Man Of Her Dreams

Ry glanced at the sky and dropped his free arm around her shoulder. “Stars,” he said. “That’s a bonus for the trip. You don’t notice stars much in a New York winter.”

The way he tucked her beside him, so casual and brotherly, was no call for the butterflies in her stomach to act up again or for her heart to race as if she were fourteen, not twice that.

But as long as she had a shoulder to lean on, she rested her head there, all the better to see those stars. “Do you like living in New York City?” she asked, proud that she could make small talk in spite of bodily chaos.

“Sure. It’s home.”

He snuggled her close, just a buddy thing, her mind insisted, though she shivered again.

He must have thought she was freezing, for he snuggled her closer. His chin nuzzled her forehead, a skin-to-skin move that set the butterflies spiraling.

“Ry, what are you doing?” she teased. Teasing, flirting, playing along—that was her operational mode, making this a fun trip for him to remember.

“What do you mean?” he asked innocently.

She looked up at him, checking his expression. A full grin cancelled the innocent act.

“I’m just keeping my best girl warm,” he claimed, flirt that he was.

His best girl? Not likely, but she could be that for tonight. Ry was a “love the one you’re with” kind of guy. Day after tomorrow, he would hop on that plane, probably find a new “best girl” among the passengers or have one waiting to drive him home from the airport. Meg would be lucky if she saw him again in another decade.

“Who’s your best girl in New York?” she teased, letting him know she didn’t take him seriously. “Or is there just one?”

He could get used to the way Meg felt, snuggled next to him, and he loved hearing her sass. It was getting more and more difficult to think of her as his buddy and pal. “You know me,” he said, hoping his drawl would disguise the state of his mind. “It’s my job to spread love around.”

She looked up at him, concern in those big eyes. “But aren’t you getting tired of that, Ry? Isn’t there someone you’d like to settle down with?”

Him, settle down? No, thank you. He’d had all the family life he ever wanted, but he couldn’t get enough of teasing Meg. “You’re not applying for the job, are you?”

“Me?” her voice squeaked. “Are you crazy?”

He laughed, chalking up a point for his side. “Why not you? You’ve become a real babe.”

“Wow, thanks,” she muttered, pushing out of his arms.

“Think about it, Meg,” he said, enjoying the game. “You could be my motorcycle mama, riding behind me on my Harley. What do you think?”

She whipped his jacket off and shoved it at him. “I think you’re just as goofy as ever, Ry Brennan.”

Maybe, but he still could push her buttons. He watched her swish away. No doubt about it. Meg had turned into a babe. Catching up with her, he said, “What’s the rush?”

She jabbed the elevator button and answered, “Beth will be wondering what’s happened to us.”

“Did anything happen to us?” he asked, baiting her just for fun, though he felt himself hold his breath, wondering what she would say.

The question startled her. He could see that, but she recovered fast. Her blue eyes flashing, she propped one hand on her hip and said, “Ry Brennan, it is not your job to make every female on this planet fall for you. As a person who has known you since you wore my mama’s high heels, I am exempt. Is that clear?”

Loud and clear. He laughed until he could scarcely catch a breath. He’d only done that once, and nobody knew it but her.

Meg congratulated herself on an excellent recovery. For a second, he’d gotten under her skin, but she’d made a good comeback. “Save that charm for silly women who don’t know you like I do. Give me back my bag,” she said, snatching it. “You don’t deserve to carry it.”

Ry laughed as if she were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Well, great. She’d made him laugh. A New Year’s resolution had never been easier to carry out.

She watched him rock back and forth on his heels, his hands in his pants pockets, looking as happy as a kid on his way to recess. What a change from the way he’d looked in his parents’ study. The difference went straight to her heart.

Even if it was only for tonight, she would be Ry’s “best girl.” And day after tomorrow they would get on with the rest of their lives.

Chapter Four

When she opened the door to her condo, Beth had already changed into jeans and a T-shirt.

“Where’s your bag?” she asked. “Or were you planning to wear a pair of my jammies?”

