Christmas Male by Jillian Hart

Author:Jillian Hart [Hart, Jillian]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Romance, Historical, Western, Historical Romance, Holidays, Westerns
Amazon: B00GKQPXV4
Barnesnoble: B00GKQPXV4
Goodreads: 18803857
Publisher: Jillian Hart
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

"That was a delicious breakfast, Maggie." Winston tossed his cloth napkin onto his plate and pushed back from the table just enough to pat his belly. "I'm plumb full. I haven't eaten like that since we left New York."

"That's the truth," John agreed with a satisfied nod as he reached for his coffee cup and took a sip. "You're a pleasure to have around, missy."

"It's a pleasure to be here," she confessed, and in more ways than one. The view was beautiful from the dining room, gazing out at the jagged, brilliantly white mountains that seemed close enough to touch. Sunlight glistened on the snowy boughs of thousands of trees, carpeting the mountainside and glittered along the slopes of the yard, like a million tiny twinkling stars. The sky was a breathless, clear, cold blue. She'd never seen anything as captivating.

Unless it was the man seated across the table from her. Miles reached for the coffeepot sitting on a trivet and poured himself another cup, ignoring her presence. To him, she may not have been there at all, he hadn't so much as said a word or glanced at her from the second he'd stepped foot inside the dining room. The bruises on his knuckles reminded her of what he'd done last night. For her. His hand was less swollen this morning, although he mildly winced when he set down the coffeepot. It must still be hurting him. Her pulse gave a little flutter.

Remember, you aren't going to fall for him, Maggie. She set down her fork with a clink on her plate and reached for her own cup, still steaming and sweetened just right. While she drank, she peeked at Miles over her rim. He looked darker this morning, more shadowed, his handsome face drawn, deep lines bracketing his mouth. Dour furrows dug into his forehead as he stirred sugar into his cup.

"How's the hangover?" John asked, amused as he drained the last drops of coffee from his cup.

"No comment." Miles sounded annoyed and maybe a bit embarrassed as he stirred in another spoonful of sugar. His hazel gaze arrowed across the table, pinning hers. The corner of his mouth tugged downward. "I don't usually drink like this."

"I never thought you did," she said gently, only now remembering the big mug of scotch he'd poured last night. He'd taken both the mug and the bottle up to his bed. She arched one brow, cradling her cup in both hands. "I wouldn't peg you as a drunk the way Chester is, for instance."

"Funny." Miles shook his head, as if he wasn't humored in the slightest. "There's only one reason I drink. Women."

"That'll do it," John agreed, setting down his empty cup. "Oh, the times your grandmother drove me to drink, I couldn’t count them all. Every time I take a drink of scotch, I think of her. Half the time she was waving something at me—a fry pan, a broom, one time a fireplace poker—and the rest of the time she was, well—guess that's not polite table conversation.

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