Page 27 of The Bright Side of Brooding
“Here. Sorry for the wait,” I said at his side, holding out a large white mug swirled with ornate filigreed detailing in the pottery. Italian pottery, my preference over Polish since food just looked better on white dishes. But they had the loveliest little details. I had a dining set of two in this style, but my dishes for larger gatherings were plain white and totally nondescript.
His gaze jumped to mine immediately, and he shifted so his hip leaned against the counter. He reached for the mug with both hands, wrapping his much larger one around mine at the handle, and cupping the other around the opposite side.
I swallowed, the warmth of his hand and the rough brush of his palm against my knuckles somehow the most sensual thing I’d ever felt. I internally stamped my foot at myself—I was finding everything about him far too appealing and thus becoming ridiculous. Slowly and with heaps of regret, I released the mug to him.
“Why’d you invite me here, Summer?”
His deep voice was a little gruff but rich, and so, so nice.
“I—to thank you for shoveling my driveway.” My breath came shallow, and I felt a little dizzy.
“Unnecessary.”
“Completely necessary. It must’ve taken you at least fifteen minutes, if not more since you did every single part that’s paved, and you did it before I even woke up.”
“It was quick—I got through all three houses in about forty minutes. Made a good workout to do all three in a row.” One of his eyebrows inched up a millimeter.
I hadn’t considered that element. There was a reason people died shoveling snow—it shot your heartrate through the roof. He’d done the equivalent of an hour’s work in forty minutes which meant he must’ve been shoveling at an inhuman pace.
“Forty minutes? How are you not still breathing hard right now?”
I may have sounded awed and mildly horrified. As much as I loved the stuff, I hated shoveling snow. It was an excruciating exercise in lifting from the legs even though you had to bend to scoop. But the first time it snowed here, I’d decided I wouldn’t complain because I had a healthy body and I wasn’t about to be one of those obnoxious Americans with a snowblower out at six a.m. breaking the noise ordinances.
“I was until we got inside.”
He studied my face, and since I could actually see his now, I did the same.
Something jabbed at my side. Oh, that’s right, the awareness that this man was heartbreakingly handsome. I mean, I would’ve liked to say I could take or leave him, but I would’ve been lying.Take, take, take!
“Should you even be shoveling? Is your hip healed completely? Don’t you still have a few more weeks of physical therapy?”
I would’ve winced at how overtly I’d displayed the fact that I’d obviously asked about his injuries, but I couldn’t. He was too close. He’d set the mug on the counter and now leaned against a hand he’d placed even with my body.
“You’re worried about my hip?”
“I—I just don’t think you should be exerting yourself like that so soon.” I tried to sound like a healthcare professional and not like a breathless, fluttery girl.
“It did just fine. I appreciate the concern.”
My heart was a herd of wild mustangs in my chest, storming through the moment. I could hardly think or move or stand there any longer. I was completely jumbled, and honestly? It freaked me out. I didn’t respond this way to men. This wasn’t me. What weird broody voodoo had he done on me?
The lack of response didn’t seem to concern him, but he did prompt me. “Why am I here, Summer?”
“I—”
I started to tell the same lie but stopped. His blue eyes searched between mine with an expression I had seen last night and more than once already today.
Suddenly, it clicked. It washope. There was hope in his eyes, and it spread over my chest like glaze over a warm bundt cake.
So, I spoke honestly. “I wanted to see you.”
He stepped closer so our bodies nearly touched. Those warm, rough hands reached up and cupped my head, thumbs at my cheeks. He leaned down just as I rose on my toes, and our lips touched. A light, tentative press, then again, and once more before he pulled back to study me, hands releasing my face, much to my regret.
My brain finally registered what had happened, and I reached out to hold him at his biceps. Funny how people talked about women having curves—this man hadcurves. I would’ve said bulges, but that sounded crass. More like smooth stones carved with relentless hours of work. Here, there, everywhere.
My hands didn’t even begin to span his arms, but I gripped what I could and urged him toward me again.
