A Billionaire for Christmas(32)

He half turned to face her. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Was he serious? She was a single woman caring for a baby that wasn’t hers in a lonely cabin in the woods. “I think we can make room,” she said drily. Without pausing to think of the ramifications, she ran a hand through his thick hair. The color, rich chestnut shot through with dark gold, was far too gorgeous for a man, not really fair at all.

Leo closed his eyes and leaned back, a smile on his face, but fine tension in his body. “That would be nice….” he said, trailing off as though her gentle scalp massage was making it hard to speak.

She put her head on his chest. With only a thin navy T-shirt covering his impressive upper physique, she could hear the steady ka-thud, ka-thud, ka-thud of his heart. “Perhaps we should wait and see how tonight goes,” she muttered. “I’m out of practice, to be honest.” Better he know now than later.

Moving so quickly that she never saw it coming, he took hold of her and placed her beneath him on the sofa, his long, solid frame covering hers as he kissed his way down her throat. One of his legs lodged between her thighs, opening her to the possibility of something reckless. She lifted her hips instinctively. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded.

He found her breasts and took one nipple between his teeth, wetting the fabric of her shirt and bra as he tormented her with a bite that was just short of pain. Fire shot from the place where his mouth touched her all the way to her core. Shivers of pleasure racked her.

Suddenly, Leo reared back, laughing and cursing.

Blankly, she stared up at him, her body at a fever pitch of longing. “What? Tell me, Leo.”

“Listen. The baby’s awake.”

* * *

When a knock sounded at the door minutes later, Leo knew he and Phoebe had narrowly escaped embarrassment on top of sexual frustration. She was out of sight tending to Teddy, so Leo greeted the man at the door with a smile. “Can I help you?”

The old codger in overalls looked him up and down. “Name’s Buford. These sugared pecans is from my wife. She knowed they were Miss Phoebe’s favorite, so she made up an extra batch after she finished the ones for the church bazaar. Will you give ’em to her?”

Leo took the paper sack. “I’d be happy to. She’s feeding the baby a bottle, I think, but she should be finished in a moment. Would you like to come in?”

“Naw. Thanks. Are you the fella that was going to rent the other cabin?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Don’t be gettin’ any ideas. Miss Phoebe’s pretty popular with the neighbors. We look out fer her.”

“I understand.”

“You best get some extra firewood inside. Gonna snow tonight.”

“Really?” The afternoon sunshine felt more like spring than Christmas.

“Weather changes quicklike around here.”

“Thanks for the warning, Buford.”

With a tip of his cap, the guy ambled away, slid into a rust-covered pickup truck and backed up to turn and return the way he had come.

Leo closed the door. Despite feeling like a sneaky child, he unfolded the top of the sack and stole three sugary pecans.

Phoebe caught him with his hand in the bag…literally. “What’s that?” she asked, patting Teddy on the back to burp him.

Leo chewed and swallowed, barely resisting the urge to grab another handful of nuts. “Your farmer friend, Buford, came by. How old is he anyway?”

“Buford is ninety-eight and his wife is ninety-seven. They were both born in the Great Smoky Mountains before the land became a national park. The house Buford and Octavia now live in is the one he built for her when they married in the early 1930s, just as the Depression was gearing up.”

“A log cabin?”

“Yes. With a couple of rambling additions. They still used an actual outhouse up until the mid-eighties when their kids and grandkids insisted that Buford and Octavia were getting too old to go outside in the dead of winter to do their business.”

“What happened then?”

“The relatives chipped in and installed indoor plumbing.”

“Good Lord.” Leo did some rapid math. “If they married in the early thirties, then—”

“They’ll be celebrating their eightieth anniversary in March.”

“That seems impossible.”

“She was seventeen. Buford one year older. It happened all the time.”

“Not their ages. I mean the part about eighty years together. How can anything last that long?”

“I’ve wondered that myself. After all, even a thirty-five-year marriage is becoming harder to find among my peers’ parents.”