Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [85]
Mrs. Patrick returned the embrace. “No need to thank me, dear. Now look smart. I think your man’s coming up the street.”
Letting go, she whirled around and bit her cheeks. He was wearing overalls, but they were starched and shiny, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders underneath.
She touched a hand to the back of her hair, thankful she wasn’t wearing a hat after all. Next to his overalls, it would have been out of place.
The closer he came, the more handsome he looked. His tenderness and his proposal of the night before filled her, tugging at her heart. Thinking of his touches made her body respond as if they had just occurred. Still, his defense of last night’s kissing had been imprudent.
She lifted her chin. In the future, she’d be extremely careful not to betray the trust the women had placed in her. Mrs. Patrick was right. Her position was unique and with it came a responsibility. A responsibility to prove a woman could be independent without falling victim to questionable behavior.
He reached the corner of her property and looked up. It was then she saw the fistful of red roses he carried at his side.
She took an involuntary step forward. Every bone in her body wanted to run to him and pitch herself into his arms, drown herself in his kisses. She took a tumultuous breath.
Lord, help me. For though her intentions were good, she’d need His very strength if she were to stick to them.
He stepped inside the gate, absorbing the sight of Georgie lifting her skirts and rushing toward him in a skip-hop-scurry combination. She’d piled her hair in a mess of curls atop her head, her spectacular smile giving no indication of the trauma she’d suffered just a few hours earlier.
She skidded to a halt in front of him, her eyes lit from within. She pressed her hands against her waist. “Good morning.”
A wealth of feelings for this woman assaulted him, leaving him tongue-tied and off-balance.
Her gaze moved to the flowers he held at his side. “Are those for me?”
He looked at them as if he couldn’t quite remember where they’d come from, then handed them to her. She scooped them up, gently hugging them to her breast, and buried her nose against the soft red petals.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled their potent perfume. He marveled at the extraordinary length of her lashes as they rested against flawless white cheeks. How could something so simple cause such a ruckus within his chest?
“They’re lovely, Luke. Thank you.” Opening her eyes, she tilted her head. “Everything all right?”
“Can I kiss you?”
A spark of fire touched her eyes before she immediately squelched it. “I think it’s a little early for kissing, Mr. Palmer.” But her whisper was more flirty than admonishing.
He zeroed in on the mole beneath her lips. “When, then?”
Pink touched her cheeks. “I’d best go put these in some water.” She turned around, then froze. “Oh. Oh my. Would you look at that?”
He followed her gaze to the Mai tree he’d left her. In the light of day it looked even more pitiful than he’d imagined it would. Mrs. Sealsfield had left a large bowl of crepe decorations in the boardinghouse parlor. By the time he got to them, though, only the dregs were left.
After walking through town this morning and seeing the trees other fellows had left their lady-loves, embarrassment crept up his neck. His birch was shorter than most and had but a handful of limp yellow streamers.
“You’re just now seeing it for the first time?” he asked.
With slow, tentative steps she moved toward it as if she were approaching the Holy Grail. “I fell asleep. Mrs. Patrick just woke me.”
She didn’t look as if she’d just woken. She looked fresh and pretty as a basket of daises.
“It’s not as grand as most of the others,” he said.
“I love it.” She studied its branches, her chin raised, her jaw exposed. “Thank you.”
At his lack of response, she peeked at him over her shoulder. “Flowers, Mai tree, rescuing me in my hour of need. You certainly know how to sweep a lady off her feet, don’t you?”
Guilt pressed against his conscience. He shoved it away. He’d been doing his job.