“No, I’ve got a bag. I just forgot it in the trunk.”

“You might have remembered it if you weren’t making trouble,” Meg claimed, brushing past him.

Beth took her bag. “How can you get in trouble counting stars, Ry?” his sister said as she carried Meg’s bag to the bedroom.

“Meg wouldn’t help me,” he said, wandering through the condo, inspecting the layout. “Nice place, Beth. You must have had Isabel decorate for you.”

In unison, both women groaned. He loved the sound. This was family.

“I never know whether to pity Isabel for being Trey’s wife or congratulate her for finding exactly what she was looking for,” Beth said, going to the kitchen where she measured coffee and set it to brew.

“And that would be a rich doctor who treats her like a child?” Meg said, heading for the bedroom. “I’m changing out of this scratchy dress.”

That was a shame. All dressed up, Meg looked like a woman he could fall for, not the girl he used to know. He wandered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents.

“Hungry?” Beth asked, pulling out chips and salsa.

“I could eat.” Actually, Ry was ravenous. He’d been too nervous to eat during his trip, and he hadn’t been at his parents’ house long enough to have something there. After that scene in the study, the three of them had turned in their party hats and left. No one from the family seemed to notice.

“There’s a pizza in the freezer and muffins in that bakery box,” Beth said.

He spotted eggs and cheese. “Mind if I make an omelet?”

“No, but don’t you want to get comfy like us?”

“Maybe later. I’d rather eat.”

Meg appeared in jeans and a huge pink T-shirt that probably doubled as sleepwear. Had she always looked that pretty in pink?

“Meg, I’ve put a pot of coffee on,” his sister said. “Do you want tea? I have peach tea and that herbal stuff you like.”

Scooting onto one of the high stools at the kitchen counter, Meg ran a hand through her long dark hair and said, “If we’re staying up all night, I’d better have coffee.”

Ry broke eggs into a bowl. “How about an omelet?” he said, enjoying the sight of her slender fingers running through her dark, shiny hair. She scooped it up, lifting it off of her shoulders as if it were a heavy weight.

Beth leaned over his shoulder. “I think you just added some eggshell, pal.”

He looked in the bowl and saw for himself what happened when a man got distracted. “You don’t like a little crunch in your eggs?” he said, trying to cover his mistake. It was crazy how he couldn’t get past how absolutely gorgeous Meggy had become.

Meg. She really wasn’t Meggy anymore. Instead of the slightly klutzy girl who used to adore him, this very pretty woman had confidence to spare and seemed immune to the fact that she had his total attention.

He fished out the bits of shell and brought the bowl a little closer to her, the better to show off his whisking technique. Women usually liked his domestic routine.

She lifted one pretty brow. “You’re really cooking?”

He was, indeed. “At the fire department, we take turns. Omelets are one of my specialties. Light, fluffy, creamy—this is going to melt in your mouth.” She had a beautiful mouth, truly kissable.

“Is your skillet supposed to be smoking?”

He’d forgotten he’d turned the heat on. Usually, he worked in a smooth rhythm, getting the eggs into the pan at just the right moment, but he was definitely off his stride. “I think I’m a little jet-lagged,” he said, grabbing the handle of the pan to take it off the burner.

Ow! He silently screamed. That was one hot handle.

“Let me help,” his sister said, taking over, using a hot pad. “You’d better run some cold water on that hand.”

He knew that. He didn’t need a pediatrician telling him what to do with a minor burn.

An hour later, when he’d redeemed his reputation as a cook and hadn’t made another dumb mistake, the three of them sat in front of Beth’s muted TV. The girls had curled up on the sofa, and he sat in a comfortable chair with one bare foot casually crossed on a knee and one burned hand casually resting on an ice bag. He’d changed into a T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms and settled in for the night, feeling happier than he’d been in a very long time.

“Ry, that was better than any breakfast Isabel could have made,” Beth vowed. “If you ever change professions, you should be a chef.”

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