“Just so you know, Arran is loving all the Edgewood insanity, which may prove he’s not so smart.” Luke gestured with his chin toward the door. “I thought our family would overwhelm his princely sensitivities, but he’s jumped right in to play American football with the guys in the backyard. Even took on Uncle Tate in an arm-wrestling competition.”
Charlie paused her forward motion. “Who won?”
“Uncle Tate.” Luke leaned close with a wink. “But Arran let him. Anybody who can do stonework like him is going to beat an eighty-three-year-old couch potato.”
Charlie laughed and entered the bedlam, a dozen women welcoming her with grand gestures and “Where have you been?” Children dashed here and there, laughter bubbled from various Christmas-decorated corners, while a couple of men shouted at the football game on the television in the den.
This was her family.
The least crazy side.
She’d just finished setting up the drink table when the back door opened, spilling a dozen men and kids into the house. Definitely the group playing football, from the looks of their clothes.
And then Arran walked in behind her cousin Jake, and all those mental gymnastics she’d been practicing about how they shouldn’t be together died in her head.
His hair was a mess, he had dirt stains down one side of his body, and the grin he wore gave him an odd mixture of guy-next-door and Prince Charming. He made some sort of comment to Jake, which had Jake laughing, then Arran looked up... and his gaze found hers.
Her heart flip-flopped and, maybe, she smiled. Maybe. Whatever. Her expression, if it reflected her current feelings, may have looked a little like Luke when he’d picked up her mashed potatoes from the truck.
Evidently Arran read nonverbal communication pretty well, because he crossed the room to her as if she’d verbally called him forward.
Calm down, Charlie. Breathe.
She met him halfway, dodging a few people and pieces of furniture along the way.
“It looks like the ground won the game.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorframe separating the den from the massive family room. Her gaze made a pointed review of his current ruffled state.
“It’s nothing to rugby.” He leaned in and wiggled his brows, catching her breath with his sudden nearness. “And I made two touchdowns.”
“Impressive.” She picked a piece of dirt off his shoulder and flicked it at him. “Your talent knows no bounds.”
He narrowed his eyes, his lips tipping into a smirk. “You haven’t really investigated my best talents, but I’m not averse if you’d like torethink the date option.” Her hesitation drew him nearer, all humor fleeing his expression. He searched her face. “I may surprise you.”
He already had. Over and over again.
“Woo-hoo, y’all! We got a couple in the hot spot.”
Charlie blinked out of her Arran-filled daze and turned toward her aunt Pru, who was gesturing for folks to gather round.
Why was everyone staring at them?
“Oh, Charlie! It’s like the perfect movie moment,” came her cousin Penelope’s squeal.
What on earth?
“Well, you might as well get on with it so the rest of us can start eating,” said Papa Edgewood, his grumpy words defying the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Charlie followed her papa’s gaze to the clump of greenery poised on the doorframe above her.
Her stomach dropped.
Mistletoe.
Calls of encouragement rang out from the crowd like the wild clan they were. She looked over at Arran to apologize, but his raised brow seemed to offer the same encouragement as the rowdy bunch calling for a kiss.
Blast Granny and her early Christmas decorating.
“Don’t be yella, Arran!” someone called.
