Free A Cowboy Under My Christmas Tree by Janet Dailey Page A

the bell from the intercom panel outside rang in her apartment.
    Nicole tossed the pillow to one side and went to answer it, though she wasn’t expecting anyone. It couldn’t be Sam. He’d checked in as promised, told her he would be doing another installation with Greg’s crew outside the city. She didn’t remember the particulars. But she’d given herself and the guys the day off. Darci was still in Aspen.
    “Who is it?” she asked after she pressed the button.
    “Hey. It’s me. Sam.”
    She felt a flush of foolish pleasure at the sound of his voice and squelched it immediately, trying to think how he’d gotten her address. Then she remembered: she’d told the taxi driver where she was going that first night. He must have overheard and remembered it.
    The bell rang again. “Nicole?”
    “Yes, I’m here. I thought you were supposed to be out on Long Island or something. Are you playing hooky?”
    “Guilty with an explanation,” came the cheerful reply. “Got a moment?”
    Nicole hesitated, then buzzed him through the door at street level. She glanced at herself in the mirror and frowned, then yanked open her closet. Her apartment was on the fifth floor. Even if he galloped up all those stairs she still had time to change.
    It was late in the afternoon, but she still hadn’t bothered to dress, and the vintage kimono she wore over her favorite owl-print pajamas was a little too bedroom-y. Not that she had an actual bedroom. The love seat folded out.
    Fortunately, she’d folded it up—creaking and groaning—after lunch. She ran back to it and punched the decorative pillows into shape, flinging them against the arms of the love seat. Whump whump. So much for that.
    Startled by the sudden activity, Whiskeroo disappeared into a compartment of his carpeted tower.
    The last she saw of her cat was his striped tail as she undressed. Nicole pulled on jeans and a purple sweater, dragging a brush through her hair. What with the humidity, it fluffed up nicely. No time for her usual ponytail.
    Nicole gave herself a spinach-search smile in the mirror. All clear on the teeth. There was a knock on the door. No time for lip gloss. She bit them instead.
    She glanced at him through the peephole. Even with the fish-eye distortion, Sam looked tall. He didn’t seem to be aware she was looking at him, because he was inspecting the bouquet he held, adjusting a few petals. His Stetson was pushed back on his head, so wet the color seemed more black than brown. His denim jacket was wet too.
    The bouquet was over the top... but she couldn’t remember the last time a man had brought her flowers.
    Nicole unlocked the dead bolt and the chain latch. “Hi,” she said, keeping her tone friendly but just a little cool. “This is a surprise.”
    “I guess I should have called first,” Sam said. “Hope you’re not busy.”
    “I was just about to start sketching some ideas for the second window.”
    That was a lie, but she wasn’t going to get caught. Scribbled-up paper and sketchpads were everywhere, as usual.
    “So I see.” Sam had his hands full, what with the bouquet. He took off the hat. “Got a place for this?” he asked.
    Nicole took the Stetson from him, noticing that it was dry inside. The rain didn’t seem to have gotten through the thick felt. She put it and his wet jacket on a hook by the door.
    She wasn’t going to ask if the flowers were for her.
    He straightened. “Gloomy day, huh? I was, um, walking by the flower stand and just thought you might like these.”
    Shocking pink and brilliant orange pinwheels peeked out of the paper funnel he handed to her. Gerbera daisies. Her favorite. He didn’t have to know that.
    The hot colors were a jazzy note against the dull green of the hallway wall. She still wasn’t sure why he’d bothered, but she could feel her resolve soften. “Come on in,” she said.
    Sam followed her inside and moved aside to let her shut the door. “Nice and bright, whatever they