taking her arm. “No tub, but a big luxury shower. We’ll do the rain head, the body jets—ORB.”
“Orb?”
“Sorry. Oil-rubbed bronze. All the public areas have that accent. Crystal vessel bowl sink on an iron bracket. It’s big and it’s beautiful. Cream and pale gold tiles, fleur-de-lis accents.”
“Mais oui,” she said and made him grin.
“I found some iron wall shelves, scrolled. The code and the space equal some limitations.”
“That is not good copy. Something more like ‘special needs meet spectacular comfort. The grandeur of a bygone age with all the comforts—no, pleasures. All the pleasures of today.’ ”
She started to make more notes, backed up a step, rapped into a stack of paint cans.
“Careful.” He wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her as she grabbed his arm to keep from overbalancing.
For the second time that day they stood close, bodies brushing, eyes locked. But this time the light was dim, filtered through the blue tarp. Something near to moonlight.
Being held, she thought, a little dazed. She was being held by a man, by Beckett, and in a way that didn’t feel friendly or helpful. In a way that made something coil inside her, a long, slow wind.
Something that felt exactly like lust.
It spread in a swamping wave as she watched his gaze slide down to her mouth, hold there. She smelled honeysuckle. Moonlight and honeysuckle.
Yearning, she eased closer, imagining that first touch, that first taste, that first—
His gaze snapped back to hers, jolted her out of what seemed like some strange dream.
My God, she’d nearly—
“I need to get back.” She didn’t squeak it out, but she knew it was damn close. “I have the . . . the thing to do.”
“Me, too.” He stepped back like a man moving cautiously away from a live wire. “I have the thing.”
“Okay, well.” She got out, out of the room with its false moonlight and air that had so suddenly smelled of wild summer vines. “So.”
“So.” He slid his hands into his pockets.
Safer there, she imagined, or she might jump him again.
“I’ll play around with some ideas for the rooms I’ve seen.”
“That’d be great. Listen, I can let you have the binder. We have a binder with cut sheets and photos of lighting and furniture, bath fixtures, like that. The one here has to stay on-site, but I have one at my place you could borrow for a couple days.”
“Okay.” She took a breath, settled a bit more. “I’d love to look through it.”
“I can drop it off at the bookstore, or by your place sometime.”
“Either’s fine.”
“And you can come back, when you’ve got time, if you want to go through more of the space. If I’m not around, Owen or Ry could take you through.”
“Good, that’s good. Well, I’d better go. My mother’s going to drop the boys off at the store in a little while, and I still have . . . things.”
“I’ll see you.”
“Yeah.”
He watched her go, waited for the door to close behind her with his hands still in his pockets, and balled into fists. “Idiot,” he muttered. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”
He’d scared her so she could barely look at him, so she couldn’t wait to get away from him. All because he’d wanted—just wanted.
His mother liked to say, to him, to his brothers, they were old enough so their wants wouldn’t hurt them.
But they did. This kind of want left a jagged hole in the gut.
He’d stay away from her for a few days, until those jags smoothed out. And until she felt easier around him again. He’d have one of the men run the binder over to her—keep clear.
His wants might hurt, but he was old enough to control them.
He caught the scent of honeysuckle again and, he swore, the faintest whisper of a woman’s laugh.
“Don’t you start on me.”
Annoyed, he clomped upstairs to harass the crew.
NOT READY TO face the bookstore and her staff, Clare bolted to Vesta. Behind the counter, layering cheese on a pie, Franny, Avery’s
“Orb?”
“Sorry. Oil-rubbed bronze. All the public areas have that accent. Crystal vessel bowl sink on an iron bracket. It’s big and it’s beautiful. Cream and pale gold tiles, fleur-de-lis accents.”
“Mais oui,” she said and made him grin.
“I found some iron wall shelves, scrolled. The code and the space equal some limitations.”
“That is not good copy. Something more like ‘special needs meet spectacular comfort. The grandeur of a bygone age with all the comforts—no, pleasures. All the pleasures of today.’ ”
She started to make more notes, backed up a step, rapped into a stack of paint cans.
“Careful.” He wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her as she grabbed his arm to keep from overbalancing.
For the second time that day they stood close, bodies brushing, eyes locked. But this time the light was dim, filtered through the blue tarp. Something near to moonlight.
Being held, she thought, a little dazed. She was being held by a man, by Beckett, and in a way that didn’t feel friendly or helpful. In a way that made something coil inside her, a long, slow wind.
Something that felt exactly like lust.
It spread in a swamping wave as she watched his gaze slide down to her mouth, hold there. She smelled honeysuckle. Moonlight and honeysuckle.
Yearning, she eased closer, imagining that first touch, that first taste, that first—
His gaze snapped back to hers, jolted her out of what seemed like some strange dream.
My God, she’d nearly—
“I need to get back.” She didn’t squeak it out, but she knew it was damn close. “I have the . . . the thing to do.”
“Me, too.” He stepped back like a man moving cautiously away from a live wire. “I have the thing.”
“Okay, well.” She got out, out of the room with its false moonlight and air that had so suddenly smelled of wild summer vines. “So.”
“So.” He slid his hands into his pockets.
Safer there, she imagined, or she might jump him again.
“I’ll play around with some ideas for the rooms I’ve seen.”
“That’d be great. Listen, I can let you have the binder. We have a binder with cut sheets and photos of lighting and furniture, bath fixtures, like that. The one here has to stay on-site, but I have one at my place you could borrow for a couple days.”
“Okay.” She took a breath, settled a bit more. “I’d love to look through it.”
“I can drop it off at the bookstore, or by your place sometime.”
“Either’s fine.”
“And you can come back, when you’ve got time, if you want to go through more of the space. If I’m not around, Owen or Ry could take you through.”
“Good, that’s good. Well, I’d better go. My mother’s going to drop the boys off at the store in a little while, and I still have . . . things.”
“I’ll see you.”
“Yeah.”
He watched her go, waited for the door to close behind her with his hands still in his pockets, and balled into fists. “Idiot,” he muttered. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”
He’d scared her so she could barely look at him, so she couldn’t wait to get away from him. All because he’d wanted—just wanted.
His mother liked to say, to him, to his brothers, they were old enough so their wants wouldn’t hurt them.
But they did. This kind of want left a jagged hole in the gut.
He’d stay away from her for a few days, until those jags smoothed out. And until she felt easier around him again. He’d have one of the men run the binder over to her—keep clear.
His wants might hurt, but he was old enough to control them.
He caught the scent of honeysuckle again and, he swore, the faintest whisper of a woman’s laugh.
“Don’t you start on me.”
Annoyed, he clomped upstairs to harass the crew.
NOT READY TO face the bookstore and her staff, Clare bolted to Vesta. Behind the counter, layering cheese on a pie, Franny, Avery’s
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