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He didn’t want her to avoid him. He wanted to see her. Watch her work. Talk to her. Have
her turn that odd sense of humor on him. And instead, he’d driven her away.
Fuck. Why did he always freeze up around women? Hell, around people in general. Eldon was the only one who didn’t make him stiffen with alarm. And she’d been so lovely and . . . odd. He thought back to the sight of her, standing in his snowy garden in Eldon’s borrowed boots and ratty flannel pajamas that outlined the hard tips of her nipples when the breeze had blown her shirt a certain way.
That had made him panic as much as anything, even as it made him hard with need. Hunter groaned and pressed a hand to his cock, willing his erection to go away. He’d give in to the need later, in the privacy of his room. He’d dream about that spill of messy red hair, her pale skin, and the way her mouth made a perfect little bow when she was startled. And then he’d dream of that bow of a mouth descending on his cock, licking the head—
. . . we both know it’s totally awkward because I saw your dick ever before I saw your face.
Yeah, that fucking killed his boner.
Hunter shook his head to clear his thoughts, forcing himself to concentrate on the maintenance of his roses. Some people read or painted to calm their minds but Hunter liked tending to his roses. He grew all varieties, but his favorites were the showy hybrid tea roses that were so delicate in their constitution and yet so incredibly beautiful and fragrant when coaxed into blooming. He ran his fingers over a velvety petal of a Cajun Moon, his exterior calm despite his roiling thoughts.
He’d more or less demanded that she leave him alone.
He didn’t want that. How could he fix it? Demand that Eldon prepare a candlelight dinner and then insist that she show up? Act as if he said nothing to her at all? Better yet, act as if they’d never even met and start fresh?
She’d think he was crazy if he did. Well, more than she already thought.
There was no good answer to this. He thought for a long moment, touching a petal of a blooming Blue Girl. The rose was lovely, the color a cross between pewter and baby blue. He wondered if her eyes were the same color. They’d been pale, making her entire face seem almost too pale in color, and overly round. But he liked that about her. It made her seem less . . . perfect.
With careful fingers, he cut the blue rose and trimmed the thorns off the stem. He’d have to apologize. He wasn’t good at that sort of thing, but perhaps a rose would say more than he could.
***
When Gretchen showered and dressed, she headed for the library. No sense in avoiding it for any longer—she had to start on the project. Her spirits were a bit low after that morning’s encounter, but at least she’d tried. Now when they avoided each other, she’d know it was because he wanted it that way, not because he was embarrassed.
Shame. It’d make this month lonely.
The desk set aside for her use had been opened when she entered the quiet library. To her surprise, there was a beautiful pale blue rose, freshly cut, laying on a silver tray. A small folded note lay under it.
She picked up the note and opened it, scanning the contents.
I was rude. I apologize. Eldon cooks dinner at seven every night. Tonight, I will be eating in the red dining room if you wish to attend. Pajamas optional.
It was signed with a scribbly HB.
And she smiled.
Chapter 5
Gretchen showed up to dinner five minutes early, a bit on edge. It was silly to be nervous, of course. It was just dinner with a man who, for all intents and purposes, didn’t seem to like her very much. She supposed that she still felt a bit of guilt about their rather nude-ish meeting. It was her fault she’d embarrassed him, after all. And since he was the only shot she had of any company while she was staying here, she very much wanted things to be calm and easy between them.
She’d brushed her hair back into a clean ponytail instead of her regular messy bun, but she wore no makeup and dressed in her track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was just dinner with someone that she wanted to be a friend. Dressing up would make it weird.
Still, when she knocked on the door (after getting directions from Eldon earlier that day) and entered the red dining room, she was surprised to see Mr. Buchanan open the door for her. He was dressed in a crisp suit jacket, and his hair was smoothed against his scalp.
“Were we supposed to dress up?” Gretchen offered him a smile as she stepped into the room. “I admit that I thought of this as a work trip so I wore my usual writing clothes. Sorry if I’m a bit underdressed.”
“It’s fine,” he said abruptly. “You are sufficient.”
She laughed, trying to ease the mood. “Sufficient? I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He looked flustered, and he turned away, shutting the door behind her with a bit more force than it needed. Good Lord. Here she was just trying to be funny and he acted as if he had ants in his pants. He’d been the one to invite her to dinner. “Thank you for the rose,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest and moving around the room to get a look at the furnishings. That seemed safer than looking at her dinner companion, who looked as if he might fall to pieces if he caught her staring at him.
And to be honest, she was practically twitching with the need to watch him. She’d been distracted in the gardens since it had been so cold and their conversation had gone badly. She wanted to stare at his fascinating face and figure out how it had ended up the way it had. He was covered in scars on one side of his face—deep, almost pitted scars that held a story in them. She was very curious about that story.
But since he seemed to be skittish, she pretended to look at the art on the walls of the red dining room. She could see why the room was called that, for rather obvious reasons. The walls were a flat, dark red, and the paintings on the walls were of still life scenes that contained quite a bit of red. This one was of a bouquet of roses, that one of apples. It was all very . . . red. She imagined it would be rather blinding if the lights were up fully, but fortunately—or not—the room was lit only by two candelabras in the center of the long wood table.
