Half Moon Hill (9 page)

But that meant running the same hand through his hair a couple more times, just in different places. So she did it—her fingertips grazing his scalp, her every nerve ending on red alert now, and more of that same sensation assaulting her.

Lord, why did this suddenly feel so intimate? She’d seen hairdressers do it to clients a million times. Why, when she did it to Duke, did it feel like something more than just checking her work? Why did it feel like . . . something she’d do if she were his lover?

Swallowing back the questions, she took a deep breath, let it back out.
Stick to business. Like Duke said.

Though that was easier said than done, especially as she put the finishing touches on the cut, which required other little bits of skin-to-skin contact that suddenly felt . . . personal. She didn’t want to run her fingertips over the top of his ear, but she had to, to remove a few snipped bits of dark brown hair that clung there. And she didn’t particularly feel comfortable brushing the hair in front off his forehead, but it was necessary, to see if it was cut evenly.

She tried her damnedest to act unaffected, to keep any telling expressions off her face, but a desire she still couldn’t quite understand echoed through her breasts and belly—and below, as well. As she moved around his chair, her inner thighs ached—and she wondered if she was the only one aware of all this, or if Duke could feel it, too.

And God—did she want him to?

No. No, of course not. Because she didn’t
really
want anything to happen with him. He was so not her type. And not just because he was living like a caveman in the woods, either.

Even at his best, she and Duke were just . . . different. She went for the classically handsome, sporty type. Like Logan Whitaker, for instance. Or sometimes professional men, crisp suit-and-tie guys. But she
never
went for biker dudes with shady pasts. Bad boys were one thing, but
that
type of bad boy went beyond fun and into scary. And even if she’d accepted the idea of him working for her this summer, that didn’t mean she
trusted
him.

When she had reason to touch his neck, she thought she’d never felt skin so soft. So much softer than she could have imagined any part of him being. Soft enough to kiss.

But stop it! Aren’t lots of people’s necks soft?
There was nothing special about his, and thank God she’d suppressed the odd and sudden urge to lower a delicate kiss there.

All things considered, she’d never been so glad to finish a task in her life as when she set down her scissors, content that the haircut was finished.

“How is it?” he asked.

“It looks good,” she replied, short and sweet.

“You didn’t shear me like a sheep, did ya?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Relax.”

Yet as she stood back before him, taking in her handiwork—and still trying to look as if hair was the only thing on her mind—she realized they still had that scraggly beard to deal with.

So as she reached to the counter for the disposable razor she’d brought down from her bathroom with the beard in mind, she informed him, “But we’re not done yet.” She held the razor out to him.

And he scowled at it. “It’s pink.”

She blinked. “So? It works the same way.” And continued offering it to him. “I’m guessing
you’ll
want to do this part.”

Though he surprised her by saying, “With that thing? Not really.” His voice dropped slightly as he added, “Besides, I’m outta practice. Might cut myself. Especially without a mirror.” It was the first time she’d ever heard Duke Dawson actually sound . . . a little embarrassed.

The fact was, Anna had never shaved anyone’s skin but her own. And she couldn’t help thinking that a man’s face was probably somehow different than her legs or underarms. And there was a lot of hair there to be removed. But something in his tone stopped her from questioning him further—and it made her think something she’d never expected to: that perhaps, just possibly, Duke needed somebody to take care of him a little.

After using a different pair of scissors to trim off the bulk of the beard, she grabbed up the pink can of shaving gel she’d brought down as well. Squirting some into her palm, she watched it expand into white foam, then began to smooth it over his remaining beard.

Which was sort of like rubbing his face. Even if it
wasn’t
really. She could feel the warmth of his skin, even through the hair and shaving cream; she could feel the shape of his strong jaw. When her eyes darted to his mouth, she realized how close their faces were—and purposely leaned back a bit.

Her heart beat too fast as she moved to the sink to wash the remnants of foam off her hand and she stayed there longer than she needed to, trying to gird herself against what, again, felt like intimacy.

