Chasing Christmas Eve Read online

  The same something that getting away from New York and all her problems there had done.

  It made her feel . . . alive.

  Spence took her hand, looking her over the same way she had done to him. She’d dressed for the weather, which she’d learned in her five days here was as unpredictable and moody as her muse. The one thing you could be sure of in San Francisco was that you couldn’t predict the weather. So she’d worn layers: a cami, a sweater, a scarf, and dark jeans tucked into boots.

  Spence’s gaze lingered on the leather boots. “I like those as much as your heels,” he said in a voice that gave her a delicious sort of shiver.

  And for a moment she was torn between wanting to go sightseeing and tugging him into her apartment and stripping him down to his work attire.

  And beyond.

  He took in her expression and let out a low laugh. “The way you look at me is way too good for my ego.” He shoved his glasses to the top of his head. Then he snagged her around the waist, pulling her into him, and kissed her until her toes curled.

  The appetizer on the menu of Spence Baldwin’s kisses, which only made her hungrier.

  He grinned at the look on her face as he put his glasses back on. “Later,” he promised. “We’ve gotta go. We’re on a schedule.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They left the courtyard through the wrought-iron gate to the street. As they did, someone came out of the shadows and started snapping pictures of them.

  Colbie gasped in surprise, instinctively turning her head into Spence’s shoulder, not wanting anyone to catch a photo of her and announce her whereabouts.

  But then the guy’s shouted questions penetrated. “Who’s the woman, Spencer? How does she feel about you being nominated for San Francisco’s most eligible bachelor?”

  Okay, so this wasn’t about her, she realized and began to lift her head because . . . San Francisco’s most eligible bachelor?

  Spence cupped the back of her head in a big hand, pressing her face into his shoulder as he tightened his grip on her, shielding her from the lens.

  “Come on,” the guy yelled at Spence. “Give me one sound bite, man. I make a living off this shit.”

  “You need a new job” was Spence’s sound bite as he walked her past the guy without another word. “The truck’s a block over,” he told her as they passed a clothing boutique, a burger joint, and a . . .

  “Bookstore,” she said, the same thrill zinging through her that bookstores had brought all of her life.

  “Do you want to go in?” he asked because she’d stopped, practically putting her nose to the glass window display. Reading had always been her happy place, a blissful escape, far before she’d become a writer.

  “Can we?” she asked.

  Smiling, he opened the door for her.

  It was an independent store and to her delight, her books were prominently displayed. The first one in the series was front and center, thanks, of course, to the upcoming premiere of the movie on Christmas Day.

  Spence didn’t even glance at the display; he just headed straight back to the nerdy science book section, and she had to laugh. She ran a finger over her book and eavesdropped on the two readers standing there eyeing the display.

  “I still like her writing,” one said to the other. “But the third book didn’t have the same heart as the first two.”

  Colbie put a hand to her own heart, feeling it tighten at the words, like someone was criticizing her firstborn or something.

  “I completely agree,” the second reader said. “Think she’s doing it just because she has a big, expensive contract?”

  Colbie took a deep breath. There was a reason writers should never read their own reviews or, apparently, eavesdrop on readers. She started to walk away but a third woman joined the other two.

  “I love the entire series,” the woman said. “I’d read CE Crown if she copied the phone book. But she should’ve put Cria and Del together. They deserved their happiness too.”

  “Yes!” the other two women said at the same time, and then Colbie was alone at the display. She hunted down Spence, finding him nose deep in a book so thick it must’ve weighed twenty-five pounds. The title had a lot of words like thermodynamics and applied elasticity. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  “So . . . most eligible bachelor?”

  He shoved the book back on the shelf. “You’re not going to give me grief about this, are you?”

  “Oh, most definitely.”

  He grimaced and took her hand. “Save it until after I’ve had food.”

  Five minutes later, they were in his truck, a completely redone 1957 Chevy Deluxe cab, turquoise blue with whitewall tires. “Not what I pictured you driving,” she said, running a hand along the dash, admiring the gorgeous beast.

  “No?”

  “No, I saw you in a sleek, fast sports car.”

  He shrugged. “This has sentimental value. It was my grandpa’s. He abused it until he lost his license. I bought it off him and rebuilt and restored it a few years back.”

  He could’ve bought a new truck. He could have bought a fleet of new trucks. “You like old stuff?” she asked.

  He glanced at her, his eyes hidden behind dark lenses. “I’m sentimental,” he said without apology.

  Their gazes held for a long beat as she absorbed that. He was brilliant. An engineer. An inventor. Good with money. And very hot in a sexy engineer geek sort of way with his perpetually finger-combed hair and glasses . . .

  He flashed a smile, making her realize that she was still staring at him, so she cleared her throat. “Well, whoever did it for you did an amazing job.” The interior matched the exterior paint job and was spotless.

  “I did it myself,” he said.

  He was one surprise after another. “So you’re a mechanic too?”

  “I’ve been taking apart things and putting them back together my whole life.” He gave a wry smile. “I was five when I rigged my mom’s watch to count her steps. In hindsight, I probably should’ve grabbed the patent for that.”

  She choked out a laugh. “So you’re a man of many talents.”

  At that, he slid her a look so hot she glanced down to make sure her clothes hadn’t gone up in smoke. “How did your grandpa lose his license? He get too old to drive?”

  “He had one too many homemade brownies last summer and got himself arrested.”

  She blinked. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I was his one phone call because his daughter-in-law—my mom—would’ve killed him and left him to rot in prison.”

  She laughed, even though she suspected he wasn’t kidding. “Do you have a big family?”

  “No,” he said. “Just the three of us.”

  “Are you close?”

  “My mom and I, yes. This is the Embarcadero,” he said, pointing ahead of them. “That’s Coit Tower. And there’s the Bay Bridge. And you can see Alcatraz out on the water.”

  She practically glued her nose to the windshield. “All of that is on my list!”

  “I know.” He turned in at Pier 39, lined with boats of all sizes, each so close to the next that she couldn’t imagine how they could possibly get out of their slips without bumping.

  Spence came around for her, taking her hand as he grabbed an old tattered duffle bag from the back, which he slung over his shoulder. “Come on.”

  “Where to?”

  “Still a surprise,” he said mysteriously.

  They walked past a pier lined with sea lions lounging together, past groups of tourists wandering around. “The tour companies are shutting down for the day,” Spence said. “This time of year they don’t do night tours.”

  This was disappointing. She’d begun to hope that they were going out on the water.

  Spence just smiled at her expression and walked up to a locked gate. He produced a key, let them both in, and locked the gate behind them. They walked down the dock and stopped at