She wasn’t entirely wrong. He did want something from her, but not that, at least not in that way. If sex followed, so be it. He wouldn’t say no, but the deal he wanted to offer her didn’t require it. It would be a long time coming before he had to negotiate for sex. Brennan pulled his shirt over his head before settling at the little table, aware that she watched him. He winked and sat down. ‘Disappointed? Do you prefer I keep it off?’
Patra laughed, which was what he’d hoped. ‘Hardly.’
He grinned over a forkful of eggs. ‘Well, don’t worry, it’s only temporary. I’ll take it off again later.’
‘Are you always like this?’ Patra spread butter on her own toast, a small smile tempting her mouth. She was enjoying this even if she wouldn’t admit it.
‘Mostly, but I like getting a rise out of you,’ Brennan answered boldly. ‘It makes you come alive, it makes your eyes light up.’ He watched her take in the words. They might be too personal for the brevity of their association, but they were no less true. He’d felt it last night when they’d danced, when they’d kissed, when they’d briefly quarrelled. He wondered when was the last time anyone had prompted such a response from her. ‘How long have you been out here alone?’ It was a delicate way of asking how long she’d been widowed without being too direct.
‘Twelve years this summer.’
Brennan did the maths. She’d been young, twenty-three at most when her husband had passed. They would have had no more than five years together if she’d married at eighteen or seventeen. It wasn’t likely she’d married any younger. That meant twelve years of trying to care for this place on her own. No wonder it looked a bit rough. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask. What kind of man had her husband been? Young like herself? Older? Had he died of illness or natural causes? Disease? How devoted was she to his memory? Did she mean to spend the rest of her life devoted to it? But he knew before asking that those questions were entirely too personal. Instead, he said, ‘There’s a shed on the corner of the property. It looks like it was once used as a barn of sorts.’ Perhaps it would be easier for her to talk about the land.
‘Yes, the roof finally caved in last year and I haven’t repaired it. The goats have been living outside.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Brennan put in quickly. ‘It will only take a couple of days and that way the goats can get out of the olive grove. They’ll chew it to sticks if they don’t and that won’t do your harvest any good come October.’ He’d noticed that situation when he’d arrived this morning.
‘The grove probably isn’t worth saving,’ Patra warned him. ‘I haven’t been able to harvest it in three years beyond what I need for my personal use.’
Brennan leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Isn’t there anyone in the town to help you?’ He was hard pressed to imagine the people of Kardamyli not joining forces to assist someone in need.
Patra stood up and began gathering the plates, apparently done with the conversation and done tolerating his personal questions. He realised his mistake too late. She didn’t want help and, in her stubbornness, she’d driven off their offers. Now, she was too stubborn to ask for that help back when she needed it.
Brennan rose, too, helping with the dishes. ‘Thank you for breakfast, it was most enlightening.’
When she’d gone back inside, Brennan stripped off his shirt, picked up his hammer and went back to work. She would not succeed in driving him off. He needed her compliance too much. But more than that, he had her measure and he knew when someone needed help.
She might chide him for his shirtless attire, but he noticed she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. She was spending a lot of time outdoors. She came out to gather eggs. She came out to milk the goats. She came out to check on his progress and to make a few idle suggestions.
* * *
In the early afternoon, she came back out with a tray bearing lunch and a slim bottle with a spout on it. They ate pita, filling the bread with goat’s cheese and meat.
At the end of the meal, she held up the glass bottle. ‘If you insist on not wearing a shirt, you’re going to need this.’
‘Olive oil?’ Brennan looked sceptical, not following her line of reasoning.
‘Not just olive oil. You haven’t been here yet through a Greek summer or even a spring. You’ll have noticed our sun is hot, probably hotter than your English sun. Turn around. Let’s get this on your back or you’re going to burn.’
Brennan grinned as he gave her his back. He couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘You can rub my back any time you want, Patra. You don’t even need oil.’
Her tone was brisk on purpose and perhaps more severe than required to take away the implication that this was anything more than a necessary task to perform. ‘You’ll burn without it. Your legs tanned, but you haven’t been without a shirt in this sun. I imagine redheads don’t tan easily.’
Brennan laughed. ‘As a species, that’s generally true.’ He swiped a finger through the oil on his shoulder, sniffing it. ‘Does it work?’ Her hands felt cool and capable against his skin.
‘It works.’ She kneaded his shoulders and he rolled his neck, encouraging her to do it again. ‘It protects against damage at least.’ He could feel her step back from him. He didn’t want her to stop. She passed him the bottle. ‘You can do the rest. Cover your chest and your face.’
‘I don’t know if I have your expertise,’ Brennan drawled, knowing full well she’d scold him. Her hands on his chest would be very nice. Still, he had to try.
‘You can do it, I have great faith in your oil-applying abilities.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘But don’t work too much longer. I don’t want you fainting from fatigue or heat.’
‘Oh, you do care.’ Brennan grinned, pouring olive oil into the palm of his hand and smearing it on his chest in broad strokes. He watched the pulse at the base of her neck leap. She was definitely not indifferent.
‘Only because you’re too big, I don’t think I could drag you inside.’ Patra shook her head. ‘I’ll be in the shade with the mending if you need anything.’ Oh, he would. Brennan grinned. He’d make sure of it.
Brennan finished whitewashing the front of the house and began the process of cleaning brushes and putting away the tools, all borrowed from Kon. He wrapped them in an old cloth and stored them in the wagon. He stepped back from the wagon and surveyed his work. The house looked better already. The whitewash made the house gleam under the sun and the blue shutters on the two windows added a crisp finish. He’d get the rest of the house done tomorrow. Right now, there was something else he wanted to do, another project to work on.
He spied Patra under the tree, the mending in her lap. She’d left her hair down today. He’d noticed at breakfast, but he didn’t dare comment on it, after the bit with the nightgown. It made her look younger, freer. She wasn’t old, she shouldn’t dress as if she was. Certainly any mourning obligations to her husband had been satisfied years ago.
Her long chestnut hair hung in a thick skein over one shoulder as she sewed, humming a Greek tune. The domesticity of the scene caught him unawares like a sucker punch to the gut: Patra sewing, the freshly washed house behind her, the olive groves beyond that. They were a tangled mess right now, but they wouldn’t be when he’d finished. Come October, they would be healthy again.
He had to stop himself. Would he even be here in October? That was six months away. If he wanted the fantasy he painted in his mind, all he had to do was reach out and claim it with Katerina. It was there for the taking, but he didn’t want it with Katerina. That particular fantasy was lacking something.
Did he even want a wife? Last night he had been doing everything he could to avoid such a fate. He wasn’t