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Authors: Rita Herron
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let you know.”
He grinned toothily as if he’d just won the lottery, tugged his baggy
jeans up by the loops, then whistled. “Guess I’d better get back to
work. Got to butcher two hogs this afternoon.”
Rebecca nodded, chastising herself for giving him even a smidgen of
hope. Why hadn’t she just said no? Me and you scrooching or doing
anything else that involves touching is not going to happen. I can’t
imagine letting your smelly hands hold me, especially knowing you’ve
been cutting up pig’s guts with them.
Furious with herself for being such a wimp, she jogged back to the
self-help section. She’d find a book on being assertive and learn a few
techniques on handling herself better. Because she’d rather die than
have Jerry’s belly brushing hers all night long. And, God forbid, it
would be worse to let him think she liked it.
Then he would never leave her alone.
By the end of the day Thomas had two chicken casseroles, a sweet potato
custard and two jars of homemade peach preserves to cart home with him,
all compliments of the single women of Sugar Hill. Their mothers must
have taught them that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
But something else worked just as well. Only, none of the women seemed
to spark an interest in him in that area.
None except Rebecca Hartwell, who seemed immune to his charms.
Granted the food smelled great, and he hadn’t wanted for a single meal
since he’d moved here, but this was getting ridiculous, as was the
sudden increase in women’s ailments. Karina Peterson had dropped by
complaining of a nonexistent pain in her side-he was beginning to think
the woman was a hypochondriac. Then her friend Jillie Flannigan, who’d
been in the week before with a similar ailment, had invited him to her
daughter’s piano recital, hinting that her little girl needed a father
figure.
He packed the food in the back of the Mustang and drove the short
distance to his house, the cool December breeze blowing leaves and twigs
across the road. The bare trees swayed with the wind, the threat of rain
scenting the air as he went inside the house. He heated up one of the
chicken casseroles, then scooped a helping on his plate and set up his
laptop, but the house felt unusually quiet tonight. The massive
furniture seemed more massive, the gleaming floors shiny but silent,
lacking friendly footsteps, the perfectly decorated walls devoid of
life. He tried to remember what kind of paintings he had on the walls,
but he couldn’t visualize any particular one. What kind of artwork did
Rebecca like? Did she choose soft colors or flashy
neon shades or vibrant purples and blues that signified passion?
He could not think about passion and shy Rebecca Hartwell in the same
second.
His thoughts drifted to Trish Tieney and Karina Peterson and the way
they’d both flirted with him today, then to Rebecca Hartwell and how
she’d practically avoided him.
Like it or not, she would see him tomorrow.
He ignored the small flutter of desire that curled in his belly at the
thought of spending time with her. Sure, he was a red-blooded male and
he had to admit she was attractive. But she was not the
bed-‘em-and-shed-‘em type. And he couldn’t start something that would go
nowhere. End of story.
He forced himself to eat and block Rebecca and those blue eyes from his
mind.
Of course, the other women who’d brought him food today might give him a
one-night stand, but he couldn’t accept. Another downside to small towns
was that if he slept with a woman, it was bound to get around town. And
he would never sleep with one of his patients.
All the more reason he needed to move.
He scanned the data on the Atlanta medical facility, jotting notes about
the plans for the research facilities and surgical specialities they
planned to offer, along with the fertility clinic that
He grinned toothily as if he’d just won the lottery, tugged his baggy
jeans up by the loops, then whistled. “Guess I’d better get back to
work. Got to butcher two hogs this afternoon.”
Rebecca nodded, chastising herself for giving him even a smidgen of
hope. Why hadn’t she just said no? Me and you scrooching or doing
anything else that involves touching is not going to happen. I can’t
imagine letting your smelly hands hold me, especially knowing you’ve
been cutting up pig’s guts with them.
Furious with herself for being such a wimp, she jogged back to the
self-help section. She’d find a book on being assertive and learn a few
techniques on handling herself better. Because she’d rather die than
have Jerry’s belly brushing hers all night long. And, God forbid, it
would be worse to let him think she liked it.
Then he would never leave her alone.
By the end of the day Thomas had two chicken casseroles, a sweet potato
custard and two jars of homemade peach preserves to cart home with him,
all compliments of the single women of Sugar Hill. Their mothers must
have taught them that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
But something else worked just as well. Only, none of the women seemed
to spark an interest in him in that area.
None except Rebecca Hartwell, who seemed immune to his charms.
Granted the food smelled great, and he hadn’t wanted for a single meal
since he’d moved here, but this was getting ridiculous, as was the
sudden increase in women’s ailments. Karina Peterson had dropped by
complaining of a nonexistent pain in her side-he was beginning to think
the woman was a hypochondriac. Then her friend Jillie Flannigan, who’d
been in the week before with a similar ailment, had invited him to her
daughter’s piano recital, hinting that her little girl needed a father
figure.
He packed the food in the back of the Mustang and drove the short
distance to his house, the cool December breeze blowing leaves and twigs
across the road. The bare trees swayed with the wind, the threat of rain
scenting the air as he went inside the house. He heated up one of the
chicken casseroles, then scooped a helping on his plate and set up his
laptop, but the house felt unusually quiet tonight. The massive
furniture seemed more massive, the gleaming floors shiny but silent,
lacking friendly footsteps, the perfectly decorated walls devoid of
life. He tried to remember what kind of paintings he had on the walls,
but he couldn’t visualize any particular one. What kind of artwork did
Rebecca like? Did she choose soft colors or flashy
neon shades or vibrant purples and blues that signified passion?
He could not think about passion and shy Rebecca Hartwell in the same
second.
His thoughts drifted to Trish Tieney and Karina Peterson and the way
they’d both flirted with him today, then to Rebecca Hartwell and how
she’d practically avoided him.
Like it or not, she would see him tomorrow.
He ignored the small flutter of desire that curled in his belly at the
thought of spending time with her. Sure, he was a red-blooded male and
he had to admit she was attractive. But she was not the
bed-‘em-and-shed-‘em type. And he couldn’t start something that would go
nowhere. End of story.
He forced himself to eat and block Rebecca and those blue eyes from his
mind.
Of course, the other women who’d brought him food today might give him a
one-night stand, but he couldn’t accept. Another downside to small towns
was that if he slept with a woman, it was bound to get around town. And
he would never sleep with one of his patients.
All the more reason he needed to move.
He scanned the data on the Atlanta medical facility, jotting notes about
the plans for the research facilities and surgical specialities they
planned to offer, along with the fertility clinic that
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