Page 60 of Irish Rebel
“You can’t help it, can you? You have to tend.”
“I put the marks on you,” he muttered as he smoothed on the ointment. “It follows I should see to them.”
She lifted a hand to toy with the ends of his damp, gold-tipped hair. “I like being seen to by a man with a tough mind and a soft heart.”
That soft heart sighed a little, ached a little. But he spoke lightly. “It’s no hardship running my fingers over skin like yours.” With his eyes on hers, he used the pad of his thumb to spread ointment over the gentle swell of her breast. “Particularly since you don’t seem to have a qualm about standing here half naked and letting me.”
“Should I blush and flutter?”
“You’re not the fluttering sort. I like that about you.” Satisfied, he capped the tube, then tugged the sweater over her head himself “But I can’t have such a fine piece of God’s work catching a chill. There you are.” He lifted her hair out of the neck.
“You don’t have a hair dryer.”
“There’s air everywhere in here.”
She laughed and dragged her fingers through her damp curls. “It’ll have to do. Come on, let’s have that wine while I finish up dinner.”
He didn’t know much about wine, but his first sip told him it was several steps up from what might be the usual accompaniment to so humble a meal as chili.
She seemed more at home in his kitchen than he was himself, finding things in drawers he’d yet to open. When she started to dress the salad, he set his glass aside.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
“A minute’s all you’ve got,” she called out. “I’m putting the bread in to warm.”
Since his answer was the slamming of the door, she shrugged and lit the candles she’d set on the little kitchen table. Cozy, she decided. And just romantic enough to suit two practical-minded people who didn’t go in for a lot of fussing.
It was the sort of relaxed, simple meal two people could prepare together at the end of a workday. She intended to see they had more of them, until the man got a clue this is exactly how it was going to be.
Satisfied, she picked up her wine, toasted herself. “To good strong starts,” she murmured and drank.
Hearing the door open again, she took the bread out of the oven. “We’re set in here, and I’m starving.”
She turned to put the basket of bread on the table and saw Brian, and the clutch of mums and zinnias he held in his hand.
“It seemed to call for them,” he said.
She stared at the cheerful fall blossoms, then up into his face. “You picked me flowers.”
The sheer disbelief in her voice had him moving his shoulders restlessly. “Well, you made me dinner, with wine and candles and the whole of it. Besides, they’re your flowers anyway.”
“No, they’re not.” Drowning in love she set the basket down, waited. “Until you give them to me.”
“I’ll never understand why women are so sentimental over posies.” He held them out.
“Thank you.” She closed her eyes, buried her face in them. She wanted to remember the exact fragrance, the exact texture. Then lowering them again, she lifted her mouth to his for a kiss. Rubbed her cheek against his.
His arms came around her so suddenly, so tightly, she gasped. “Brian? What is it?”
That gesture, the simple and sweet gesture of cheek against cheek nearly destroyed him. “It’s nothing. I just like the way you feel against me when I hold you.”
“Hold me any tighter, I’ll be through you.”
“Sorry.” He pressed his lips to her forehead to give himself a moment to compose. “I forget my own strength when I’m starving to death.”
“Then sit down and get started. I’ll put these in some water.”
“I...” He had to say something and cast around for a topic where he wouldn’t stutter or say something that would embarrass them both. “I meant to tell you earlier, I looked up Finnegan’s records.”
