CLAD IN HER THIN nightgown and curled up under the chenille spread, with only her nose exposed to the bedroom’s cool air, Maddie snuggled back down into her warm cocoon after turning off the morning alarm. Not moving, she listened for a moment, as if for an intruder. She soon realized that the only interloper was the angry storm outside. It sounded absolutely deadly in its intent. Her next thought was a grateful thank-you that she wouldn’t have to get out today in this viciously windy and rainy early-September weather.
Not so everyone else. Just past Labor Day, it was the first day of school. Poor kids. Poor teachers. She thought for a moment about not opening the shop. And then hated the very idea that she was even thinking that. Here we go again. She’d been over this before, this wondering how she was supposed to cling to her Yankee work ethic in the face of impending and tremendous wealth. Yep, it looked as if she would get the money and everything else James had left her. Hank was certainly seeing to that.
Two weeks had passed since she’d given him his grandfather’s things, including Beamer. Well, give the man his due, he was hanging in there. And staying out of her way as she’d told him to do. Darn him. But the bottom line was it looked as if he’d do his six weeks, get his company back, and she’d get James’s personal wealth. All they had to do then was sign the papers and go their separate ways. As if they hadn’t already.
Maddie mugged a face. She would be incredibly wealthy in only a matter of weeks. A little over three. So why wasn’t she ecstatic? Jumping for joy? Euphoric? Because she didn’t want this inheritance to change her, not in a bad way. On the good side, she’d already decided to make huge charitable donations and get involved in funding worthwhile projects. That went without saying. But she also caught herself daydreaming about whirlwind shopping trips, spending sprees on things like a house, car, boat, helicopter, airplane—No, wait. James had also left her all of those things. And a whole lot more. Maddie exhaled, feeling overwhelmed, if not totally daunted. But then she lost patience with herself. Why did she think she had to feel so bad about enjoying her bounty? Pleasure was not a bad thing, right? Right.
But not wanting to get up and go to work in the meantime was. I don’t have to. I’m rich.
Well, there they were again, the insidious little devils. Sloth and laziness. Could the Reverend Hobbs and Lavinia Houghton be far behind with stern lectures on the evils of wealth? Maddie puckered up with defiance. They’re not my bosses. Then she remembered two things. One, she was pretty much bound by civic duty to open her shop because it kept Celeste and Lillian Madison accounted for and not free to wreak havoc in the streets. And two, the Reverend Hobbs and Lavinia Houghton were currently not speaking to her. Maddie rolled her eyes, not even wanting to go there. The bake sale last weekend. Lavinia Houghton meets Lillian Madison. Or, more accurately, Godzilla meets Mothra.
Not that Lillian and Celeste hadn’t joined up and fought the good fight. And not that the two women—Go figure—hadn’t actually been defending Maddie when they got into a food fight with Lavinia. Yes, a food fight. Right there in the Fellowship Hall. Maddie could still hear Lavinia Houghton starting it by saying she would abide no slackers, rich or otherwise, in their midst, mind you. Maddie was the slacker and her not baking anything for the sale was the act of slacking. That remark had signaled “go” time. Two against one hadn’t seemed fair, so Maddie had stepped in to try to stop it, only to be creamed with, well, a cream pie. Then, the “Rearend” Hobbs, as Lillian had taken to calling him, had waded in and gotten smacked with, appropriately enough, an angel food cake. Just bounced off the big, florid man, it had.
Reliving all that had Maddie laughing out loud, there alone in her bed. Who would have thought that Lillian Madison would come here and stay? The woman loved Hanscomb Harbor. Not so much Maddie yet, but she was thawing toward her. Some. Still, Hank’s mother had relaxed, let her hair down figuratively, and found a home with Celeste. And the two of them had teamed up and worked tirelessly to terrorize the citizenry and the paparazzi. For that second thing alone, Maddie believed, they had already earned a special place in Heaven.