As she dried her hands on a dish towel, she found herself focusing on her every move, on her fingers, on the colors and texture of the towel itself—it felt weirdly as if time had slowed and everything before her had become more detailed and vivid.
Because you’re nervous. You’re nervous as hell.
Her movements now felt slow and wooden, too.

But just do this. Do this and then it will be done. And then the closeness will be over once and for all. There won’t be any more haircuts or sprained ankles or near falls from ladders to bring your bodies back together again—and then you can just move on to fixing up the house, opening the B&B, and getting on with your new life in a good, healthy way.

With those thoughts in mind, she turned boldly back toward him and retrieved the razor from the counter where she’d set it.

Then she handed him a bowl for plopping the removed shaving cream into.

And after that, she began carefully shaving his chin.

She concentrated closely on her work, but also tried not to bring her face back too near to his. She tried to keep from looking into his eyes. She watched the dark, wiry hair come away and studied the bare skin the razor left behind. She made slow, smooth, steady downward swipes, one after another, revealing more and more of his face.

It was strange to see him changing so dramatically right before her. She wouldn’t have believed it, but maybe she’d actually grown accustomed to him being all hairy and unkempt.

He’d always worn a goatee before, but she didn’t know how to go about creating that, so she shaved all the hair away, bit by bit, her stomach tightening as she began to realize that . . . Duke Dawson was a much more handsome man than she’d ever realized.

Even with the scar.

When she got to that area of his face—which she left until last because it seemed like it would be harder to shave, easier to hurt him there—she found herself biting her lip, working ever so gently and carefully to remove the hair that partially covered it.

She wondered if the skin there was more tender, if it caused him any pain to have her working around it. She wondered if it embarrassed him to know she was so very aware of his scar in that moment and that she was exposing still more of it. In fact, the scar was longer than she’d realized, stretching down his right cheek almost all the way to his jawbone. It reminded her that he’d been through terrible things and made her feel too tender toward him.

That was when she lifted her hand to his other freshly shaven cheek, their eyes meeting. His skin was warm to her palm, his gaze paralyzing.

What are you doing, touching him?
Despite her best intentions, she’d brought her face far too close again.

Lord. She wanted to kiss him.

Her mouth literally ached from the longing.

And—oh—from the look in his eyes, she thought he might want that, too.

But wait. You can’t do that. You just can’t.

So she sucked in her breath, dropped her hand, and stood upright next to him.

Turning away, she set down the razor, steadied herself. Her heart rose to her throat, but she tried to push down all the awkward emotion and desire currently throttling her.

You have to sound normal when you talk, not all breathy.
“Okay, all done. Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to check out a mirror.”

He took slightly too long to answer, and when he did, his voice sounded shallow. “Okay. Thanks.”

It was only after he stood, set aside the bowl he’d held, and walked away that Anna let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

It’s okay. You didn’t do it, you didn’t kiss him. And yes, this is crazy awkward. But it will pass. And he’ll act normal. And you’ll act normal. And everything will be . . . normal.

But then she bit her lip and faced the truth. Nothing between them had been normal so far, so what were the chances of it suddenly getting that way now?

“ . . . by affecting excessive interest in outside matters, strove awkwardly to hide from each other the one thought of their hearts.”

Gaston Leroux,
The Phantom of the Opera

Six

A
nna found herself back at Under the Covers. She’d told herself she wanted to pick up some classic and popular paperbacks for the inn—she hoped to grow one of the small sitting rooms on the east side of the house into a library of sorts, where her guests could come for reading material, and this seemed like the obvious way to start. Though she knew she was really just running away from Duke.

Well, not completely. Yet there was no denying that it was at least part of the reason she’d driven into town. She’d worked near him some yesterday afternoon after his haircut, and again this morning, but . . . damn it—the man was suddenly too good-looking. Scar or no scar. Somehow losing the beard, and the fact that she’d unintentionally given him a far shorter haircut than he’d had when she’d known him last summer, had turned him . . . shockingly gorgeous. Which made the not-kissing-him thing a little harder. And the working-with-him thing a little tougher. And so taking the rest of the day for a trip to town had seemed like a good idea.

