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His footsteps chuffed against the tiled floor as he walked around the island and stood beside her. “Whatever it is, I think you’ve found your calling.”
She gave him a funny look. “Why do you say that?”
He didn’t meet her gaze; his focus locked on Mathew as he continued his drawing. “I can’t really explain it. You’re just so…” He sighed and shrugged before he looked at her. “There’s something different about you.”
Goosebumps erupted on her arms and she moved to rub them away.
“Shane said that you’re a recent hire and that you’re just doing this to help out during the holidays.”
She nodded. “My family’s ranch is pretty busy, but I was able to get my father to agree to my working here for the holiday season. It’s better than spending every waking moment with my sisters.”
His lips quirked into a grin. “Well, maybe you should consider doing this full-time. Have you thought about going to school to become a therapist?”
Dianna’s whole body stilled. She hadn’t thought about that at all. She liked to work with animals. And she was obviously good with children—but she felt like she connected to Mathew more just because she had similar tendencies as a kid. There was no guarantee she’d be this good with other children. What if her connection with Mathew was an anomaly? Failure didn’t sit well with her. Stomach knotting, she ignored the question and prayed he didn’t notice her lack of response. “Do you have any family?”
Without missing a beat, Tristan nodded. “I’ve got a sister. She’s married and has three kids. You said you have sisters?”
“Six.”
He let out a low whistle. “It’s all coming together.”
“What do you mean by that?” Dianna meant for her tone to sound offended but couldn’t hide the amusement she felt. She already had a few ideas of what he could be inferring.
“You’re good with kids. You must have several younger than you whom you’ve spent a lot of time with.”
“Oh, and here I thought you might be suggesting I only stayed because I didn’t want to go home to a house full of hormonal women.”
Tristan laughed.
It wasn’t just a dry chuckle meant to make her feel good. It was a deep, warm, and smooth laugh that only added to the tremors she felt by simply being a few inches away from him. She could feel the heat emanating off him, and all it would take was to scoot slightly in his direction for her to get to experience it.
While he watched Mathew, she got a few minutes to examine him without being caught. His jawline was sharp and unlike the cowboys who resided here, he opted to be clean-shaven. His eyes were gray with hints of blue underneath—probably where his son got his coloring. And the mussed sandy hair made him look like he belonged on a beach somewhere, not in the mountains covered in snow.
He could pull off the fur-lined leather coat with the best of them. Tristan was tall and lean and… he was looking right at her.
Dianna tore her eyes away from him and glued them to the floor, shifting ever so slightly away from him without being obvious that was her intention. It was probably too late. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to get caught up in her study of him. No wonder she’d drawn him. He was a handsome specimen.
Her face burned with embarrassment. How could she have been so stupid to get caught checking him out?
Tristan shifted, moving away from her and around the counter, but his distance only served to make her feel chilled. The warmth that had flowed from him was gone and as her blush faded, she couldn’t prevent the shiver that racked her body.
“I hope you like macaroni and cheese because that’s the only thing Mathew will eat.”
“Do you have any tomatoes?” The question slipped from her lips before she could prevent them. Her sisters had always thought she was weird for mixing the two items together, but it was the only way she could stomach the pasta dish.
“I think so,” Tristan drawled. “Why?”
The flush started to crawl up her neck once more and she gave him a half-smile. “I cut them up into cubes and mix them in.”
He wrinkled his nose and laughed. “I’ve never heard of that before.”
“I want some too,” Mathew piped up from his place at the coffee table.
Tristan’s brows lifted. “But you hate tomatoes.”
“Not in my macaroni,” he insisted.
“You’re not going to eat them,” Tristan shook his head. “How about we don’t waste our food.”
