My belly does a flip flop. I smooth down the nonexistent wrinkles of the rose cashmere sweater I wear and run my hands over my black trousers. I’m glad that I had Meghan style my hair into a Dutch braid with a few curled tendrils at the sides.
“I was just making Mom a late lunch. Have you eaten?” Meghan’s voice grows closer, along with the heavy footsteps of my neighbor.
I turn, feigning surprise the moment I see him. His hazel eyes meet mine, the frown on his face deepening.
A wrinkle appears in his forehead.
“Should you be sitting up like this? You’re going to make your injury worse.”
My heart flutters inside of my chest, and I suspect it has to do with the level of concern in his voice.
“I tried to tell her, but if you haven’t figured it out by now, my mother’s a little hardheaded,” Meghan answers.
I gasp. “You watch your mouth, young lady. I still keep a bar of soap to rinse that mouth out when necessary.”
Meghan frowns. “I didn’t even curse.”
“You called me hardheaded. That’s close enough.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she murmurs. “Mr. Townsend, please take a seat. I’ll make you a sandwich also.”
“I don’t need anything.”
Meghan waves him off. “Nonsense. You came all of this way, so you have to sit down and eat. I have to go run some errands anyway.”
I jut my head back in surprise because that’s news to me. We were going to be home for most of the day watching movies.
But I don’t say this out loud, especially not when Joel takes a seat in the chair next to me, his arm brushing against mine. Despite the sleeve of my sweater covering my skin, a rush of something warm, rich and just a little bit dark washes over me at his nearness.
I inhale what’s becoming an all-too-familiar scent, the smell of him.
I clear my throat.
“Hello, Joel,” I finally greet.
“Ellyn,” he says, removing his black Stetson and placing it in the empty chair beside him. “How’re you feelin’ today?”
His deep, rumbling voice sends a shockwave through my system. It’s the same question he’s asked me each day he’s stopped by since my fall. Which has been every single day.
Even if just for five minutes, he’s popped in to ask how I’m doing or if I need anything.
“I feel great. Went to the doctor earlier, and he says I’m healing nicely. He thinks I’ll be ready to go back to Pilates soon.”
This doesn’t make Joel smile the way I’d intended.
Instead, he allows his lazy gaze to roll over me, pausing at the cast on my wrist as if he can assess with his vision alone if what the doctor’s said is true or not.
“That’s not a good idea,” he finally declares.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Pilates is one of those exercise classes where you have to lean on your wrist to hold your bodyweight up, isn’t it?”
I smirk. “You’ve taken a class?”
He rolls his eyes. “Ridin’ horses and workin’ on the ranch is all of the exercise I need.”
“I bet it is,” I say, grinning.