But open up the shop? Should she? Maddie frowned, listening to the shrieking wind and pinging rain railing against the windows. She couldn’t imagine anyone braving this weather in need of an emergency sea-horse brooch or a severely discounted beach towel. So Maddie changed her mind again and made a mental note that over her morning coffee she would call Celeste, as much to check on her and Lillian as to tell them not to bother coming in. They’d been going to clear out the remaining seasonal stock today and tidy the storeroom, but such chores were like ironing or dusting. They could wait because certainly no one else would do them for you.
Still, this meant that Maddie would spend the day utterly alone, with only her own company. That was okay, she told herself, despite the certainty that she would run into herself around every corner. No matter where she went in her house, it seemed, there she was. And there her thoughts of Hank Madison were. How annoying, she tried to convince herself. This wasn’t working, so she beat herself up over Beamer. She should kick herself for giving up the dog. That had been wrong. So wrong. Her own stupid temper, Maddie fussed. Poor Beamer, to be passed around so. How ashamed was she? How many times had she picked up the phone to call Hank, wanting to inquire about the dog? But she’d hung up an equal number of times, too, before he could answer.
She just couldn’t talk to him. Couldn’t hear the sound of his voice and not fall apart on some level. Why did the man have to be so obedient and honorable and keep his darned distance just because she’d told him to? Did he not know the first thing about pursuing a woman? Maddie thought about that and decided that, no, he probably didn’t. A man like Hank Madison didn’t have to pursue women. Probably all he did was snap his fingers and then choose from among the crowd. Well, then, she certainly had to be the exception, didn’t she, having told him to go away after he’d told her he wanted to be with her?
Ha. Good for me. I stood my ground. Pride in that accomplishment lasted about two seconds. She slumped in her bed. Yeah, I stood my ground. Alone. How stupid am I?
Not in the least, she rushed to tell herself. Sure, Hank wanted to be with her—for six whole weeks. That had hit her like: hey, Maddie, be my summer fling, make these six weeks go by fast, and I’ll make you a billionaire. Maddie pursed her lips. How insulting. Then she rapped her knuckles against her forehead. And why in hell didn’t I say yes? Six weeks are better than the current no weeks I now have. Who’d said, “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?” Well, whoever it was, she knew what that meant now. Jump at the chance. Go for it. God, even Celeste had told her that much. Why hadn’t she listened? Stupid pride. And morals. Values. Self-esteem.
Maddie covered her head with her pillow and cried out a very muffled, “Okay, I get the picture, all right? I’m not the six-week-stand type. And I’d hate me in the end. I know that.”
She gave up her effort to smother her conscience and came out from under her pillow, brushing her hair out of her face and remembering what a stir her rift with Hank had caused in town. One benefit of it had been that even the most dogged of the paparazzi had finally left. No romance equaled no story and no pictures. And that meant no reason to be here. Good riddance. But not everyone had given up on them.
How many of Celeste’s elderly friends, in the guise of browsers, had come into the shop to regale Maddie with their version of Hank’s daily activities and then to gauge her reaction? Ten? Twenty? It had been like having the tabloid press descend on her again. Or like a soap opera. The Days of Maddie’s and Hank’s Lives. Even she had come to hate the sound of that stupid little tinkling bell over the shop’s door. In fact, out of desperation and in an effort to stop the busybodies, Maddie had threatened to post a sign stating that no one over the age of sixty was allowed in the shop without having in tow a grandchild who had money and a mission. The visits had slowed to a trickle after that.
But those first few days after she’d told Hank to stay away had been very, very hard for Maddie. How her heart ached—no, had ached. It didn’t anymore. She was over that—him—now. She was. Over it. Over him. Lying there in her bed, alone and curled up, Maddie wished her thoughts would just move on, would just leave the sight, the scent, the touch, the feel of Hank Madison alone.
She pressed her pillow against her ears as if that would stop the images in her head; would stop the raw desire, the want, the wish for more heated kisses; would stop the hot looks, the way he made her feel all tingly inside. The craving. Those unclaimed chances with him. The opportunities not acted upon.
