Mocha Latte (Silk Stocking Inn #3) by Tess Oliver, Anna Hart Read Free Book Online Page A

characteristics of certain breeds. There was still no sign of Jackson. The half bottle of wine was down to its last drops, and my excitement was too. Apparently, sleep had been far more alluring to Jackson than me in my skimpy baby doll.  There was no way not to feel completely disappointed and embarrassed.
    I turned off the lamp, dropped the magazine on the nightstand and finished the drops of wine. Feeling sufficiently buzzed and humiliated, I burrowed down under the quilt and closed my eyes.
    I hadn’t drifted into sleep as much as I’d floated into a wine filled cloud. My head was spinning, and some of the harsh edges of being stood up were dulling. In the midst of the warm cocoon of downy feathers and darkness, I felt fresh air brush over my forehead, the only part of me still above blankets.
    “You still in there, Spunky?” The deep voice zapped me from my wine haze. His big fingers pushed the top of the quilt down so my eyes were visible. His hair had been washed and brushed back, and he’d put on a blue shirt and jeans. He cleaned up spectacularly.
    “Thought you got swallowed up by this big ole bed.” Without another word or response from me, and in one swift movement, he had me peeled from my quilted cave and in his arms.
    He kissed me lightly on the mouth and then licked his bottom lip. “Hmm, wine. I like it. How much did you have?”
    I lifted my hand with about an inch of space between my thumb and forefinger.
    “With the way you’re struggling to keep those beautiful eyes open, I thought it had been more.”
    “Well, that’s how much I poured into the glass each time.”
    “ Each time?”
    “Well, not each time. The last bit was so small, I decided to just chug it from the bottle. Not one of my classier moments, but I didn’t want to waste any.” I looked at him with as much direct focus as I could muster. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
    “No chance of that, baby.” He tossed me up a couple of inches to get a better grasp of me and headed to the door.
    “Where are you taking me in my state of undress?” Suddenly, the notion of my scanty attire shocked me closer to sobriety. I wriggled in his arms. “You’re not carrying me out of the room like this, are you?”
    “Uh, as I recall the last time I saw you, you were standing in this in the hallway with a cookie dangling from those amazing lips.”
    “That was accidental exposure and you know it.”
    He sighed and lowered my feet to the ground. “Guess it will be too cold anyhow. Just a minute.” He lifted a finger at me. “Don’t move.” He left the room, and I wondered if my bout of self-consciousness had spoiled the fun. He returned seconds later with a denim jacket. With a gentleman’s touch, he put the coat on me. I was swimming in it, and my hands disappeared at the ends of the sleeves. The bottom came mid-thigh. It was faded and soft and lined with flannel, flannel that had the distinct fragrance of the man himself. It was a leathery, grassy cowboy smell that made me feel homesick and, at the same time, giddy with the thought of being with Jackson.
    “We’re going outside?” I asked as I pulled the coat tighter around me. “Should I get my shoes?”
    “You won’t need them.” He swept me back into his arms.
    “I could get used to being transported around like this.” I curled against him and he carried me out of the room and down the stairs as if I weighed no more than a pillow.
    We crossed the foyer to the front door. He managed to keep a secure hold on me as he moved his hand to turn the knob. The front door swung open. He stepped out onto the porch and pushed the door shut with his foot. I lifted my head, heavy with the wine and the man, and squinted out to the front driveway.
    “A horse and carriage?” An old-fashioned horse drawn carriage, the open seat kind with a driver’s bench up front and cushioned back seat for passengers, was parked behind the draft horse I’d seen in the barn.
    “That’s what