Christmas at Candlebark Farm Read Free

pick out flecks of green from the nearby bottlebrush tree, blue from the sky, and gold from the swaying fields of wheat. He blinked, floundered, and tried to find his centre of gravity.
    â€˜Have you wiped all that disgusting stuff off?’
    By ‘disgusting stuff’ he figured she meant the horse manure. He’d never seen anyone react so irrationally to a bit of dung before.
    He reminded himself about the overdraft, and the fact she was only staying for one week. If he could calm her down and convince her to stay, that was.
    He made a show of checking the shoe carefully. ‘There’sa stain here and here—’ he showed her ‘—but the shoe itself is clean.’
    â€˜So…it doesn’t smell of…?’
    God give him strength. ‘No, it doesn’t smell of…’ His voice trailed off in a mocking imitation of hers before he could help himself.
    Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice. Instead she took the shoe and surveyed it. ‘Do you think I could black the cork somehow? I know they only cost five dollars, but they’re so comfortable.’
    He tried to hide his surprise. ‘You could give it a go.’ He doubted if the end result would set the world of fashion on fire, but he was determined to humour her.
    And then just like that she bent down and slid the sandal back onto her foot as if it had never touched ‘disgusting stuff.’ In the process, though, she overbalanced and had to grab his arm for support.
    It was not that he wasn’t happy to lend that support—it was better than her landing flat on her face—but she let go so quickly, and then she blushed. Like she had at the back steps, when she’d realised she’d been caught out staring at him. And he wasn’t happy about that—the reminder of his own reaction to that steady appraisal and the feminine appreciation that had momentarily lit her face. It had flooded him with hormones he’d forgotten all about, filling him with a primitive need he’d done his best to disown.
    He took a step back, fighting the urge to rub the imprint of her hand from his skin. She was soft and warm.
    He didn’t do soft and warm.
    She smelt like vanilla.
    Trouble. That was the word that flashed through his mind. His every instinct told him this woman was trouble.
    She wore a pair of three-quarter-length jeans and a hot pink top that tied at the waist and left her shoulders bare.
    He tried to dismiss her as pale and skinny.
    It didn’t work. She wasn’t pale. Her skin gleamed, luminous like ivory. It wasn’t the kind of skin that would tan in the sun—if it got burned it would blister and peel—but to call it pale didn’t do it justice. And skinny? He swallowed. Those jeans were a snug fit. Too snug. She might be slender, but she had hips that flared, a waist that curved in, and breasts that would fit in the palms of—
    He cut that thought dead.
    Her gaze speared back to him. ‘Give me one good reason why I should stay at Candlebark?’
    He forced his mind from the shape of her lips. ‘Follow me.’ He led her up the front steps and around to the side of the veranda. ‘Look at that.’ He gestured to the view. ‘It can’t be beaten.’ He stared at the thousands of swaying heads of wheat and some of the tension eased out of him.
    She glanced at it, and then back at him. ‘Well…it is kind of pretty,’ she allowed.
    He folded his arms. ‘The perfect place for a country holiday.’
    â€˜But I’m not here on holiday.’
    He unfolded his arms and tried to think of something else that might tempt her. She’d said something about country hospitality. He pointed to a nearby bench. ‘That’s a great spot to have coffee in the morning. And, um…’ He scratched a hand through his hair. ‘And for a glass of wine in the evenings.’ That sounded hospitality-ish, didn’t