Page 57 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
“Terrible.”The word hovered in the air before she leaned down to Ollie’s level. “What do you think? Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” the boy said with enthusiasm. “I like sheep! Hey, Carrick, if that lano stuff keeps the rain out of their wool, does that mean you can make your hands waterproof by brushing them on a sheep?”
He pursed his lips together, musing on his question. “You know, I haven’t tried that. We’ll have to experiment. But the lanolin does make your hands soft. That’s why I started to use it. My hands get torn up with the work. Check this out.”
After running one hand through the wool, he held both out to Ollie. “Can you tell the difference?”
The boy rubbed his fingers over one and then the other. “Yep,” he said with utter conviction. “The other one is smoother. Like you used lotion.”
Angie bumped him playfully. “Are you sure?”
“See for yourself, Aunt Angie. Carrick, can I see if any other sheep will let me pet them?”
“Sure, but make sure to let them smell you first,” he said, and the boy nodded and ran off.
He faced Angie, his hands still out. “Care to see if you can discern the difference, Yank?”
She looked at his hands as if they were the twin apples of Eve’s downfall. He almost called the whole thing off.
She was right to hesitate.
Touching each other again would only inflame their attraction. She glanced back toward the cottage. Her eyes narrowed, and he had the urge to ask why she was vexed.
But all thought left his mind as she took his rough hand in her own. Her fingers caressed the skin, lingering over the calluses and scars. He was aware of how light her skin was against the brown of his as his heart began to beat madly in his chest.
“Theyarerough. Workman’s hands. Mine aren’t much better. I constantly have paint under my fingernails, and when I use solvent, it dries my skin out.”
He hadn’t thought about her hands taking a beating from painting. In his mind, there was an elegance to creating art. It surprised him to learn they had this in common.
“Let me feel them,” he said, his voice an octave lower than usual.
She let go of his hand and turned hers palm down. He could see the lines of blue, pink, and white under her short nails. The pads of her fingertips were rough and dry as she’d said, and he had the urge to raise them to his mouth and kiss every one of them in benediction. Dangerous, dangerous thoughts.
“They’re not what anyone would call pretty hands,” she said, trying to withdraw them. “I envy women with nice hands. Megan has nice hands.”
“Your hands show your passion for what matters to you,” he told her, not letting her go. “That’s what you need to remember when you see the paint under your nails and feel the dryness. Besides, some lanolin from my sheep will soothe them. I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”
Despite himself, he liked the idea of something of his helping her, becoming part of her.
“You really think it works, huh?” She cleared her throat, letting him know their flirting was getting to her. “Let me see your other hand.”
He extended it to her, and she traced the back of his hand, running her fingertips over his knuckles up to his nailbeds. When she was finished, she turned it over and stroked his palm before repeating the maneuver.
He’d never known touching a hand could be so arousing.
“You’re right about this one being softer,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to him. Showing him her desire, her fear.
He understood. He stepped closer, wanting to ease her mind. Her heat washed over him, a powerful draw that had his pulse beating all over his body. “Angie— We said we weren’t going to do this.”
She glanced over her shoulder again. “I know, but I had a breakthrough this morning as I was sitting here in front of a blank canvas, and I can’t let it go. I’m alreadynotpainting. I’m completely stuck, in fact. What would it hurt if we gave in to this for a while? There’s nothing wild about that. It’s just plain and simple desire—totally healthy. We both know it wouldn’t be forever. That’s how we both want it.”
Hadn’t those very thoughts touched his mind? The wind rose up and blew over them hard enough to ruffle their hair. He couldn’t tell in that moment if it was an urging or a warning. He was brushing away the hair that had blown in her face before he realized it. Doing so had been instinctive. Yes, there was something instinctive about the way he reacted to her.
She was smiling at him, he realized with a start. God, she was beautiful when she smiled. He remembered how he’d hated her fake smile last night. This smile, full and radiant, was the one he wanted to see always.
Still, he hesitated, remembering the struggle he’d seen in her at the pub. “What about your art show?”
She made a rude sound. “Bets texted me that we have a huge number of people wanting to take painting classes after yesterday, if you can believe it. Word really spread.”