“He didn’t want me, all right? Not me. He wanted his life back. Not me,” Maddie railed, hearing her voice crack, feeling the hurt in her heart. “Do you get it now? He didn’t want me. So just stop it.”
She didn’t know who she was talking to, but still she waited as if expecting an answer. Or a rebuttal that told her she was wrong. Disappointingly, none came. Nor did the hurt lessen from having stated out loud what the source of her discontent was. She’d thought saying it, admitting it, would help. Or be cleansing somehow. It wasn’t. Great. I’m turning into the crazy old woman who talks to herself out loud when she’s alone. All I need are thirty-four cats and a shopping cart to complete this picture.
Maddie sighed, thinking this was getting her nowhere. Neither was a constant mental replaying of that wonderful Monday when she and Hank had picnicked in the gazebo and then taken Beamer for a walk on the beach. That had been heaven. With that memory warming her, Maddie turned over in bed, snuggling even further into her cozy nest of covers. She closed her eyes, trying to blank her mind, to get back to that day. And then, suddenly, there he was. Hank Madison in all his masculine glory. Those dark eyes, the determined jaw, his broad shoulders and killer grin. He was magnificent.
But what really got to her the most was his “everyday person” attitude. The way he’d gamely taken up residence at that horrible little beach house and had set about making it better. That hideous wallpaper. Wagons, ho. And how he made her laugh that one day when he’d stumbled headfirst into the cottage. And the meal they’d shared together. How good he was with Beamer. How hard he worked to understand his grandfather’s mind-boggling will. And how wonderful he’d been that one warm evening with that silly red apron on as he waited on her customers. What a man.
Maddie felt tears prick at her eyes. What a man. She sniffed and swallowed the emotion in her throat. What an idiot I am to let him get away. I want him. It’s that simple. And that hard. She had no right, she told herself, to lie here and wonder in vain about him. After all, she kept throwing him back, pushing him away. How pathetic was it that all she had of him were memories? So what was he doing right now? she wondered. Probably sleeping. Did he sleep in the nude? Maddie shook her head, blocking that image from her mind. No sense going there.
She shifted about irritably in her bed. Why was she torturing herself with this? With Hank? She had a life without him. Hey, life was good. Her life was good. She was enjoying it—or would if she could stop thinking about Hank Madison. If everyone would let her. God, she had days, whole days, when she knew that if he walked through the door of Maddie’s Gifts, she’d say yes to anything he wanted from her and for whatever reason he wanted it.
Only he never did. He never walked through the door of Maddie’s Gifts. And whose fault was that?
* * *
Later that morning, dressed in thick, droopy wool socks, her favorite ratty old paprika-colored sweatpants, a too-big denim shirt, and no makeup, Maddie stood with her back to the shop’s door as she sorted through the mail Mr. Canardy had just dropped off. Bills. A catalogue. Some “Occupant” flyers. So … nothing exciting. What did you expect—a love letter from Hank Madison? Knock it off, Maddie warned herself.
Just then, behind her, the door opened and the little bell tinkled. Maddie turned, an expectant look on her face. “More mail, Mr. Canardy? I hope it’s—”
She froze. The mail fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers. Envelopes smacked with a sick plop onto the newly polished hardwood floors. Maddie ignored the postal display in favor of running a quick mental scan over herself and how she looked … and how he looked. Great. Dog-patch meets GQ. “Hank Madison! What are you doing here?”
Hank, as if it explained everything, pointed to his confederates piling in behind him. “My mother called me and said she and Mrs. McNeer needed a ride in to work.”
He’s here. Hank’s here. He’s here. Maddie’s mind stupidly repeated its happy refrain and would not work otherwise. “Your mother and Mrs. McNeer?”
