For women like Opal who clearly have stories of pain and hurt in their past, too, but don’t talk as openly about it?
Could I fix up the barn and keep a couple of horses here?
Run shop classes?
Hire artists to help women just like me, like Charlotte and Regina and Opal, sample painting and pottery and knitting to see if those are things that could give us joy?
I’m measuring a wall in the galley kitchen when I sense someone behind me. “That was quick,” I say to Junie. “Missed me already?”
“You’re okay,” a deep, rumbling voice answers.
I spin, momentarily jarring my head a little too much, and then my panties go wet.
Flint’s standing in the doorway to the long hall, his eyes tired but intense while he searches my face.
“You’re okay?” he repeats, this time as a question.
“Just a little soccer ball to the head. I’m fine.”
He nods once.
I watch him while he watches me right back.
He shouldn’t be here. I got the vibes off Junie last night that she didn’t like him here. She doesn’tknowwe had a moment of bad judgment, but she’s not stupid.
She knows there’s a level of attraction here, and she doesn’t like it.
Flint’s gaze shifts down my body. He’s not ogling. It’s like he’s taking inventory. Arms? Check. Shoulders? Check. Chest?
There’s no amount of self-talk in the world that could convince me he’s simply making sure I don’t have a gaping wound anywhere.
His eyes darken. His mouth tightens. Hisbicepstighten, and I watch him curl his fingers into fists like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for me.
I self-consciously curl my own fingers into a fist, then shake them out while he continues to let his gaze drop lower on my body.
“June’s light was on all night.” His voice is husky, and I don’t know if it’s exhaustion from watching the house all night himself or if it’s desire. “I promised her I’d leave you alone, and I swear, I’m not here because I want to break my word, but I was ... I was worried. About both of you. I didn’t think she’d come get me if anything was wrong, and I hate that, so I just—I needed to see for myself that you’re up and about and okay today.”
When his gaze lands on my hips, then lower, I have every belief that it’s desire.
Not simple concern for a fellow human but an all-consuming, desperate need.
But he doesn’t come any closer. He stays in the doorway, clearly doing his best to balance respecting his promise to my daughter while also fulfilling his own clear need to make sure I’m recovering.
And possibly ogle me.
“She okay too?” he asks.
I nod.
Swallow.
Nod again. “Y-yes.”
His hooded eyes lift to mine, sharp and focused.
I clear my throat. “She’s sleeping. Thank you. And Charlotte told me you stopped by. I’m fine. Truly. Not the worst I’ve ever had. Once on set, Dean and our roofing guy were tossing off old shingles right over the front door, and the sign wasn’t up inside warning us that things were falling like it was supposed to be, so I walked out and right into a rain shower of bad. Tetanus shots are fun, let me tell you. But I was okay then too. The nail in that one shingle missed the crucial veins and arteries, and really, it was barely a nick.”
“Saw that episode,” he says quietly.
