored shirt. He took a bite and gave her an incredulous look from those oh-so-sexy dark eyes. “You have to be kidding me.”
“I told you. Billy is a burly, tattooed culinary angel.”
“I might kiss him the next time I see him.” Mick dug back in.
“And he might take exception to that.” She took a spoonful from her own dish. The ice cream was smooth, creamy yet tart, and everything she remembered. Billy only made it once a year and she always put in an order early. Picking up the remote, she pushed a button to cue up the movie. “Here we go. The Duke.”
“Pure Christmas magic in the form of an old western—sounds great to me. But I guess now would be the time to confess I’ve never actually seen it. Did you say Big Jake?”
“What?” She stared. “Never? That’s...incomprehensible.”
He shrugged. “If you met my family, well, let’s just say John Wayne was not on their radar. I’m sure they would enjoy it, don’t get me wrong, but they just wouldn’t think of it. I believe I was dragged to a Broadway play as a child before I ever watched a cartoon.”
That explained quite a lot. “Is that why you do what you do?”
“It might be. Why are you an artist? I doubt I’m going to get a straight-up answer. There probably isn’t one.”
She had to concede that one, so she changed the subject. “I can’t believe you already ate all of that ice cream.” He’d inhaled it. “Haven’t you heard of an ice cream headache?”
“I’ve never had one, but for that stuff, I’d take my chances.” He got up to go into the kitchen and she heard him rinse the bowl and considerately put it in the dishwasher.
Considerate? Oh no. That was trouble right there.
Mick Branson was larger than life in some ways. So was Slater, so maybe that accounted for the chemistry simmering between her and Mick. She was attracted to charismatic men.
She savored each spoonful as the opening movie scene unfolded, feeling oddly comfortable. Even though he wasn’t a stranger, they’d never spent time alone together before this evening, so the ease between them surprised her.
Everything about the way Mick acted said he was interested and she wasn’t positive she was ready for someone like him intruding on the life she’d so carefully built for herself and her daughter.
His life was all about reading signals. Meetings, the stock market, international affairs, how the media was cooperating...
Mick was in tune with the business side of his life. The personal side? Not so much.
Raine was clearly a free spirit but there was a wariness about her that was impossible to miss. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand being cautious; he tended to tread carefully himself, or perhaps he would have had more long-term relationships rather than just a fleeting romantic entanglement here or there.
Her wary aura aside, he wondered if she had any idea how sexy it was to watch her eat ice cream.
He forced his gaze to remain on the screen rather than her lips. There was no way he’d take advantage of softly falling snow and all the rest of the ambiance to get her into bed, though he had a lot of enthusiasm for a night with the lovely Ms. McCall. Maybe more than one night, and that was food for thought right there.
He was afraid this was going somewhere, and Mick wasn’t a man who considered himself afraid of all that much.
Luckily, John Wayne saved him along with everyone else on the screen. Well, not quite everyone, and with an analytical eye he admired the director’s decisions on how the plot played out. It was his favorite kind of script, showing people as they really were—not all good, not all bad, but a combination of both. Slater tended to roll that way in his documentaries as well, with villains and heroes side by side. His characters weren’t fictional, but balanced, and he made riveting dramas set in real places steeped in history.
“Good movie, but there’s no love story,” Mick pointed out when the credits rolled.
Raine sat easily with one leg folded under her. He’d already concluded she did yoga from the rolled-up mat tucked in the corner, so the agile pose didn’t surprise him. What had surprised him more was when her giant cat had wandered out and jumped on the couch with remarkable grace for a creature of his size, then settled down next to her. “Isn’t that what appeals to most men? All action and no sappy stuff.”
He shook his head, a faint smile on his mouth. “I think you have it backward. Men are more interested in romance than women are.”
“Au contraire, Mr. Boardroom.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Men are more interested in sex.”
“I sense a debate coming. Who buys flowers and candy and dutifully mows the yard just to please the woman in his life?”
She shot back tartly, “A man who wants to have sex. I appreciate a thoughtful gesture as much as any woman, but let’s not get confused about the motivation here.”
“You can’t put an entire gender in the same bracket, Ms. Artist. There are a lot of decent guys I know who would never walk into
