Too Good to Be True

Your house is kind of a museum, isn’t it?”

“Well, not really a museum,” I said. “It’s just tidy.”

“Tidy. Sure. Well, want to come over? It won’t matter if we get my kitchen dirty. I’m still working on it.”

“Sure. Thanks,” I said. I had been wondering about the house, what it was like inside, what Callahan had been doing. “How’s that been going, anyway? You flipping the house and all?”

“It’s going fine. Come in. I’ll give you a tour,” he offered, reading my mind.

CAL LET ME IN the back door.

“I’ll get a couple towels,” he said, taking off his work boots and disappearing into another room. Angus, still on my shoulder, gave a little snore, making me smile. I slipped off my filthy gardening clogs, pushed my hair out of my face with one hand and took a look around.

Cal’s kitchen was nearly done. A trestle table with three mismatched chairs overlooked a new bay window. The kitchen cabinets were maple with glass panes, and the counters were made from gray soapstone. Spaces gapped where the appliances would go, though there was a two-burner stove and a dorm-size fridge. I should definitely invite him over for dinner, I thought. Seeing as he was so nice to me. Seeing as he’d held my hand.

Seeing as I had the hots for him and couldn’t seem to remember the reasons that I’d once thought Callahan O’ Shea made a bad choice.

Cal came back into the room. “Here,” he said, taking my sleeping pooch from me and wrapping him in a big towel. He rubbed the dog’s fur, causing Angus to blink sleepily at the strange man holding him. “No biting,” Cal warned. Angus wagged his tail. Cal smiled.

Then he kissed my dog on the head.

That was it. Without even quite realizing that I’d moved, I found that my arms were somehow around Callahan’s neck, that I’d knocked off his Yankees cap, that my fingers were in his wet hair, that I was squishing Angus and that I was kissing Callahan O’ Shea. Finally.

“It’s about time,” he muttered against my mouth. Then he was kissing me back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

HIS MOUTH WAS HOT AND SOFT and hard at the same time, and he was so solid and warm, and he was licking my chin while he kissed me…or no, wait. That was Angus, and Callahan laughed, a low, scraping laugh. “Okay, okay, hang on,” Cal murmured, pulling back. One of his hands held Angus, the other cupped the back of my head. Oh, crap, my hair. The man could lose a finger in there. But he gently disentangled himself, then set my damp little dog on the floor and straightened up, looking at me in the eyes. Angus yarped once, and then he must’ve run off somewhere, because I heard his toenails clicking away. But I wasn’t looking at anything except the man in front of me. His lovely, utterly kissable mouth, the slight scrape of razor stubble, those downward slanting, dark blue eyes.

Now those were eyes I could look into for a long, long time, I thought. The heat of him shimmered out to me, beckoning, and my lips parted.

“Want to stay over?” he asked, breathing hard.

“Sure!” I squeaked.

And then we were kissing again. His mouth was hot and fierce on mine, my hands clenched his hair. His arms went around me, crushing me against him, and God, he felt good, so big and safe and a little scary at the same time, so masculine and hard. And his mouth, oh, Lord, the man knew how to kiss, he kissed me like I was the water at the end of a long stretch of burning sand. I felt the wall against my back, felt his weight pressing against me, and then his hands were under my wet shirt, burning the damp skin of my waist, my ribs. I tugged his shirt out of his jeans and slid my hands across the hot skin of his back, my knees practically buckling as his mouth moved to my neck. Then his hand moved a little higher and my knees did buckle, but he held me against the wall and kept kissing me, my neck, my mouth. All that time in prison must have made Callahan O’ Shea a little desperate, and the fact that he was with me, kissing me…it was overwhelming. A man like this. With me.

“You sure about this?” he asked, pulling back, his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed. I nodded, and just like that, he kissed me again and lifted me, his hands cupping my ass, and carried me into another room. One with a bed, thank God. Then Angus yarped and jumped against us, and Callahan laughed. Without putting me down, he gently shoved my dog out with his foot and closed the door with his shoulder.

So it was just the two of us. Outside the room, Angus whined and scratched wildly. Cal didn’t seem to notice, just set me down, slid his hands up my face and stepped closer, erasing the space between us.

