order.
In fact, she wasnât altogether certain that the artistâs soul could inhabit the farmerâs body, in which case she might as well settle for one or the other, but was unwilling to do that either.
Picky? No. More like⦠particular .
Sheâd rather be alone than fill that slot with a man who would ultimately make her miserable. There wasnât much point in putting in all this hard work and planning to build herdream home only to have it turn into the armpit of hell with a guy who didnât fulfill her. Someone who didnât want the same things she did. Sheâd spent the bulk of her childhood wandering. She wanted to settle . She wanted a fancy mailbox with her name on it and a yearly bill from the county courthouse for her property taxes.
She also wanted sex, but didnât see that happening anytime in the near future. It had been more than a year since sheâd broken up with her last boyfriendânicknamed Bitter Disappointment #3âand while she was perfectly willing to consider the idea of a little casual sex, she hadnât met a single guy in the interim whoâd inspired her to do so.
Inspiration was important.
She felt the plane jolt as the wheels hit the ground and her fingers tightened around the armrests. Going up never bothered her. Coming down, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish.
As the plane taxied to a stop, Layla mentally girded her loins for the coming evening and gathered her things. She didnât have much. Just an oversize overnight bag, a tote that housed her small purse and her mandolin, of course. Though she could play almost any stringed instrument, this was the one that owned her. True, you could get a more sustained sound from a guitar or violin, but there was something about the sound this particular instrument made that simply spoke to her soul. The mandolin was finicky, required a fast touch and being able to wind its melody through the other instruments gave her a high that no chemical could ever induce.
She loved it.
She took a deep, bracing breath and stepped off the plane.
And it was a good thing sheâd just inhaled all that oxygen, because the ability to put air into her lungs promptly vanished when she saw the man standing on the tarmac.
Bryant Bishop. Ultimate inspiration. The inspiration to end all inspiration.
It had been years since sheâd seen him. At least two, if not three. But sheâd recognize the shape of those shoulders anywhere, and the head that rested upon them wasnât too damned bad either.
He was the only man sheâd ever dreamed about, and in those dreams, he was alternately rocking above her, gloriously naked, or parked in a chair beside her, rocking on her front porch.
Only an idiot would misinterpret the significance and Layla was no idiot.
Despite the freezing temperatures, her body felt as if it had suddenly landed in the Sahara. There wasnât a molecule inside of her that wasnât keenly aware of him, and her jointsâparticularly her kneesâwere undergoing some sort of chemical change that rendered them almost useless. Fire licked through her veins, concentrating in her nipples, and an inferno burned low in her belly. The sensation was so startling that it jolted the breath out of her lungs, making her gasp like a floundering fish. Gallingly, her cheeks blazed right along with the rest of her.
He smiled, almost knowingly, and her mortification was complete.
Bryant had a face that was more interesting than handsome, a series of planes and angles that held character rather than beauty. High cheekbones provided the perfect structure for the lean slope of his face and smooth angle of his jaw. An intriguing cleft bisected his chin and there was something overtly carnal about his mouth. His eyes were the color of smooth butterscotch and held a heavy-lidded quality that gave the illusion of either boredom or sleepiness, whichever he preferred.
Right now he looked
In fact, she wasnât altogether certain that the artistâs soul could inhabit the farmerâs body, in which case she might as well settle for one or the other, but was unwilling to do that either.
Picky? No. More like⦠particular .
Sheâd rather be alone than fill that slot with a man who would ultimately make her miserable. There wasnât much point in putting in all this hard work and planning to build herdream home only to have it turn into the armpit of hell with a guy who didnât fulfill her. Someone who didnât want the same things she did. Sheâd spent the bulk of her childhood wandering. She wanted to settle . She wanted a fancy mailbox with her name on it and a yearly bill from the county courthouse for her property taxes.
She also wanted sex, but didnât see that happening anytime in the near future. It had been more than a year since sheâd broken up with her last boyfriendânicknamed Bitter Disappointment #3âand while she was perfectly willing to consider the idea of a little casual sex, she hadnât met a single guy in the interim whoâd inspired her to do so.
Inspiration was important.
She felt the plane jolt as the wheels hit the ground and her fingers tightened around the armrests. Going up never bothered her. Coming down, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish.
As the plane taxied to a stop, Layla mentally girded her loins for the coming evening and gathered her things. She didnât have much. Just an oversize overnight bag, a tote that housed her small purse and her mandolin, of course. Though she could play almost any stringed instrument, this was the one that owned her. True, you could get a more sustained sound from a guitar or violin, but there was something about the sound this particular instrument made that simply spoke to her soul. The mandolin was finicky, required a fast touch and being able to wind its melody through the other instruments gave her a high that no chemical could ever induce.
She loved it.
She took a deep, bracing breath and stepped off the plane.
And it was a good thing sheâd just inhaled all that oxygen, because the ability to put air into her lungs promptly vanished when she saw the man standing on the tarmac.
Bryant Bishop. Ultimate inspiration. The inspiration to end all inspiration.
It had been years since sheâd seen him. At least two, if not three. But sheâd recognize the shape of those shoulders anywhere, and the head that rested upon them wasnât too damned bad either.
He was the only man sheâd ever dreamed about, and in those dreams, he was alternately rocking above her, gloriously naked, or parked in a chair beside her, rocking on her front porch.
Only an idiot would misinterpret the significance and Layla was no idiot.
Despite the freezing temperatures, her body felt as if it had suddenly landed in the Sahara. There wasnât a molecule inside of her that wasnât keenly aware of him, and her jointsâparticularly her kneesâwere undergoing some sort of chemical change that rendered them almost useless. Fire licked through her veins, concentrating in her nipples, and an inferno burned low in her belly. The sensation was so startling that it jolted the breath out of her lungs, making her gasp like a floundering fish. Gallingly, her cheeks blazed right along with the rest of her.
He smiled, almost knowingly, and her mortification was complete.
Bryant had a face that was more interesting than handsome, a series of planes and angles that held character rather than beauty. High cheekbones provided the perfect structure for the lean slope of his face and smooth angle of his jaw. An intriguing cleft bisected his chin and there was something overtly carnal about his mouth. His eyes were the color of smooth butterscotch and held a heavy-lidded quality that gave the illusion of either boredom or sleepiness, whichever he preferred.
Right now he looked
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