“That would be me. Down here, honey. In front of the big man.” The tiny, short woman to one side of Hank—sure enough, Mrs. McNeer—collapsed her dripping umbrella and glared up at him. “You’re to call me Celeste. Every time you call me Mrs. McNeer, I think my last mother-in-law, the old battle-ax, is standing behind me.”
“Yes, ma’am … Celeste,” Hank replied obediently.
For her part, Maddie gave her head a quick Etch-A-Sketch shake to clear it of all the twisty little lines that kept her from thinking clearly. It worked. “Celeste!” she barked in annoyance. “What are you and Mrs. Madison doing here?”
Noisily digging in her big red leather handbag—no doubt for her cigarettes—Mrs. Madison, with a plastic rain cap over her peach-colored hair, said, “Lillian. Call me Lillian. We’ve talked about this before.” She came up with her cigarette case. “Whew. I need a smoke. I swear it’s coming down out there like a cow peeing on a flat rock.”
That was the most unbelievable thing for her to say. Maddie joined Hank in staring accusingly at Celeste the Corrupter and the Unrepentant.
“What?” she wanted to know. But without waiting for an answer, she launched into Maddie. “And what do you mean what are we doing here? We work here.” Celeste then directed her attention to Hank, who looked shell-shocked. “About my last mother-in-law, Hank. That was the meanest woman you ever saw. Everyone said she had the biggest set of brass bal—”
“Celeste,” Maddie hissed, also noting the accusing glare Hank now directed his mother’s way. “Stop that. Now listen to me. I know you work here. But I called you and told you not to come in today, that I wasn’t opening the shop. Remember?”
“Of course I do. You think I’m senile just because I’m elderly, don’t you? For your information, young lady, I tried calling you and you didn’t answer. I got worried. And then Hank drove by, and I flagged him down and told him to give us a ride over here.”
“That is not how it happened,” Hank said, coming to his own defense and pointing at Celeste. “They called me and—”
“Shhh, honey,” his mother said, putting a hand on his all-weather jacket’s sleeve and shaking her head no. “I want to hear this.”
She meant Celeste, who was still getting on to Maddie. “So you can just sue us for worrying about you when you didn’t answer your phone.”
Maddie crossed her arms under her breasts and smiled knowingly at her friend. No one had to tell her this was a matchmaking setup. “I didn’t answer it because it didn’t ring.”
That got her. Celeste stared blankly for a moment, then blurted, “Damn bad weather. Must have messed up the phone lines. And say, if you aren’t open today, how come the door is unlocked and you’re here? Are you trying to cheat us out of our hard-earned wages?”
“Do I look like I’m dressed for work? Mr. Canardy came by with the mail and I—Oh, never mind that.” She rounded on Hank, drinking in her fill of the man, all rain-wet and tall and clean-smelling. “I’m really sorry about this, Hank. You were obviously set up by these two. I told them not to come to work in this storm.”
He ran a hand through his hair, raking away glistening drops of water. “I believe you. But I just do what I’m told.” He grinned, a killer sexy grin that showed white and even teeth. “It’s easier.”
Maddie damned near whimpered. She had to stiffen her knees against the urge to jump into his arms and wrap her legs around him and kiss him hard, right in front of his mother. “Yes. I know. You do exactly what you’re told. Even when you shouldn’t, probably.”
“What do you mean by that?” Oh, he so knew. His eyebrows were arched and his dark eyes gleamed with an awareness that said You’ve missed me, haven’t you?
Though her mouth dried and her bones melted, Maddie managed to raise her chin a regal notch. It would have had more impact if she hadn’t been dressed like poor old crazy Mrs. Bailey. “Nothing. I don’t mean anything.”
“Ha. She means she missed you,” Celeste supplied to Hank. Maddie froze, her mouth open. “Close your mouth, Maddie. It makes you look simple, hanging open like that.” She then turned back to Hank. “She’s also mad. Probably because I brought you here when she looks like a ragamuffin.”
“I am not mad, Celeste,” Maddie blurted. She felt her cheeks warming with that lie. “I’m just surprised, is all. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” She darted her gaze to Hank’s handsome face. “Any of you. Especially you. And yet, here you are.”