“He’s going to ruin that door,” I whispered as Cal nuzzled my neck.

“I don’t care,” he muttered. Then Callahan O’ Shea pulled my shirt over my head and I stopped worrying about my dog.

Whatever urgency he’d felt before seemed to melt, and suddenly things moved in slow motion. His hands were so hot on my skin, and he bent to kiss my shoulder, sliding the strap of my camisole down, his five o’clock shadow scraping the tender skin there, his mouth hot and silky smooth. His own skin was like velvet, his hard muscles sliding underneath with hypnotic power.

Without me quite realizing that we’d moved, I found that we’d made it to the bed, because he was pulling me down with him, smiling that wicked, slow smile that caught me in the stomach. Then his hand moved to the waistband of my jeans, playing there before cleverly undoing the button. He kissed me again, hot and slow and lazy, and then he rolled over so I was on top of him, his big muscular arms around me, and I kissed that smiling mouth, slid my tongue against his. God, he tasted so good, I just couldn’t believe he’d been living next door to me for all these long, lonely weeks when there was this kind of kissing waiting for me. I heard him groan deep in his throat as he wove his fingers into my wet hair, and I pulled back to see his face.

“About time,” he whispered again, and after that, there was no more talking.

AN HOUR LATER, MY LIMBS were filled with that almost-forgotten, heavy sweetness. I lay on my side, my head on Callahan’s shoulder, his arm around me. I sneaked a peek at his face. His eyes were closed, those long, straight lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. He was smiling. Possibly asleep, but smiling.

“What are you looking at?” he murmured, not opening his eyes. Not sleeping, but apparently omniscient.

“You’re pretty gorgeous, Irish,” I said.

“Would it break your heart to hear that I’m actually Scottish?”

“Not if it means I can see you in a kilt.” I grinned. “Plus, then you’re related to Angus.”

“Great,” he said, still smiling. My heart expanded almost painfully. Callahan O’ Shea. I was in bed, na**d, with Callahan O’ Shea. Pretty damn nice.

“Scottish, hmm?” I asked, tracing a line on his shoulder.

“Mmm-hmm. Well, Pop’s Scottish. My father was Irish, I guess. Hence the mick name.” He opened his eyes like a lazy dragon and grinned. “Any other questions at the moment?”

“Um, well…where’s the bathroom, Cal?” I asked. Not exactly the most romantic thing, but nature was calling.

“Second door on the left,” he said. “Don’t be long.”

I grabbed the afghan that had been neatly folded at the bottom of the bed and ventured into the hall, wrapping myself in the blanket as I went. There was Angus, asleep on his back in front of the fireplace in the living room, which was illuminated only by the kitchen lights spilling in. My dog was snoring. Good boy.

In the bathroom, I flicked on the light and blinked, then winced as I saw my reflection. Jeez Louise! A streak of mud lined my jaw, my forehead bore a red stripe from the twig that had caught me in the face, and my hair…my hair…it looked more like wool than hair. Rolling my eyes, I finger-combed it a bit, wet it down on the left side, took care of business and washed my hands. Noticed that my feet were rather dirty. Washed those, one at a time, in the sink.

“What are you doing in there?” Cal called. “Stop rifling through my medicine cabinet and get back to bed, woman!”

The mirror showed my grin. My cheeks glowed. I re-wrapped the afghan around my shoulders—modesty, you know?—and walked back down the hall to Callahan’s room. At the sight of me, he lurched abruptly into a sitting position.

“It’s the rain,” I said, running a hand over my hair. “It goes a little crazy in the rain.”

But he simply looked at me. “You’re so beautiful, Grace,” he said, and that pretty much sealed the deal.

I was rather crazy about Callahan O’ Shea.

THE NEXT MORNING, I opened one eye. The clock on the night table read 6:37 a.m. Callahan was asleep next to me.

It took a minute for that to sink in, and as it did, I felt a glow in my chest. Callahan O’ Shea was sleeping next to me. After shagging me. Three times. Ahem! And quite fabulously, I might add. So much so that the second time, I’d awakened Angus, who then tried to tunnel under the bedroom door to ascertain why his mistress was making all that noise.

