That Holiday Feeling (Virgin River #8)(31)

“What exactly do you consider junk food?” she asked.

“Potato chips. Popcorn.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to confide, “I also have a cooler filled with chocolate mocha almond ice cream. I’m addicted to the stuff.”

Her eyes widened. Chocolate mocha almond was an indulgence she rarely allowed herself. Aside from the calories, the brand she loved was outrageously expensive. She’d developed a taste for it during her marriage, but had had to forgo it since the divorce. The store brands simply didn’t live up to the gourmet ice cream. She had a hunch that cooler of Trace’s was stocked with the best.

“Exactly how much ice cream did you bring?” she asked, hoping it sounded like a purely casual inquiry.

“Enough for you and Hannah…if you’re good,” he teased.

“When it comes to chocolate mocha almond, I can eat a lot,” she warned him.

He surveyed her slowly, appreciatively, then shook his head. “Not as much as I can,” he said. “And I brought enough for a week. I’ll make you a deal. If you let me share in whatever you’re fixing for Christmas dinner, I’ll provide dessert.”

“But that’s three days away,” Savannah protested.

He winked. “I know. Patience is a virtue.”

“Another of Mae’s favorite sayings,” Savannah recalled as again a wave of nostalgia hit. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into sharing sooner?”

He glanced at the piles of cookies on the table and the obvious remnants of hot chocolate in two mugs. “Are you absolutely certain you won’t go into some sort of sugar-overload crisis?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’ll bring it in,” he said.

“I’ll help,” Savannah said eagerly, grabbing a jacket off a hook by the door and following him outside.

The instant she spotted his fancy new four-wheel-drive sports utility vehicle out front, she was momentarily distracted from thoughts of ice cream. It could turn out that Trace Franklin was the answer to her prayers.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let me borrow your car?” she asked.

“First you want my ice cream, and now you’re after my car,” he said, shaking his head. “You ask a lot for someone I’ve barely met.”

“I need to get to town to pick up paint and things to start on the work that’s needed around here.” She glanced toward her own car, a faded six-year-old sedan with questionable tires. “I doubt my car will make it down the mountain, much less back up on these icy roads.”

His expression grew thoughtful. “Okay, here’s my best offer. I’ll trade you breakfast tomorrow for a trip into town.”

Apparently the man’s obsession with business never quit. “You really do like to negotiate, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “Force of habit. I like creating win-win situations. Is it a deal?”

Savannah held out her hand. “Deal.” She hesitated. “You could have dinner with Hannah and me this evening, if you like. It won’t be fancy. I’m fixing spaghetti.”

He seemed startled by the invitation. “It just so happens that I love spaghetti.” His gaze narrowed suspiciously. “What do you want in return for that?”

“Ice cream for dessert?” she asked hopefully.

Rather than answering, he reached into the car, then turned back with something in hand and tossed it to her. Savannah caught it instinctively. It was a pint of ice cream. And she’d been right—it was the best.

“It’s all yours,” he said. “Consider it a gesture of good faith.”

He retrieved a huge cooler, which obviously contained the rest. Savannah eyed it enviously. “Is that thing really filled with more of this?”

“Packed solid,” he told her. He studied her warily. “Am I going to have to put a lock on the freezer?”

“I would never steal your ice cream,” she said with a hint of indignation, then grinned. “That doesn’t mean I won’t try to talk you out of it.”

His gaze locked with hers and anticipation slid over her once again, making her senses come alive.

“This is really, really good ice cream,” he said quietly. “It could take more than talk.”

Savannah barely resisted the urge to fan herself. She was surprised steam wasn’t rising around her. Oh, this man was dangerous, all right. She was obviously going to have to watch her step the whole time he was underfoot. Any man who prided himself on being a shark when it came to business was likely to be equally determined when it came to anything else he wanted.

Well, she’d just have to make sure he didn’t decide he wanted her. One glance comparing her flour-streaked jeans to his tailored wool slacks put that notion to rest. They weren’t in the same league at all.

She lifted her gaze to his, caught the desire darkening those gray eyes. Uh-oh, she thought. Apparently clothes didn’t matter to Trace, because the look in his eyes was anything but neutral.

More worrisome, though, than that discovery was the realization that she wasn’t nearly as upset by it as she probably ought to be. In fact, a little zing of anticipation had her blood heating up quite nicely. She could probably strip off her sheepskin-lined jacket and be quite comfortable in the twenty-degree temperature out here.