“Kissed you.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
He didn’t look pleased with himself. Not in the least.
“And I shouldn’t take advantage… After all you’ve done for me…”
Pushing away from the table, he took a step toward her, his frustration palpable. “But you, Daisy Margaret Montgomery, are not an easy woman to resist.”
Her breath caught.Good heavens!
To say she was stunned would be an understatement.
Scowling, he ran a hand through his hair, sending some of those too-long silky brown waves into disarray.
“You are a beautiful, compassionate woman. Not to mention intelligent, brave, and,” he gestured toward her soaps, “talented.”
Daisy swallowed, her heart drumming an erratic beat against her ribs. Had any man—had his younger self—ever spoken about her like that? Had she ever been seen like this before? As something more than a daughter, a shopkeeper, a caretaker, a sister?
With no hesitation whatsoever, she reached out.
Skimming her fingers along the crisp linen of his borrowed shirt, she traced the sleeves down to where the material had been folded back, revealing sinewy, capable forearms, their olive skin warm beneath her touch.
She shouldn't do this. And yet, she couldn’t help herself.
Circling her fingertips over the fine black hairs, she felt the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch, the slight intake of his breath.
A shudder ran through him. But he didn’t push her hand away.
The room felt impossibly small, the air thick and pressing in around them. The pull between them—like the sun and the earth—remained undeniable.
What does it mean?
Noticing the raised gooseflesh, she lifted her gaze, and there it was—confirmation. Desire flickered in his green eyes, mirroring the reckless longing swirling in her own chest.You are irresistible, too. You always have been…
“But you barely know me,” she said instead.
He exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. Then, he shrugged—but not dismissively. Thoughtfully. As if he, too, couldn’t rationalize any of… this.
And then, he turned his hand and clasped hers, his grip firm.
“It doesn’t make sense.” His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, sending ripples of heat shooting through her. “But…” Another shrug. A small, almost helpless smile. “You feel it too?”
She nodded.
God help her, she did.
And yet… Nothing had changed. Not really.
LOVINGTON
This was still the same man—the same Alastair—who had once left her behind so that he could take on his father’s dukedom.
She hadn’t blamed him. She’d blamed his uncle, his father… even, at times, her own dear father.
But now, for the first time, she was angry with him.