“Here I am,” Hank repeated, his slow grin easily holding Maddie’s gaze.
Neither one of them—Maddie or Hank—had moved, Maddie knew that rationally. Yet she felt as if she were on Rollerblades and someone had shoved her in his direction. Any second now, she would smack right into him. She couldn’t look away from him. He was here. He was really here. The electricity, the attraction, the awareness, they were overwhelming. Happiness thrummed through Maddie’s veins. Her pounding pulse seemed centered somewhere underneath the front of her sweatpants.
Just then, Celeste walked between her and Hank, right through their charged field of sensual awareness. Maddie half expected the tiny little woman to be zotted and fried like an insect that collides with a bug zapper. But no such luck. Oblivious—or pretending to be—and already removing her rain cap and slicker, Celeste idly commented, “He has nowhere to stay, dear. His cottage flooded in this weather. I told him he could stay here with you.”
That broke the trance. Alarm bells, whooping sirens, and clanging gongs of warning exploded through Maddie’s head. “What?” She whipped around to sight on Celeste. “With me? He can’t stay here with me.”
“Of course he can.” On her way to where her red apron hung from its peg, and with Lillian now on her heels, Celeste told Maddie, “The motel and the Wainwrights’ bed-and-breakfast are full, dear. And he can’t stay out at Cotton Hardy’s rat trap. One more night in that drafty old cottage and the man will catch his death of pneumonia. So here he is. He’ll stay here with you.”
Maddie’s mind began whirring again. “No. He can’t.” She then remembered he was in the room and swung her gaze to him. “You can’t.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but Celeste beat him to it. “Hank is staying here with you. And Lillian and I are here today to work. Hank can help us, too. We can use a good set of strong arms around here. Heavy lifting is what men are best at, you know.”
“Second best,” Lillian piped in, grinning, leaning now against the jewelry counter and smoking.
Maddie ignored her, favoring instead Celeste the Matchmaker. “He’s not staying here. And you’re not working today. Neither is he. If you’re so worried about him, he can stay with you. Your house has four bedrooms.”
“Excuse me?” This was Hank. “If I could—”
“Not now, Hank, dear,” Celeste cut him off sweetly. She turned back to Maddie, her entire demeanor self-righteous. “Hank can’t stay with me. I have Lillian with me. And Bluebell, my kitten.” Celeste’s puckered expression said that she’d covered only three bedrooms and knew it. “And the fourth one is my sewing room.”
“You don’t sew.”
“I could.”
“He’s not staying here.” Maddie leaned in toward Celeste. “I’m a single woman.” As if that were a shameful secret. “His being here would compromise me. And start the rumors again. People would talk.”
“Not Lavinia Houghton, I’ll bet.” This was Lillian off in her corner. “She’s probably still picking coconut out of her hair.”
Celeste and Lillian whooped it up at that, cackling and nodding their heads.
“If you’ll just let me say—”
“In a moment, Hank. Hush, now.” Celeste again cut him off and turned to Maddie. “Like it or lump it, Maddie, you’ve got a houseguest.”
“I really hate to keep interrupting—”
“Then don’t!” Maddie and Celeste shrieked at Hank.
Silence reigned in Maddie’s Gifts.
As usual, Celeste recovered first. “Hank, why don’t you go get your luggage and the dog while Maddie and I—”
“The dog?” Maddie was further horrified. “He has the dog with him?”
“Yes, I do,” Hank answered for himself, now speaking rapidly as if fearing he’d be cut off again. “She’s in the car and it’s cool and running, so there’s no need to call the SPCA. But look, I speak English, I am present, and I’m an adult. It is me we’re—okay, you’re—talking about here. Still, I would appreciate it if you would let me have my say.”
“Now I think he’s mad,” Celeste observed.
“He is,” his mother confirmed. “A tantrum’s not far behind.”
