The Welcoming by Nora Roberts Page B

in the sunlight. His hands, and his arms where he’d rolled his sleeves up past the elbow, were covered with it. He’d used a bandanna to keep the hair out of his eyes. He didn’t hum while he worked, as she did. Or talk to himself, she mused, as George had. But, watching him, she thought she detected a simple pleasure in doing a job and doing it well.
    He could do things, she thought as she watched him measure the wood for the next cut. Good things, even important things. She was sure of it. Not just because she loved him, she realized. Because it was in him. When a woman spent all her life entertaining strangers in her home, she learned to judge, and to see.
    She waited until he put the saw down before she pushed the door open. Before she could speak he whirled around. Her step backward was instinctive, defensive. It was ridiculous, she told herself, but she thought that if he’d had a weapon he’d have drawn it.
    “I’m sorry.” The nerves she had managed to get under control were shot to hell. “I should have realized I’d startle you.”
    “It’s all right.” He settled quickly, though it annoyed him to have been caught off guard. Perhaps if he hadn’t been thinking of her he would have sensed her.
    “I needed to do some things upstairs, so I thought I’d bring you some coffee on my way.” She set the thermos on the stepladder, then wished she’d kept it, as her empty hands made her feel foolish. “And I wanted to check how things were going. The parlor looks great.”
    “It’s coming along. Did you label the paint?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “Because it was all done in this tidy printing on the lid of each can in the color of the paint. That seemed like something you’d do.”
    “Obsessively organized?” She made a face. “I can’t seem to help it.”
    “I liked the way you had the paintbrushes arranged according to size.”
    She lifted a brow. “Are you making fun of me?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, as long as I know.” Her nerves were calmer now. “Want some of this coffee?”
    “Yeah. I’ll get it.”
    “You’ve got sawdust all over your hands.” Waving him aside, she unscrewed the top. “I take it our truce is back on.”
    “I didn’t realize it had been off.”
    She glanced back over her shoulder, then looked around and poured the coffee into the plastic cup. “I made you uncomfortable yesterday. I’m sorry.”
    He accepted the cup and sat down on a sawhorse. “You’re putting words in my mouth again, Charity.”
    “I don’t have to this time. You looked as if I’d hit you with a brick.” Restless, she moved her shoulders. “I suppose I might have reacted the same way if someone had said they loved me out of the blue like that. It must have been pretty startling, seeing as we haven’t known each other for long.”
    Finding he had no taste for it, he set the coffee aside. “You were reacting to the moment.”
    “No.” She turned back to him, knowing it was important to talk face-to-face. “I thought you might think that. In fact, I even considered playing it safe and letting you. I’m lousy at deception. It seemed more fair to tell you that I’m not in the habit of . . . What I mean is, I don’t throw myself at men as a rule. The truth is, you’re the first.”
    “Charity.” He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling out the bandanna and sending more wood dust scattering. “I don’t know what to say to you.”
    “You don’t have to say anything. The fact is, I came in here with my little speech all worked out. It was a pretty good one, too . . . calm, understanding, a couple of dashes of humor to keep it light. I’m screwing it up.”
    She kicked a scrap of wood into the corner before she paced to the window. Columbine and bluebells grew just below in a bed where poppies were waiting to burst into color. On impulse, she pushed up the window to breathe in their faint, fragile scents.
    “The point is,” she began, hating herself for keeping her back to