Read Online Head in the Clouds by Karen Witemeyer - Free Book Online

but the sound of Mr. Westcott’s approaching footsteps banished the fantasy.
    Adelaide spun around and pressed her back to the railing to avoid looking at him. Her heart pounded in time with the rhythm of her guilty conscience. The last thing she needed was for her employer to find her mooning over him. Hadn’t her romantic inclinations gotten her into enough trouble already? Mr. Westcott smiled too much to play the role of a dark and brooding Rochester anyway. And her impulsive nature and chatterbox personality couldn’t possibly be more unlike the staid, proper Jane, who spoke more with her eyes than with her mouth.
    She was at Westcott Cottage to do a job, not to reenact her favorite novel. Isabella deserved the very best she could give. God brought her here to minister to a child, not swoon over a man. She’d best not forget that.
    “If you would be so good as to accompany me to the study, Miss Proctor, I’d like to go over your duties with you.”
    She forced herself to meet his gaze. He grinned, setting loose those dimples to wreak havoc on her already quivery nerves. Those things were deadly to a woman’s concentration. She clasped her hands together at her waist and squeezed her fingers until the pain dislodged the breathless feeling from her chest.
    “Of course,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded normal.
    He ushered her inside and past the front parlor to a doorway near the foot of the stairs. Dark walnut furniture dominated the room, including an entire wall of built-in bookshelves. Soft olive and ivory fabrics in the upholstery, carpet, and draperies offset the heaviness of the dark wood, however. Cream-colored paper on the walls sported gilt-embossed designs that reflected what little sunlight penetrated the room. Some of the tension drained out of her. It was certainly a masculine space but not unwelcoming, which was a blessing. Meeting with her new employer was intimidating enough without having the walls press in on her.
    “Please have a seat, Miss Proctor.”
    A settee and two chairs were arranged along the wall opposite the bookshelves. Mr. Westcott touched the back of one of the chairs and motioned for her to sit. Once she did, he took the place across from her, their knees separated by a varnished table topped with two small leather-bound books. The covers showed a great deal of wear, not the pristine display one would expect.
    Curiosity pushed all worries about the interview from Adelaide’s mind. The cracked leather spine of the first volume indicated a collection of Shakespeare’s works, while the other read Holy Bible .
    “I keep them out to remind me that success requires sacrifice.”
    Her hand twitched, and she nearly reached out to lay hold of the books, but at the last second, good sense suppressed the impulse. She primly folded her hands in her lap, hoping he didn’t notice that her grip was tight enough to cut off the circulation to her fingertips.
    “I can understand how the Bible might bring sacrifice to mind,” she ruminated aloud, “but Shakespeare? I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.”
    He answered with a self-deprecating laugh.
    “You caught me. The truth is not nearly as noble as I tried to make it sound. The reminder is actually more physical than philosophical.”
    “How so?”
    “Those two books were my bosom companions for the two years I trailed sheep from California to Texas.”
    “ You trailed sheep?”
    “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
    Shock must have stolen her manners. She fumbled to repair the damage. “I didn’t … mean to imply …”
    He waved off her sputtering apology, his eyes dancing with humor. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe, too, and I’m the one who lived through it. Barely.”
    Heat crept up the back of her neck. Why did she never think before she opened her mouth? She bit her tongue before it could cause any more trouble. Unfortunately, her hesitation bogged the conversation down in awkward silence, leaving her