Ignoring the hecklers, Maddie waved a hand at Hank, as if bestowing permission. “All right, fine. Go ahead. You have the floor. What is it you want to say?”
“Thank you,” he said pompously but politely. Then a slow grin lit his features as he stared Maddie’s way. “So, which bedroom is mine?”
* * *
The spare one was his answer to that. The guest room. Talk about winning a battle but not the war. Talk about all being fair in love and war. This was war. Didn’t know about love. But it was hell, Hank knew that much.
Separated from Maddie’s bedroom by a narrow hallway that may as well have been the width of the Grand Canyon for all the access Hank figured he’d have to it, his assigned bedroom was roughly the size of his shoe closet at home. Occupying the space with him was a tiny little square of a frilly-curtained window; a closed door that no doubt opened onto a minuscule clothes closet; a mint-green-painted three-drawer dresser at the foot of the bed; and a skinny oak nightstand with a bitsy lamp beside the bed.
He felt like giant Gulliver among the teensy Lilliputians. Huge. Like the bed. A wall-to-wall double bed whose dimensions precluded using the closet or closing the door to the hallway. No swing room. So, okay, the tweedy Berber carpet, what little of it he could see, was nice. And the décor was at least inviting, if terribly feminine.
So, Hank concluded, scratching his head, the only way to move around the room would be to slither between pieces of furniture. But no. He’d run the risk of wedging himself between the heavy furniture and the solid wall. He could see Maddie having to call the fire department. No way. Hank puzzled this one out, deciding that, essentially, he would have to stand on the bed and command the room from there. Which he couldn’t currently do because Beamer, the eighty-pound golden retriever, was already stretched out there and regarding him with a look that clearly said she thought him an interloper.
“What are you looking at?” Hank challenged.
Raising only her majestic head, the elegant dog grunted and woofed at him. Encouragement? Or warning? Hank suspected the latter, but told himself he could do this.
Trial and error told him that kneeling atop the bed, at its foot, put him within easy reach of the narrow three-drawer dresser that stubbornly squatted on its allotted two feet of floor space and resisted cooperating. Hank had quickly realized that should he brave the five or so inches of clearance between bed and dresser by standing on the carpeted floor and actually pulling out a drawer, he could very easily, given the gymnastic contortions that would have been involved, cut off his oxygen. It just wasn’t worth it because he could only use the top two drawers, anyway. The third one, totally blocked by the bed’s frame, remained pristine and inviolate. No sense even trying that one.
How hard could it be? Hank fumed. All he wanted to do was put his underthings, socks, shirts and the like, in a drawer. He’d had no idea that such a mundane task could require the kind of brainpower and planning as would a trek to Machu Picchu. Wasn’t it enough that he’d already had to referee Maddie’s and Celeste’s argument over where he’d stay? Wasn’t it enough that he’d already had to drive Celeste and his mother home and then come back here—all in the wind and rain? Yes, it was enough, and he was now in no mood for mishaps. Hank gripped the top dresser drawer’s round, blunt knob and yanked it open.
Mishap.
The whole drawer came out in his hand, spilling a bunch of feminine sweaters onto the end of the bed and over Hank’s thighs. “Well, son of a bitch,” he muttered as he sat back and stared at the mess. He looked over his shoulder at the dog. “You better not be smirking.”
Before he could decide if the golden retriever was or not, he heard, “I see Beamer’s made herself at home. I should have warned you she slept in here.”
Maddie had sought him out. Alight with pleasure that she had, Hank pivoted to see her in the doorway. “That explains it. I’ll probably have to fight her for the bed.”
“Most likely.” Maddie didn’t say anything else. Hank stared at her staring at him. The air thickened with an unspoken something that felt a lot like desire. Maddie cleared her throat and pointed at him kneeling there on the bed and awash in her sweaters. “Did you find anything to your liking? Maybe that red one with the pearl buttons?”
So she was going to keep things light. Hank scooped up the sweater she’d described and held it up in front of him, looking down at it draped over his chest. “I don’t know. I think red makes my butt look big.”
