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I focused on his full lips, remembering how they felt, and his tantalizing grin melted my reserve.
The microwave beeped.
Attention refocused, I jumped from my seat. “Where do you keep your plates?”
“The second cupboard on the left, over the sink.”
Standing on tiptoe, I stretched to reach the dishes, and felt his gaze burn into my back. Turning, I lurched beneath his stare’s intensity.
The air was so electrically charged, I could barely catch my breath. Gathering my composure, I set the table and sat at the far end of the breakfast bar.
“Want anything to drink?” His voice was thick.
“Water’s good.” I tried to sound nonchalant despite my racing pulse.
He handed me a chilled bottle, set out the condiments and buns, brought the burgers to the bar, and took a seat.
Only the radio’s background music broke the silence.
After several uncomfortable minutes, I side-glanced. “Good burgers.”
“Thanks.” He dipped his head in a nod.
Then a country-western ballad about a cheating heart came on the radio.
Cody came to mind. Was he cheating? Did he find someone else? Is that why he broke our engagement? Reemerging, I shook off the resentment. “What’s on the agenda for this afternoon?”
“More of the same—pruning vines.”
Nodding, I collected the plates, then washed them under running water. “Since you cooked, I’ll do the dishes, and if we’re going to share the labor, it’s my turn to make dinner tonight.”
“Works for me.”
“Nothing fancy, but my cooking hasn’t poisoned anyone yet.” I set the plates in the dish rack to drain.
He chuckled deep in his throat.
Pushing aside thoughts of Cody, I wiped down the bar and counters, staying busy. “Did you hear about the Italian chef who died from food poisoning? He pasta way.”
“Ba-doomch.” Luke pantomimed tapping a snare drum. Then his slow smile returned. “Ready to trim vines?”
****
After dinner, I stretched, rotating my neck and shoulders. “I didn’t realize how much work was involved with vineyards.”
He chuckled. “You’ve put in a long day. Why don’t you relax, while I clean the kitchen?”
“Sounds good.” I hid a yawn behind my hand. “I’ve still got to unpack, then shower and turn in. What time do you want to start tomorrow?”
“Come around seven for coffee and breakfast. We can go into the fields when we finish.”
A yawn overtook me. “Sorry. See you in the morning.” With a wave, I let myself out, too tired to worry about my new surroundings.
I punched the code in the cabin’s keypad, pushed open the heavy wooden door and, as I entered my temporary quarters, again felt transported back in time. The viga beams’ dark wood contrasted against the whitewashed tongue and groove ceiling, and the focal point—the kiva fireplace’s hearth and mantle—seemed to smile, as if welcoming me home.
Then I noticed my bags waiting to be unpacked. Crap, knew I forgot something. I hung up my clothes, found homes for my toiletries, turned down the bed, and took a long, hot shower in the Talavera-tiled bath.
Exhausted, I climbed under the covers. Then something tickled my neck. Wide awake, I leaped from bed and turned on the light.
