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Authors: Cathy Lamb
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my hand in his, and I watched it disappear. I now had no hand attached to my right arm. My heart pumped harder. Oh dear. Please don’t let the Dread Disease affect me now. Not while I’m covered in chicken poop, holding the hand of a man with blue eyes that were currently peering right into my soul and reading all my secrets.
“Mr…Mr…” I forgot his name.
“It’s Dean Garrett. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His voice was low and gravelly, like honey over crushed rock.
It would be a pleasure to meet you if I could breathe , I thought to myself. “Yes. Of course. I mean. Yes, I’m pleasured to meet you.” I could feel the blush rising in my face. I’m pleasured to meet you ? I sounded like I was having sex with his introduction. I tried again. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Garrett.”
I heard Stash cough to cover a chuckle in the background, but I couldn’t see him. The only thing within eighty miles of my vision was this man. And the longer he stared at me, the longer his hand warmed mine like a hot-water bottle, the longer I was caught by those blue eyes that had X-ray vision into my soul, the more my heart pattered about like a loose pinball.
I saw one corner of his mouth tilt up in a smile. “Lydia must have had you up bright and early to help with the chickens.”
He was still holding my hand.
“No. Yes. I helped with the chickens. Yes.”
“Julia moved here from back East. Finally came to her senses,” Aunt Lydia said. “She worked in an art gallery.”
Dean nodded. “That’s interesting. Who are your favorite artists?”
“My favorite artists?” I made the mistake of looking at his lips. The top one slim, the lower one full. Way full. Way kissable. Sheesh. “Uh. I. Well. I’m sorry. What was the question?”
He smiled. “Who are your favorite artists?”
Ah. Okay. I knew what an artist was. “Van Gogh. Vermeer. Faith Ringold.”
He smiled at me again, then let go of my hand. The warmth was gone. I swallowed hard. If I’d had an Adam’s apple it would undoubtedly be making a fool of me.
“And yours?”
“I’ll take Picasso and the photographer Ansel Adams.”
I nodded. Wise choices. I stared some more. The man reeked of testosterone. Stop, Julia, please stop , I pleaded with myself. You’ve just run from one man—let’s not start looking at another .
I decided I had to go.
“If you all will excuse me…I have…well, I have to take a shower.”
Now why did I say such a naked thing? I couldn’t even look at Dean. “I’ve been with the chickens and…” Brilliant again. It almost sounded amorous. I’ve been with the chickens ?
“Nice to have met you,” I said, my voice quiet to my own ears. And, as if he were deaf, I said louder, “Good to meet you.”
I should start digging a hole in the floor now so I could crawl into it.
“Oh, now, honey, don’t you say good-bye yet,” Stash said. “When you’re through, you come right back on down here quick as a wink and have breakfast with us. I’m making your aunt and you and Dean my World Famous Stash’s Omelets. They are the best Oregon has ever eaten, you know. If they had an omelets contest, I would win. Damn sure of it. So you get on in that shower and we’ll see you in a jiffy.”
I managed a nervous smile as the Dread Disease slammed into me suddenly. My heart rate sped up to 23,897 beats a minute, there was suddenly no air in the house, I was freezing cold, and I felt faint. All at the same time.
I turned, managed to bump into only one chair and the side of the doorway, then stumbled through the living room. Super. Now Dean would know I was a clutz, too. The stairs now looked mountainous, and I vaguely wondered if I would need crampons to help me climb them, as the air had been completely sucked out of my lungs with an invisible siphon.
I stumbled up the stairs, then collapsed on my bed, my hands over my head.
I could feel the Dread Disease get worse, second by second, until I thought I
“Mr…Mr…” I forgot his name.
“It’s Dean Garrett. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His voice was low and gravelly, like honey over crushed rock.
It would be a pleasure to meet you if I could breathe , I thought to myself. “Yes. Of course. I mean. Yes, I’m pleasured to meet you.” I could feel the blush rising in my face. I’m pleasured to meet you ? I sounded like I was having sex with his introduction. I tried again. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Garrett.”
I heard Stash cough to cover a chuckle in the background, but I couldn’t see him. The only thing within eighty miles of my vision was this man. And the longer he stared at me, the longer his hand warmed mine like a hot-water bottle, the longer I was caught by those blue eyes that had X-ray vision into my soul, the more my heart pattered about like a loose pinball.
I saw one corner of his mouth tilt up in a smile. “Lydia must have had you up bright and early to help with the chickens.”
He was still holding my hand.
“No. Yes. I helped with the chickens. Yes.”
“Julia moved here from back East. Finally came to her senses,” Aunt Lydia said. “She worked in an art gallery.”
Dean nodded. “That’s interesting. Who are your favorite artists?”
“My favorite artists?” I made the mistake of looking at his lips. The top one slim, the lower one full. Way full. Way kissable. Sheesh. “Uh. I. Well. I’m sorry. What was the question?”
He smiled. “Who are your favorite artists?”
Ah. Okay. I knew what an artist was. “Van Gogh. Vermeer. Faith Ringold.”
He smiled at me again, then let go of my hand. The warmth was gone. I swallowed hard. If I’d had an Adam’s apple it would undoubtedly be making a fool of me.
“And yours?”
“I’ll take Picasso and the photographer Ansel Adams.”
I nodded. Wise choices. I stared some more. The man reeked of testosterone. Stop, Julia, please stop , I pleaded with myself. You’ve just run from one man—let’s not start looking at another .
I decided I had to go.
“If you all will excuse me…I have…well, I have to take a shower.”
Now why did I say such a naked thing? I couldn’t even look at Dean. “I’ve been with the chickens and…” Brilliant again. It almost sounded amorous. I’ve been with the chickens ?
“Nice to have met you,” I said, my voice quiet to my own ears. And, as if he were deaf, I said louder, “Good to meet you.”
I should start digging a hole in the floor now so I could crawl into it.
“Oh, now, honey, don’t you say good-bye yet,” Stash said. “When you’re through, you come right back on down here quick as a wink and have breakfast with us. I’m making your aunt and you and Dean my World Famous Stash’s Omelets. They are the best Oregon has ever eaten, you know. If they had an omelets contest, I would win. Damn sure of it. So you get on in that shower and we’ll see you in a jiffy.”
I managed a nervous smile as the Dread Disease slammed into me suddenly. My heart rate sped up to 23,897 beats a minute, there was suddenly no air in the house, I was freezing cold, and I felt faint. All at the same time.
I turned, managed to bump into only one chair and the side of the doorway, then stumbled through the living room. Super. Now Dean would know I was a clutz, too. The stairs now looked mountainous, and I vaguely wondered if I would need crampons to help me climb them, as the air had been completely sucked out of my lungs with an invisible siphon.
I stumbled up the stairs, then collapsed on my bed, my hands over my head.
I could feel the Dread Disease get worse, second by second, until I thought I
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