“Cute.” Rose brushed by him, headed for the linen closet. To get to it, she had to tug aside the circular shower curtain, which had been gathered in front of it.
Her back to Clint, she eased the closet door open and brought out a spray bottle of stain remover, several cleaning and pretreating pens, a washcloth and a towel.
Swinging back around, she gasped.
“Now what?” he asked, appearing even more baffled.
Rose’s eyes widened in shock. She’d thought he had been sexy as could be when he’d been all sweaty and working on the tractor. That was nothing compared with how magnificent he looked when freshly showered and shaven, smelling of leather and spice. “You took your shirt off!”
He gestured aimlessly, more comfortable half-naked than she could ever hope to be.
“What was I supposed to do? I can’t have it on while you spray the stains.” Furrowing his brow, he nodded at the green bottle in her hand. “I’m allergic to that stuff.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
He lounged against her bathroom counter, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded across his brawny chest. “Wasn’t worth arguing about. Besides,” he teased, “it’s not like you haven’t seen me with my shirt off before. Monday—”
She cut him off with an indignant huff. “I remember.” Boy, did she ever remember. She’d dreamed about it two nights in a row. Only in her dreams, his shirt wasn’t all he had taken off.
Meanwhile, he evidently had his own unshared thoughts. His gaze drifted over her lazily, lingering on the stains—which happened to be mostly across her breasts—before leisurely cataloguing her throat and face, and returning to linger, even more seductively, on her eyes. “Then what’s the big deal?” he asked huskily.
The big deal was they’d just been making out, Rose thought in exasperation. The big deal was his nipples were still every bit as taut as hers. Not that she had needed that confirmation. His strong arousal had been evident elsewhere, too...
Rose shut her eyes for a moment, willing the desire welling inside her to go away. Then she asked with exaggerated patience, “Do you have any other shirts with you? In your truck, maybe?” A lot of people who worked outdoors—like herself—carried extra.
He continued watching her, inscrutable now. “No.”
She did her best to become poker-faced as well. “Are you interested in a Rose Hill Farm T-shirt?”
“Sure. Except it would have to be washed first. Because I’m allergic to a lot of the anti-wrinkle coatings on new clothes, too.”
Aware she no longer needed the stain removers, at least in that moment, she set them down. “You really are difficult.”
Clint shrugged his shirt back on. Winked. “And in other respects, I am apparently oh-so-easy.”
Not from what she had heard.
He hadn’t dated anyone since he had been back in town. In fact, he had been as monk-like in his life as she had been nun-like in hers. At least, she’d been nun-like up until the last month or so.
Which begged the question—why had he kissed her?
Why was he still looking like he wanted to put the moves on her again? And most importantly, why did she want him to do just that?
Rose swallowed and tried to pull herself together.
“Look,” he said. “All kidding aside, there’s no reason for you to worry about my shirt. I’ll just take it home and wash it there in the detergent I know I’m not allergic to.”
Like he had originally suggested.
Sighing, Rose watched him button his stained shirt from the bottom. She’d let pure passion lead her astray once before and knew better than to let it happen again, no matter what her still-humming body wanted. “Maybe that would be best.”
Together they headed back downstairs. They’d just reached the foyer when the doorbell rang. Rose moaned.
Clint slid a hand beneath her elbow and slanted her a glance. “Not expecting anyone?”
“No. But it’s always like this when a brand-new crop of good produce comes in.”
Belatedly seeming to realize he still had a grip on her, Clint dropped his hand and peered at the clock—which now said seven-thirty. From the kitchen, the kids could be heard chattering about their drawings. “Don’t you have regular business hours?”
“Yes,” Rose said, over her shoulder, opening the door, “And no.”
On the other side stood her triplet sisters, Violet and Lily. And the oldest of them all the only single-birth McCabe daughter, Poppy.
The trio took in Rose’s shirt, then Clint’s. In unison, they started to laugh. Then Poppy blurted out, “What have you two been up to?”
Rose was trying to figure out how to answer that when the triplets joined them, artwork in hand.
“Hi, aunts,” they said.
“Hi, kids,” Poppy, Lily and Violet said in return, setting down a picnic basket and zip-style insulated nylon cooler.
“We got in trouble,” Scarlet announced, pushing her glasses up higher on her nose.
Stephen nodded. “For getting stuff all over Mr. Clint’s nice shirt.”
“And your mom’s,” Violet added helpfully, looking as tired as usual after one of her oncology residency shifts at Laramie Community Hospital.
Sophia’s brow creased.
Uh-oh, Rose thought. Here comes trouble.
“We didn’t get any stuff on Mommy,” Sophia declared.
All three kids looked at Rose’s shirt in bewilderment.
“Mommy!” Stephen shrieked, “How did you do that?”
Lily—who was now happily married, with a baby on the way—glanced from Rose to Clint. “I think I know,” she teased.
So, apparently, did Violet and Poppy. Neither of whom were known for keeping their opinions regarding romance to themselves.
Doing her best to hang on to her composure, which wasn’t easy given how the more deeply imprinted stains on Clint’s shirt matched up with the lighter ones on hers, Rose purposely dodged the question. “The point is,” she continued, looking straight at her offspring, “Sophia, Scarlet and Stephen know how to use their table manners and not make a mess of our guests.”
Apparently unable to resist, Poppy ribbed her, “Do the grown-ups know it, too?”
Luckily the joke went over the triplets’ heads. Not so Clint’s, who was standing there with a choirboy innocence definitely not to be believed.
Not sure how the situation could get any more embarrassing unless they’d actually been caught in flagrante, Rose cleared her throat. Definitely time to steer the subject to safer territory.
Ignoring the amused twinkle in Clint’s eyes that only she could see, she plastered an encouraging smile on her face. “So...do you kids want to show Mr. Clint what you made for him?”
Pride straightened their little spines. “We made ‘sorry’ pictures!” Sophia declared shyly.
Wordlessly, the triplets handed them over one by one. Stephen had drawn an airplane in the clouds. Sophia had colored her version of a fairy princess.