A Creed in Stone Creek - Linda Lael Miller [66]
Steven tilted his head to one side, and his grin was wicked, but he still kept his distance.
The scent of lilacs surrounded Melissa in a cloud, making her feel slightly drunk.
“I wouldn’t say there were no bones about it,” Steven drawled.
Embarrassment bloomed rose-pink in Melissa’s cheeks. What was the matter with her? When had this—this alternate personality, perfumed and wearing a sundress—with a ruffled hem, no less—taken over her fine legal brain and caused her to forsake her tailored wardrobe?
In that moment, she couldn’t think of a single sensible thing to say.
Painfully aware that she’d made a fool of herself—again—she actually considered jumping back into her car and zooming out of there. The problem was that just as quitting wasn’t part of her constitutional makeup, neither was running away.
So she just stood there, feeling ridiculous.
Where were all her convictions about sex and the modern woman now?
Steven’s grin softened, and he approached her slowly, the way he might have approached a frightened animal or a baby bird that had fallen from its nest.
When he was standing directly in front of her, he took her elbows into a gentle grip and looked down into her upturned and very flushed face.
“Hey,” he said huskily. “You’re calling the shots, Melissa. You can say ‘now’ or you can say ‘never.’ The whens and the ifs are entirely up to you. Meanwhile, why don’t we just spend some time together and see how things go?”
Such a wave of relief passed over Melissa then that she was very glad Steven was holding on to her. If he hadn’t been, she thought her knees might have given way.
“Thanks,” she said, belatedly, breathing the word more than saying it.
He gave a low chuckle. Inclined his head toward the old dowager of a farmhouse; the paint was peeling away, and the flowerbeds were choked with weeds, but the blowsy old roses, splotches of crimson drooping under their own weight, gave it a singular appeal.
“Want a tour of the house?” he asked.
It was such an ordinary question. Such an innocent one. Melissa, who had grown up in an old house and loved them for that reason and a few others, nodded.
Steven released her elbows, but immediately took her by the hand, and they walked toward the structure. The last dazzle before twilight turned the thick-glassed windows to pale purple.
They stopped just short of the back door, and Melissa looked up, shielding her eyes with her free hand.
“Don’t you wish it could talk?” she asked wistfully.
Steven smiled. “I don’t imagine all the folks who’ve lived here over the last several generations would consider that an entirely good thing,” he said.
This man, Melissa thought.
One minute, he had her heart racing and her stomach doing flip-flops.
The next, he was soothing her, just by being who and what he was.
“I suppose not,” she agreed. He stepped up onto the small, uncovered porch, and Melissa followed, trusting his lead. Suddenly, it was easy to talk to him. “This house has been here almost as long as ours, you know. The one old Sam O’Ballivan built, I mean.”
“Sam O’Ballivan. The Arizona Ranger turned cattle baron.”
Melissa nodded, mildly surprised.
“Brad told me a little about him,” Steven said. “That’s quite a story.”
“The man from Stone Creek,” Melissa replied, with another nod. “That was our Sam.”
By then they’d entered the kitchen, and Melissa gravitated straight to the dusty, wood-burning cookstove in the far corner. “Wow,” she said. “I’m surprised some antiques dealer didn’t score this a long time ago. My sister Ashley would kill to have it at the B&B. She’d probably even use it.”
Again,