His hand moved to support her elbow as she backed down the stairs. “Careful. I wouldn’t want you to break your other ankle.” The deep, quiet timbre of his Australian accent curled into her ear and ran a delicious shiver down the side of her neck.
“There’s a very real danger of that, I assure you.”
He dropped her elbow as soon as she was stable, but the eye contact between them felt even more charged. The beauty of that darker ring of gray-green encircling the paler green of his irises...
Sam broke the moment by moving into the living area, which reflected the same spare, masculine design of his other rooms.
His desk and dining room table were both utilitarian farmhouse antiques without any frills. The chocolate brown leather sofa before her oozed smooth angles and quality. She liked both it and the mission style chairs that accompanied it, but she couldn’t fathom how he existed without rugs, throw pillows, and all the other accent pieces—vases of flowers, pottery, photos, art—that she’d arrange on every surface if given a chance.
“This is agreatfarmhouse,” she announced.
“Thanks.”
She’d lived in Nashville since the age of eighteen. She appreciated its restaurants, shopping, coffeehouses, museums, and theaters.
This was the first and only time that she’d passed weeks of her life on a large tract of land. While she hadn’t decided yet whether she was suited to life on a farm, she knewfor surethat it suited Sam. The life he’d carved for himself here was plain and straightforward. A man who lived and worked on his land was a self-sufficient, competent, independent man.
She motioned to a portable laundry rack, around the size of a small wall piano, standing in the room’s corner. Clearly, he’d set it above a heating vent, because the upward air flow ruffled the clothing he’d arranged there. “I see that you have an indoor clothesline.”
“Yep. For when it’s cold or dark or rainy.”
“You failed to mention this revelation when you introduced me to your outdoor clothesline. I’ve...” Her concentration slipped because it appeared that the man preferred boxer briefs, which was infinitely more interesting than talking about clotheslines.
See, she wanted to crow,clotheslines can rob you of privacy, Sam!But how could she? Then she’d have to call attention to his briefs. She dragged her focus up to him. “I’ve been waiting fornice weather to wash my clothes. You’ve forced me to become a laundry meteorologist!”
“You may want to invest in an indoor rack, North Korea.”
“Winter’s coming. You may want to invest in a dryer.”
“Not going to happen,” he stated. “Hungry?”
“A little.”
“What did you have for dinner and when?”
“Ramen. Two and a half hours ago.”
He shook his head in a way that communicated contempt for ramen. “Fancy a banana muffin?”
“Maybe even more than one.”
He padded into the kitchen and went immediately to work, every move efficient. He did not consult a recipe.
“Oh. You’re going to make them from scratch?”
“I make almost everything I eat from scratch.”
“And I’m the opposite. I’m very pro-processed foods.”
He ignored her.
“Do you ever splurge and eat something that’s bad for you?” she asked.
“Almost never.”
“Which means you occasionallydosplurge. What is it that you eat on those occasions?”
“Tim Tams.”
