escaped her lips as she lurched away from him. She wobbled to the side, her head coming dangerously close to the sharp corner of his tack shelf. He latched on to her elbow to steady her. What was it about them and doorways?
She gently tugged her arm free and ducked her chin. He tried to meet her eyes, but all he could see was the top of her hat.
“I’m sorry. Again,” she said, still not looking at him.
He cleared his throat. “I’m . . . ah . . . sorry, too. And not just for nearly running you down. I was rude to you out there.” He paused. “Forgive me.”
Slowly, the hat tilted back and her lovely face peered up at him. She had freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her lashes were damp. Those blue eyes of hers spoke of her confusion and pain even though her mouth remained silent. But it was the hint of hope shimmering in their moist depths that penetrated his heart. All at once, he could think of nothing save kissing her. His gaze fell to her lips, and he felt himself sway forward.
What am I doing? J.T. jerked back and locked his neck firmly in an upright position.
Clearing his throat, he stepped around her to the desk. “Uh . . . thanks for the biscuits. It was thoughtful of you.”
J.T. made a point to unwrap the bundle and take a bite of one of the golden brown halves. The crust flaked, the soft center still warm. The strawberry preserves tempted him to take another bite and relish the sweetness, but the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he was not done with his apology.
“You’re a fine cook, ma’am.”
She still didn’t smile. Two delicate frown lines veed between her brows. “Why do you dislike me so, Mr. Tucker?”
Had he been a cursing man, he would have done so just then. Instead he choked on the bite of biscuit that lodged itself in his throat at her question.
“I don’t dislike you, Miss Richards.”
She stared up at him, no doubt waiting for an explanation. He stuffed another bite of biscuit into his mouth.
What exactly could he say? That she frightened him and his rudeness was an act of self-preservation? Yeah, that would go over well.
“How’s the table working out?” He sat on the corner of his desk, which brought his face level with hers. A mistake. Her gaze bored into him with an intensity that made him squirm. He shoved back up to his feet and strode to the door. She blinked but didn’t stand in his way.
“The table’s a blessing. Thank you.”
He’d forgotten he’d asked the question until he heard her answer. Escape was too close to stop now, though, so he kept moving through the doorway. “Good,” he called over his shoulder. “Glad to hear it. I . . . ah . . . need to get back to work. Thanks for bringing the tools back . . . and for the biscuits.”
J.T. scrambled up into the wagon as if the ground were suddenly crawling with snakes. He snatched up the pitchfork and starting throwing hay with a vengeance.
“Good day, Mr. Tucker.”
He heard her voice but pretended he didn’t. After three more pitches up to the loft, he risked a glance behind him. Head high, she was walking down the street toward the blacksmith shop. She looked so prim and professional dressed in her fancy pink dress and bonnet, but when he’d seen her in her plain, loose-fitting work dress, he’d found her no less appealing.
And then she’d waltzed into town with Ezra Culpepper and sat in front of her shop with the man drinking coffee or tea or whatever it was women like her drank in the morning. Which only confused him further. Ezra hadn’t bathed since his wife died last spring, probably hadn’t changed his clothes, either, just added layers as the temperature cooled. He stunk to high heaven. Even if the woman had no sense of smell, one look at the fellow should have been all it took to turn her away in disgust at his unkempt state. Yet she hadn’t turned away. In fact she’d reached out to him.
What seamstress in her right mind would encourage a connection
She gently tugged her arm free and ducked her chin. He tried to meet her eyes, but all he could see was the top of her hat.
“I’m sorry. Again,” she said, still not looking at him.
He cleared his throat. “I’m . . . ah . . . sorry, too. And not just for nearly running you down. I was rude to you out there.” He paused. “Forgive me.”
Slowly, the hat tilted back and her lovely face peered up at him. She had freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her lashes were damp. Those blue eyes of hers spoke of her confusion and pain even though her mouth remained silent. But it was the hint of hope shimmering in their moist depths that penetrated his heart. All at once, he could think of nothing save kissing her. His gaze fell to her lips, and he felt himself sway forward.
What am I doing? J.T. jerked back and locked his neck firmly in an upright position.
Clearing his throat, he stepped around her to the desk. “Uh . . . thanks for the biscuits. It was thoughtful of you.”
J.T. made a point to unwrap the bundle and take a bite of one of the golden brown halves. The crust flaked, the soft center still warm. The strawberry preserves tempted him to take another bite and relish the sweetness, but the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he was not done with his apology.
“You’re a fine cook, ma’am.”
She still didn’t smile. Two delicate frown lines veed between her brows. “Why do you dislike me so, Mr. Tucker?”
Had he been a cursing man, he would have done so just then. Instead he choked on the bite of biscuit that lodged itself in his throat at her question.
“I don’t dislike you, Miss Richards.”
She stared up at him, no doubt waiting for an explanation. He stuffed another bite of biscuit into his mouth.
What exactly could he say? That she frightened him and his rudeness was an act of self-preservation? Yeah, that would go over well.
“How’s the table working out?” He sat on the corner of his desk, which brought his face level with hers. A mistake. Her gaze bored into him with an intensity that made him squirm. He shoved back up to his feet and strode to the door. She blinked but didn’t stand in his way.
“The table’s a blessing. Thank you.”
He’d forgotten he’d asked the question until he heard her answer. Escape was too close to stop now, though, so he kept moving through the doorway. “Good,” he called over his shoulder. “Glad to hear it. I . . . ah . . . need to get back to work. Thanks for bringing the tools back . . . and for the biscuits.”
J.T. scrambled up into the wagon as if the ground were suddenly crawling with snakes. He snatched up the pitchfork and starting throwing hay with a vengeance.
“Good day, Mr. Tucker.”
He heard her voice but pretended he didn’t. After three more pitches up to the loft, he risked a glance behind him. Head high, she was walking down the street toward the blacksmith shop. She looked so prim and professional dressed in her fancy pink dress and bonnet, but when he’d seen her in her plain, loose-fitting work dress, he’d found her no less appealing.
And then she’d waltzed into town with Ezra Culpepper and sat in front of her shop with the man drinking coffee or tea or whatever it was women like her drank in the morning. Which only confused him further. Ezra hadn’t bathed since his wife died last spring, probably hadn’t changed his clothes, either, just added layers as the temperature cooled. He stunk to high heaven. Even if the woman had no sense of smell, one look at the fellow should have been all it took to turn her away in disgust at his unkempt state. Yet she hadn’t turned away. In fact she’d reached out to him.
What seamstress in her right mind would encourage a connection
Similar Books
