That was hardly the welcome invitation he had—
What had he wished to hear? For what reason?
That disturbing question at the back of his mind, Arran refused to take a seat.
“Forgive me. If you would like time alone, I understand. It has been a difficult day for you,” he murmured.
Arran started to go.
“Wait!” Lucy exclaimed with a speed too great to be feigned. “Don’t go! I am used to company, particularly in the kitchen.”
There it was. A statement that gave some real indication of her origins. She came from humble upbringings.
That explained her refreshing forthrightness.
Arran propped his hip at the edge of the table and watched her as she worked.
She moved with the same ease amongst the kitchen that he did his ship. It was a place she clearly felt comfortable and knew her way about.
Only… His eyes lingered on her fingers.
She returned and gathered up a fresh batch of dough.
He watched her as she slammed the moist mixture onto the table. She began to knead. Her long, capable fingers curling into the dough. Squeezing, softening. Turning it over. She repeated the process. He stared transfixed. When she stopped, she collected a rolling pin.
“You have a way with your hands,” he said, his voice garbled to his own ears.
There came no outward indication she caught the thread of desire in his harsh tones.
“I enjoy baking.” Her hands were strong. Capable.
The act was not a sexual one. Or it shouldn’t be. Yet there was an eroticism to the way she moved her fingers.
A wave of lust reared within him.
Christ. Say something. Anything. Just stop looking at those fingers and imagining them wrapped around your—
“What are you making?” His voice contained a lower, harsher quality.
Fortunately, Lucy appeared indifferent. “Baking,” she clarified.
She briefly paused and looked up. “I am baking.” With her forearm, she brushed back a small cascade of curls that fell over her brow.
To no avail.
It only conjured imagining those tresses fanned out—
“What kind of—?” Madness is this?
Wide-eyed, Lucy looked up. “Arran?” she asked tentatively.
She couldn’t be as confounded as Arran was.
His neck went hot.
It appeared Lucy’s tendency to talk to herself was contagious.
Arran cleared his throat. “What kind of help may I provide?” he neatly side-stepped.
