His strong jaw clenches. “Where are your bags?” He ignores my muffin, darn him.
“In the car. I’ll grab them.” I could use a cooling down, and it feels downright wintery out there today.
“No, I got it.” He brushes past me and steps out the door. My body goes tingly in the places we touch.
“You’re wearing shorts and a tank top. You’ll freeze,” I protest.
He doesn’t deign to answer, just jogs down the stairs of the porch in that casually athletic way he moves, strolls up to my car, opens the trunk, and pulls out my oversized suitcases as if they’re tiny handbags.
“You should lock the doors,” he admonishes.
I laugh. “This is Snowflake Harbor. I don’t think I’ve locked a door in…ever.” I follow him back inside, admiring how his forearms pop and the effortless way he manages my heavy bags.
“What did you pack in here? Boulders?” He leads the way up the stairs to the second floor. I follow closely behind.
“A girl needs shoe options. And art supplies.”
We walk down the hallway past Belle’s room.
“This is yours,” he says, opening the door to a bright room with expansive views of the lake beyond.
I wonder if he’s in the room next to mine. I’ll save that thought for tonight, when I’m alone. I’ll imagine him in bed, naked, on the other side of the wall. My imagination tells me that he sleeps in the buff because my imagination is nice that way.
“Thank you for carrying my bags. It was very manly of you.”
He tips his chin.
“Where’s Belle?” She hasn’t made an appearance yet, which is unusual for her.
“She’s getting dressed. She’s thinking about what shade of blue to wear.”
“Well, color is an important consideration. I was obsessed with yellow at her age.”
“Big surprise.” Sarcasm drips from his words.
“What? Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. It’s…a happy color.”
“Exactly!” I slap his arm in enthusiasm, feeling a jolt of electricity at the contact. “That’s why I love it! Alas, it wasn’t a good look for me, so that love affair was short-lived.”
“I doubt that.” His gaze traces over me, and I shiver in response.
“With this red hair? It’s a struggle.”
“It’s not just red. It’s more…cinnamon,” he says after a pause. “Shot through with caramel.”
I start to giggle. “You’re describing the muffin I brought you,” I gasp out.
He shakes his head, a smile peeping out. It’s enough to brighten my day. My month. My year.
“You’re impossible.” But he says it like a compliment.
I turn away and look around the bedroom to gather my composure because the reluctant affection in his gaze has my thoughts scattered.
“Sorry, no yellow in here.” Ronan gestures to the room.
Thereisa distinct lack of yellow—or any other color, for that matter. It’s white on beige, beige on white, and the odd shade of cream thrown in. It is, however, light and airy, with a huge picture window and nothing else competing for the magnificent view of the lake. I can imagine waking up in a room like this, having a cup of coffee in the cozy—white, of course—chair in front of the window, and sketching the way the light falls on the water. I imagine inspiration comes easily for an artist with a view like this.