Not only that, it was…fun. Hot and steamy, yes, that I’d expected from a guy like Callahan O’ Shea. But maybe I hadn’t expected that he’d make me laugh. Or to tell me how soft my skin was, his voice in a tone of near wonder.

When I woke up somewhere around 3:00 a.m., he’d been looking at me, smiling like I was Christmas morning.

“Hey, Cal?” I whispered. He didn’t move. “Callahan?” I kissed his shoulder. He smelled so good. God, three times last night, you’d think I’d have had enough. “Hey, gorgeous. I have to go.” I thought about adding honey, but that felt a little…sweet. Bub, maybe. Not honey. Not yet. “Wake up, bub.”

Nope. Nothing. I’d worn him out, poor lad.

I realized I was grinning. Ear to ear. Maybe humming a bit. Felt a little Cole Porter coming on. With one more kiss and one more look at the beautiful Callahan O’ Shea, I slipped out of the warm bed and tiptoed out of the room, gathering my mud-stained clothes as I went. Angus bounced up in the living room the minute he saw me.

“Shh,” I whispered. “Uncle Cal’s still sleeping.”

Taking a quick look around the living room, I could see that Callahan had been hard at work. The floors still held the faint bite of polyurethane, and the walls were painted a pale gray. Planks of some sort were piled in the corner, and beveled wooden trim framed two of the four living room windows.

It was a lovely home, or it would be when he was finished. The fireplace tiles were painted blue, and though the stairs leading to the second floor had no railing, they were wide and welcoming. It was the kind of home that had been carefully built, with surprising little windows with deep sills, crown molding and a pattern inset in the oak floors. The kind of house that just wasn’t made anymore.

Angus whined. “Okay, boy,” I whispered. In the kitchen, I found a pen and piece of paper by the phone. “Dear Mr.

O’ Shea,” I wrote.

Thank you ever so much for your kind assistance in helping me find my beloved Angus last night. I trust you slept well. I have the unfortunate duty of fighting off the Yankee hordes this morning at Chancellorsville (also known as Haddam Meadows on Route 154 just off of Route 9, should you be interested in watching us drive back the Northern aggressors). Should I survive unscathed, I very much hope that our paths will cross again in the near future. Very best wishes, Grace Emerson (Miss).

Dumb or cute? I decided it was cute and tucked it by the phone. Then I took one more peek at the gorgeous sleeping man, picked up Angus and let myself out. My dog needed a bath, and so did I.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“THIS WAY, FIRST VIRGINIA!” I called, safely aboard Snowlight. Granted, the fat little white pony was not exactly a warrior steed, but he was better than nothing.

Margaret trotted up to my side. “I really need to stop doing this,” she said, pulling at the corner of her wool uniform. “I’m dying here.”

“Actually, you’re supposed to die over there, by the river,” I corrected.

“I can’t believe this is your social life,” she said.

“Yet here you are, tagging along.” I turned toward my troops. “‘Who could not conquer, with troops such as these?

’” I quoted loudly. My soldiers cheered.

“So you went to bed early last night,” Margs commented. “Lights out, Angus quiet, and it was only 9:30 p.m. when Mom dropped me off.”

“Yup. Early to bed, early to rise,” I said, my face prickling with telltale heat. Margs had found me this morning in the kitchen, hair wrapped in a towel, red bathrobe firmly cinched, very proper. She’d driven down to the battlefield herself, since she had a deposition in Middletown at two, so I hadn’t had the chance to tell her of recent developments with Hottie the Hunk Next Door.

“Hey, I met a guy in court and thought you might want his number,” Margaret said, aiming her rifle at a Union soldier.

“Oh, wait, don’t fire,” I said. “Snowlight will fall asleep if you do. He has narcolepsy.” I patted the pony’s neck fondly.

“Gentle Jesus of the three iron nails, Grace,” Margs muttered. She pointed her gun at the soldier and said, without much conviction, “Bang.” The soldier, well aware of my steed’s shortcomings, fell with obliging dramatics, clawed the ground for a few seconds, then lay tragically still. “So, should I have him call you?”

“Well, actually, I don’t think I’ll be needing anyone’s number,” I said.

“Why?” Margs asked. “Did you find someone?”

I looked at her and smiled. “Callahan O’ Shea.”