With a rush of breath and boldness, she flipped the page in her sketchbook and looked Gerrit full in the eye.
His gaze—so tender. His smile—so gentle. His expression—so affectionate.
All the breath rushed right back out of her chest. But not the boldness. Her pencil swished over the paper in her zest to capture the exquisiteness of the moment.
“Why are you not married?” he murmured, then he cringed. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
Less rude than Fern calling her a spinster at twenty-seven, and Ivy drew the curve of Gerrit’s ear. “I almost married a boy I met at Oxford. But he loved London more than he loved me, and I loved Jersey more than I loved him.”
Gerrit’s gaze drifted away to the scenery. “It’s beautiful here.”
“It was about more than the island.” Ivy guided her pencil to convey the length of Gerrit’s jaw. “All my life I’d dreamed of practicing medicine with Dad and Charlie.”
“Charlie?” A frown twisted the lips she yearned to draw, to touch.
“He wanted to be a physician too.” Her mouth turned down as well. “Before the occupation. He left school to help the family.”
“He’s young,” Gerrit said. “The war will be over soon.”
Ivy didn’t want to talk about the war. Not today. Not with Gerrit sitting so near. She gave him a teasing little smile. “You’re twenty-eight, yes? Why areyounot married?”
“Ah, only fair.” A smile flicked up, and he flexed his left hand in front of her. “You know me. In the time it takes me to decide to pursue a woman, she falls in love with someone else.”
Yet his slow, deliberate, precise way of thinking made him moreattractive to her, and she poured her own affection into her expression.
Gerrit’s chest expanded. “If these were normal times, I would be thinking about asking you out to dinner.”
“Would you?” The words slipped from her mouth, barely audible. “I’d say yes.”
“These aren’t normal times. You mustn’t be seen with me in public.”
“No.” Once again he showed as much care for her reputation as for her safety. What a remarkable man.
He gestured to the sketch pad. “You stopped drawing.”
The pencil had fallen into her lap. For the first time she could remember, she didn’t want to draw what she saw—although she never wanted to forget. “I—I just want to look.”
Gerrit dropped his gaze to his hand. He flexed his fingers once, fumbled for her hand, and wrapped his fingers around hers. A hesitant little smile.
Soaring, filling, fulfilling, and she squeezed his hand and leaned into his solidness.
“See?” He lifted their entwined hands. “It took me over a year to hold your hand. I’m hopeless.”
Hopelessly adorable. Then a giggle erupted. “I can’t believe I’m holding hands with a Todt.”
Gerrit wrinkled his nose. “I can’t believe you are either. I’m not sure I want to associate with a woman who’d do such a thing.”
“Gerrit!” She laughed and nudged him with her shoulder.
He grinned, broad and bright, but then his smile softened. “Thank you for doing so.”
She studied the brown wool encasing his long arms and legs. “I can’t imagine what it must feel like to wear that uniform.”
“Awful.” He squirmed his shoulders and legs. “It feels like—have you ever spilled something on yourself in the morning, and you have to spend the day damp, sticky, stained, everyone staringat you? All you can think about is changing your clothes. Well, that’s what it feels like. Only worse.”
Ivy murmured her sympathy, and she stroked his hand—the bones that had been crushed defending the weak, the muscles that drew enemy fortifications at great risk. Was it possible to fall in love with a man based on his hands?
“Everyone...” His voice sounded husky, and he cleared his throat. “They’re all in the barn.”