She’d told him she needed to run some errands. So she’d figured she’d better come home with something in a bag in case he was still there when she got back. But hopefully she could kill enough time here that he’d have knocked off for the day by the time she made the return trip to Half Moon Hill.

“Are you ever going to plan that wedding, Amy? Tick tock and all that,” she heard Sue Ann say from the front of the store. When she’d arrived, Amy and some of the girls had been congregated in the easy chairs near the entrance, big coffee cups in hand. They’d invited Anna to join them, of course, as they always did—and despite that even both her brothers’ wives, Tessa and Rachel, were there, she’d politely declined, saying maybe after she selected some books. Secretly, she hoped the party would break up before then.

“I know, I know,” Amy said. “Weird, isn’t it? I’ve wanted to plan a wedding my whole life, but now that I have one to plan, I just can’t decide what I want.”

Rachel chimed in then, too. “Well, if you’re still shooting for fall, Sue Ann’s right—you need to get crackin’. So sayeth the maid of honor.” As Anna understood it, Rachel, Amy, and Tessa had been best friends their whole lives, and they’d agreed to trade off maid of honor duties—Tessa had been Rachel’s, Amy had been Tessa’s, and now Rachel would be Amy’s.

“Hope you’re gonna be able to do your job,” Amy said teasingly. “You’ve been so under the weather lately.”

“I’m fine now,” Rachel said emphatically, “so don’t you worry about me doing my duties.” Though Anna glanced up the aisle where she stood shopping in time to see blond, stylish Rachel make a face and press a hand to her belly. “Mostly fine. Stupid summer bug.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re finally getting well,” Amy said, more sincere now. “I was starting to be concerned.”

But as Rachel swiped a hand down through the air, confidently brushing off the worry, Tessa said, “And speaking of decisions . . .”

Everyone went quiet, clearly waiting for her to go on—and Anna waited, too, wondering exactly what decision her sister-in-law had made. Only that was when the door to the small bathroom in the rear of the store opened, and Anna looked down the aisle of bookshelves in the opposite direction to see Jenny Brody come out, her expression haggard, her posture tired. She shut the darkly stained wooden door, then turned around to lean back against it, shutting her eyes, and letting out a visibly sad sigh.

Anna felt like an accidental voyeur, witnessing a private moment not meant to be shared. Maybe she should ditch looking for books and join the other girls, after all.

Of course, Jenny chose that moment to open her eyes back up, making instant eye contact with Anna. Too late to run away and leave her be. Which left only one choice. Uncertainly, Anna took quiet steps toward her.

When she reached Jenny, she spoke low enough not to be heard at the front of the store where the other girls still chattered. “Um, I don’t want to bother you, but . . . are you okay?”

Appearing a little shell-shocked, Jenny nodded—unconvincingly. But then immediately switched to shaking her head instead.

Anna felt uncomfortable, but plowed forward. After all, isn’t that how any good Destiny-ite would proceed—let her concern override her fear of intruding? “Can I help?”

“That’s nice of you, Anna, really—but . . . I don’t think so. This can’t be fixed.” She still looked deeply pained, and Anna couldn’t help thinking it would make much more sense for
any
of the other women in the store to be having this conversation with Jenny instead of her.

And then Anna remembered. “Is this about what you and Sue Ann were discussing the last time I saw you? About . . .” For some reason, she dropped her voice to a whisper, as if it were something forbidden. “Getting pregnant?”

Jenny swallowed visibly, then gave another nod, her expression switching to one of sheepishness. “I just get so emotional over it without warning. It’s stupid.”

Anna automatically reached out to touch her arm. “It’s not stupid. It’s natural.” She’d never wanted to have a baby herself, not yet anyway, but she understood how deep that sort of yearning could run. Her deceased adoptive mother had once wanted a baby so badly that it had driven her to extremes.