Although he was right, she didn’t mean to let him know it. “Well, as they say, the proof is in the pudding.” She bent to get another potato from the basket just as he bent to get more flour. Her head crashed into his, and she drew back. “Sorry.”
“My fault. I got distracted.”
“Distracted? How?” Did he mean her presence? No. She had no call or desire to build fanciful dreams.
“By your admiration of my skills.”
“My—” She sputtered. “Where did you get that idea?”
“From you.” He tapped her chin. “Whoops. I left a smudge of flour.” Taking up the nearest towel, he swabbed at her face.
She couldn’t blink, even though her eyes felt much too wide.
In his nearness, she made out the streaks of silver in his irises, the fan of tiny white lines at the outside edge of his eyes, and the dark growth of whiskers on his lower face. The towel hung from his hand, inches from her face. The moment stalled. Neither of them moved.
What did he see? Or imagine he saw? A disheveled spinster? A lonely woman afraid to open her heart to possibilities? She should dismiss that latter question because it wasn’t true. Her life provided all she wanted or needed. Reaching out to help those less fortunate. As if by doing so, she might prevent the needless deaths of her parents. Why hadn’t anyone helped them?
That idea didn’t seem correct, but she couldn’t puther finger on the problem. Except her parents hadn’t died of neglect. Or illness.
Besides, helping others only meant she did her part to erase the result of man’s evil from the world.
The pot sputtered, and she jerked around to deal with it, stirring the contents far longer than required. Steeling herself to deal with her errant feelings.
Three deep breaths and she thought she could work next to Nash without doing, saying, or thinking anything silly.
While he chopped the lard into the flour, she continued peeling vegetables and adding them to the stew.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.” He spoke softly.
“No. No. You didn’t. Not at all.”
“Are you sure? You’ve grown very quiet.”
Maybe she had. But not out of being offended. Her reaction to his teasing had been unexpected. So unlike her. She had a reputation for calmness and?—
An unfamiliar, mischievous imp drove away every other thought. “I was simply considering”—she dipped her finger into the flour—“how to get revenge.” She flicked the flour at him.
The surprise on his face brought a gurgle of laughter up her throat.
“Wait. I got some on you.” She grabbed the nearest towel, the same one he’d used, and wiped flour from his cheek. Whiskers rasped under her touch. Her hand slowed, stopped, and hung at his face. Her fingers refused to move. The muscles in her throat tightened so she couldn’t swallow. Behind her eyes, her pulse ticked.
A slow, heart-stopping smile curved his lips.
If she didn’t know it wasn’t possible, she’d say that smile left her knees without strength.
What was wrong with her?
He captured her hand and slowly lowered it. Slowly removed the towel from her fingers. He slowly swiped it at her nose. “I guess we’re even.”
Not even close, she wanted to protest.Not unless you are jerked off-balance as much as I am.
He set the towel on the cupboard and turned his attention back to making biscuits.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t?—
“Your stew needs to be stirred,” he murmured.
Stew? Oh right. But her body refused to turn toward the stove. A spatter of hot liquid touched the back of her hand. Her fingers found a spoon. She stirred the pot.