Grinning, shaking her head, Maddie leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “Men. You are so shallow, to allow your self-worth to be determined by the size of your…” Her face turned bright red. “Well, your butt.”
Laughing affectionately at her, Hank experienced an overwhelming desire to leap across the space that separated them and take her in his arms and kiss the hell out of her. Even in sweatpants and a big denim shirt, she was gorgeous and wonderful. Warm and witty and funny. And here he was with her. He intended to be the best houseguest ever and maybe even try to cut through all the red tape in their lives that kept them apart.
“I’m sorry about the size of the room,” she said, frowning as her gaze panned the small space. “It never looked this small to me before I saw you in it. You just seem to fill a room with your presence.” Her attention came into sudden sharp focus. Her eyes widened. “Uh, why don’t you give me those sweaters?” She held her hands out to receive them. “I am such a bad hostess. Let me have them. And then I’ll clear out those other drawers for you, too.”
Hank held up a staying hand. “No. I can get all this. Don’t worry about it.”
She lowered her arms to her sides. “But you’re the guest here. You poor thing. Look at this room. I’m sure you’re used to better.”
“Maddie, it’s okay. You don’t have to do anything special for me. You weren’t expecting me. I mean, who the hell knew every room for rent in Hanscomb Harbor would be full? I should have called you first. But I didn’t. So I’m the beggar here and not about to be choosy.” Now that didn’t sound right. “Not that this isn’t nice. It is.” Kneeling there, he gave the bed a test bounce that earned him a warning grrr from Beamer. “Well, I like it,” he told the grumpy dog.
“You’re a nice person, Hank, do you know that?” Maddie said. “Your mother did a wonderful job of raising you.”
Thoroughly heartened as well as embarrassed, Hank shrugged away her compliment and tempered his words with a teasing grin. “She had a lot to work with.”
“I can see that.”
She liked him. Affected more than he thought he would be, Hank put the sweater down and sank back on his haunches, resting his hands on his thighs. He couldn’t take his eyes off her or forget for one second how close she was. Or how they would brush against and by each other in this cozy little house. How long, he wondered, could he resist his impulses where she was concerned? Not long, he figured, male libido being what it was. Suddenly feeling he needed to say something, because she certainly wasn’t helping being this close to him and a bed. “The truth is, this is pure luxury compared to some places where I’ve had to lay my head down for the night.”
Interest sparked in her blue eyes. “Really? That sounds intriguing.”
“Well, it’s really pretty National Geographic, but I’ve slept in a small boat as we motored down the Amazon. That was pretty rough. And scaling Everest. You’d be surprised to know there’re no five-star hotels at the top of that thing.”
She straightened her stance. “Shut up. You have not done those things.”
“Have so.”
“Wow. You work hard even when you play. I’ve hardly ever left New England. And you’ve been everywhere.”
“Just about.” But nowhere I’ve liked better than right here with you. Tell her that out loud, coward. No, the time isn’t right.
“So,” Maddie said, signaling an end to this moment. “If you’ll hand me those sweaters and the stuff from the other drawers, I’ll leave you to your unpacking.”
“If you insist. But I’m keeping the red one.” Hank scooped up the sweaters, only to be hit with the perfumed scent that wafted from them. A sudden exciting weakness melted his bones. Maddie had worn each of these garments. He wanted very much to hold them to his nose and breathe deeply of her scent. But he figured she’d probably call the police if he did anything that shocking. So he dutifully handed them to her, his hands brushing over her outstretched arms as they transferred the load between them.
Hank surprised himself by clutching at Maddie’s wrists and holding her wide, blue-eyed gaze. The sweaters provided the only cushioning that kept their bodies apart. “You’re not going to run me off this time, Maddie.”
She lowered her gaze as if suddenly shy. But then looked up at him from under her eyelashes, giving him a look that boiled his blood. “I’m not going to try to, Hank. Not this time.”