The house Mona had come to share with her father-in-law when her husband was away was as old as Emma’s but more rustic. Inside was as humble as out; it was a true farmhouse, more about function than fashion, especially since Tim had lived here on his own after the death of his wife.
Wall art ran to framed school photos of the girls, and a large picture of Tim, Jr., in his military uniform, smiling shyly at the camera.
There was nothing “up-country” about the Christmas decorations, either; they were a happy mishmash of fake silver and gold garlands, a scrawny tree nearly falling over under the weight of pine-cone decorations obviously made by Sue and Peggy, the table centerpiece a skinny Santa Claus made out of a paper towel roll and cotton batten.
And yet, the feeling of Christmas and of family was perfect.
Peter would have hated every single thing about this house, and he would have called the decorations tacky.
But when she slid Ryder a glance to see how he was reacting, she saw him take in the humble home, something reluctant and oddly vulnerable in the dark of his eyes.
How could it be, that just twenty-four hours ago when she had seen him those dark, dark eyes had made her think the devil had come to visit?
Could he have changed that much in twenty-four hours? Or had she?
EMMA watched with admiration as Mona, unfazed by the lack of electricity, stoked the cookstove, lit coal-oil lanterns, warmed water for washing, set her old coffeepot on the stove and began to get chicken ready to fry in an old cast-iron pan.
The men hauled water, a hard job that left them soaked in their own sweat and the water that sloshed from buckets. When they were done, Mona gave them a scrub basin filled with the warm water, and dry shirts and shooed them into the back porch off the kitchen. She gave Emma a potato peeler and pointed at a mountain of potatoes.
Unfortunately, from where she stood at the table peeling, Emma had a clear view through the open door to the porch. Her mouth went dry as Ryder stripped off his wet shirt. He was one hundred-per-cent-pure man. He had incredibly broad shoulders, his chest was deep and smooth, his pectoral muscles defined, his abdomen a rippled hollow. His pants hung low over the slight rise of his hips.
Emma felt a fire in her belly. Around Peter she had always striven to feel cool and composed. Even their kisses had been stingy and proper.
Nothing could have prepared her for the pure primal feeling she felt now.
How could she be a brand-new woman—totally devoted to her inn and her independent life—with someone like him around?
He’s a temporary distraction, she told herself. But did that mean she could look all she wanted? Was it something like those chocolate oranges that came out only at Christmas? You had to give yourself permission to enjoy them while they were around?
Embarrassed by her own hunger and curiosity, Emma forced herself to focus on the potato she was peeling, but she just had to slide him one more little look. Who knew how long before she would see something like this again?
Ryder Richardson was built as if he had been carved out of marble. The male strength and perfection in every hard line of him was absolute.
He took the washcloth, dipped it in the water, soaped it and then ran it along the hard bulge of his forearm, up his arm to the mound of his biceps.
She hoped she hadn’t made a noise! Because he looked up, caught her looking and his gaze rested on her, heated, knowing. He continued what he was doing, but he held her gaze while he did it. She looked away first, her face feeling as if it was on fire.
She didn’t look up again, scowling with furious concentration at the potato in her hand.
Then he was beside her, filling her senses in yet another way, the soapy scent of him as sensual as silk on naked skin.
“Wow,” he said, his voice husky, “not much left of that potato.”
Despite her attempt at concentration, despite the fact she had not looked away from that spud for a single second, she had whittled away at it until only a sliver of it remained in her hand.
“You should go check on Tess,” she said, throwing that potato in the peeled pile and picking up another, trying to get rid of him. Only he wasn’t falling for it.
“I can hear her laughing. She’s obviously okay.”
He picked up a paring knife, sat on the stool beside her, took off a potato peel in one long coil, his hands amazing on that knife, his movements, despite the strength in those hands, controlled and fine.
It was very easy to imagine hands like those doing things and going places—
“Pay attention,” he said, as if he knew she was looking at his hands, and thinking totally wicked thoughts about where she would like them to be. “Don’t cut yourself.”
She glanced at him, saw a teasing smile playing across his face. The scoundrel knew exactly what effect he was having on her!
Probably because he’d had it on about a million women before her.
“Ouch,” she said. She’d nicked her finger.
“Tried to tell you,” he said smugly. But then he set down his potato and his knife and lifted her hand.
She who had always disdained the word swoon and the kind of woman who would do it—certainly not an independent innkeeper—could feel something in her melt and slide.
“It’s nothing,” she said, trying to take her hand away.
He held fast. “I’ll finish up, if you want to go take care of it.”
“I said, it’s nothing.” Her voice was high and squeaky, and it had an unattractive frantic quality to it. She yanked her hand away, picked up another potato to prove a point, though, at the moment, she was so addled she wasn’t quite sure what that point was.
Her hand was tingling.
He sighed, exasperated. “You’ve got to know when to quit, Emma.”
That was a problem for her, all right. Because she should quit this right now. She should set down her paring knife and go join the girls and Tess in the other room. She could hear them trying to play cards and keep the cards out of Tess’s clutches at the same time.
But good sense did not prevail. She did not quit. Instead she said, boldly, “Maybe I’ll let you take care of it for me later.”
And when he was silent she glanced at him and saw he was now concentrating furiously on his task.
Whatever was going on was mutual.
Which made a wholesome farm dinner, platters of perfectly browned chicken, wedged potatoes, a simple salad, seem fraught with hidden dangers—the touch of his hand while he passed the salt, his leg brushing hers when he got up to get something that Tess had dropped on the floor.
Ryder’s presence, her aching awareness of him, made her feel as awkward as a teenager on her first date, as if she was just learning to chew food and how to use a knife and fork.
“Mona, you cooked,” Emma said after dinner. “I’ll clean up. You go visit with the girls. Relax.”
I need a break from this man, from the intensity I feel around him, from the awareness of his scent and his eyes and the way his chest rises and falls when he breathes.
“I’ll help,” he said.
Great. Hide the knives.
Why was he doing this? Maybe because he was helpless not to do it, the same as she was? Maybe because