Claire’s, a bottle of wine…”
He let the words linger, like bait on a hook. Her insides wrestled with the invitation. Dinner. Wine. Moonlight. A soft kiss.
“No. Thank you.” She opened the door, rushed inside, and slammed it behind her.
She’d told the truth. She did have work to do. She hadn’t finished her work on Friday because of an emergency she’d had to attend. She’d left the office before three and hadn’t returned until after dark. She needed to complete her reports and records. She didn’t have time for dinner. Or wine. Or moonlight.
She certainly didn’t have time for kisses.
Not that he’d suggested such a thing. At least, not aloud. But that look in his eyes … the way he wooed her, making it look as though he didn’t even try.
When she pushed open the door of her small office, next to Doc’s and previously a file room, she froze. A basket of flowers sat on her desk. The array of wildflowers, slightly wilted, but still pretty, must have been delivered after she’d left for the day. She lifted the basket, pulling a small calling card from between two red blooms.
Yours truly, Paul Campbell
, she read silently.
He hadn’t said anything about them. A sigh formed in her chest and she released it, knowing no one but herself would hear. Despite her determination to never again allow herself to be vulnerable, a smile formed on her trembling lips. She peeked around the wall of her office and saw his shadow still stood on the porch outside her door. In a casual pose, he leaned against the pillar.
He was a nice man, really, if he was a little pushy. But it was a charming pushy, wasn’t it? Would there be that much harm in a simple dinner?
Nonsense.
Turning back into her office, she set the basket aside and picked up a stack of mail, the first she’d received since she’d arrived. There were dozens of envelopes, many from her school chums, mailed just as she’d left California. She sifted through them, her gaze consistently straying back to the flowers.
It was just dinner, right? Would he still be waiting outside her door? If he was, she’d accept his invitation, she decided.
She tossed the mail back on the desk and reached for the basket and card again. Her eyes fell to the top envelope. The blood rushed from her head and settled in her feet. Light-headed and lead-footed, she couldn’t move.
Reginald.
“You look like a true bushwoman,” Doc chuckled, his misty eyes sparkling in the slices of sunlight that bore through the front windows of the parlor.
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” Helen replied. She should look like a bushwoman, after all. She wore a sturdy pair of
strides
, as Doc had called them when he’d gifted her with the trousers last night. Heavy black boots, the gift from her father, were laced to midcalf and weighted her legs like lead. Her blouse was thick muslin, a size too large, with sleeves that had covered her hands before she’d rolled them back. Everything she wore, except for the boots, was sand in color. She couldn’t help but feel much like she assumed Dr. Livingston did each time he ventured into the wilds. She needed only one of those funny little hats.
Hanging over the back of Doc’s floral-print wing chair was a black leather jacket with worn elbows and cuffs. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to wear such a garment in the amazing heat, but Doc had insisted she take it along.
She glanced at the brass clock on the mantle. Nearly eight thirty. Any moment now, Paul Campbell would saunter through the front doors with that all-too-sure-of-himself swagger. She hadn’t seen him since Sunday more than a week earlier, when she’d nearly forgotten everything she’d learned about men in the past year simply because he was good-looking and had a tendency to make her swoon. She’d been unable to keep herself from watching the front door until, after nearly an hour, he’d finally left. Then, of course, she’d made the ultimate mistake,
He let the words linger, like bait on a hook. Her insides wrestled with the invitation. Dinner. Wine. Moonlight. A soft kiss.
“No. Thank you.” She opened the door, rushed inside, and slammed it behind her.
She’d told the truth. She did have work to do. She hadn’t finished her work on Friday because of an emergency she’d had to attend. She’d left the office before three and hadn’t returned until after dark. She needed to complete her reports and records. She didn’t have time for dinner. Or wine. Or moonlight.
She certainly didn’t have time for kisses.
Not that he’d suggested such a thing. At least, not aloud. But that look in his eyes … the way he wooed her, making it look as though he didn’t even try.
When she pushed open the door of her small office, next to Doc’s and previously a file room, she froze. A basket of flowers sat on her desk. The array of wildflowers, slightly wilted, but still pretty, must have been delivered after she’d left for the day. She lifted the basket, pulling a small calling card from between two red blooms.
Yours truly, Paul Campbell
, she read silently.
He hadn’t said anything about them. A sigh formed in her chest and she released it, knowing no one but herself would hear. Despite her determination to never again allow herself to be vulnerable, a smile formed on her trembling lips. She peeked around the wall of her office and saw his shadow still stood on the porch outside her door. In a casual pose, he leaned against the pillar.
He was a nice man, really, if he was a little pushy. But it was a charming pushy, wasn’t it? Would there be that much harm in a simple dinner?
Nonsense.
Turning back into her office, she set the basket aside and picked up a stack of mail, the first she’d received since she’d arrived. There were dozens of envelopes, many from her school chums, mailed just as she’d left California. She sifted through them, her gaze consistently straying back to the flowers.
It was just dinner, right? Would he still be waiting outside her door? If he was, she’d accept his invitation, she decided.
She tossed the mail back on the desk and reached for the basket and card again. Her eyes fell to the top envelope. The blood rushed from her head and settled in her feet. Light-headed and lead-footed, she couldn’t move.
Reginald.
“You look like a true bushwoman,” Doc chuckled, his misty eyes sparkling in the slices of sunlight that bore through the front windows of the parlor.
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” Helen replied. She should look like a bushwoman, after all. She wore a sturdy pair of
strides
, as Doc had called them when he’d gifted her with the trousers last night. Heavy black boots, the gift from her father, were laced to midcalf and weighted her legs like lead. Her blouse was thick muslin, a size too large, with sleeves that had covered her hands before she’d rolled them back. Everything she wore, except for the boots, was sand in color. She couldn’t help but feel much like she assumed Dr. Livingston did each time he ventured into the wilds. She needed only one of those funny little hats.
Hanging over the back of Doc’s floral-print wing chair was a black leather jacket with worn elbows and cuffs. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to wear such a garment in the amazing heat, but Doc had insisted she take it along.
She glanced at the brass clock on the mantle. Nearly eight thirty. Any moment now, Paul Campbell would saunter through the front doors with that all-too-sure-of-himself swagger. She hadn’t seen him since Sunday more than a week earlier, when she’d nearly forgotten everything she’d learned about men in the past year simply because he was good-looking and had a tendency to make her swoon. She’d been unable to keep herself from watching the front door until, after nearly an hour, he’d finally left. Then, of course, she’d made the ultimate mistake,
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