While You Were Writing: Watkin's Pond, Book 2 Read Free Page B

don’t be bothered, Mr. McQueen. I have this. One step at a time, right?” Her flushed face had burst out in sweat, leaving a pale lock to stick on her forehead. More guilt swamped him.
    He didn’t appreciate the addition of guilt into his routine. He got by fine without any troublesome emotions, and if he’d chosen to indulge in any emotion, he certainly wouldn’t choose guilt to break the pattern. “You’re already bothering me.” He announced it and gestured at her.
    She simply brushed the hair off her forehead and panted. “Well, sorry about that.”
    She didn’t sound sorry. “Move. I can’t carry this ridiculous thing past your—” At a loss for words, he waved his hand with a bit more enthusiasm.
    “My what?” Her smile broke free, charming him if he would allow it.
    “Your person .” He settled on the word and looked away from her, waiting for her to move.
    Laughter bubbled out of her, a deep throaty thing that wrapped him in intimacy and invited him to join her in mirth. “For a writer, you’re not so great with the words. Anyone ever tell you that?”
    He scowled at her.
    “Sorry. You’re pretty sensitive about the writing thing, huh?”
    He resisted growling at her and she’d finally moved, so he lifted the trunk and sped up the remaining stairs. Once he made it to the door of the room he’d offered her, he dropped the trunk—which felt as if she’d packed it with bricks—and turned to flee.
    She’d come up behind him and his movement brought him in direct contact with her tempting little body.
    She smelled of vanilla and musk and woman. This close, her diminutive size begged him to protect her, to touch her. Rather than back away, she considered him by looking directly at him, head tilted back and eyes wide. A single motion of her pink tongue moistened her lips and he found his gaze locked on the curve of them. “You’re not old at all, are you?”
    Her whispered words broke through the sensual haze her presence awakened and he backed into the room to escape her. “No.”
    She turned sideways, allowing the space for him to pass her. He moved to do so, ignoring the zinging awareness she created simply by being in his space. When he’d nearly passed her, she spoke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to break your rule and touch you.”
    The sincerity of her words tempted him to be equally sincere. To admit he liked bumping into her, that he’d like to do more than bump into her. That he’d wanted, for the barest of heartbeats, to sample her lips.
    If he’d been a hero in one of his books, surely he would have done just that—painting a seduction in words to encourage further and future intimacies.
    He wasn’t a man led by temptation, however, so instead he straightened his back and cast words back over his shoulder. “Don’t let it happen again.”
    With that, he headed back to his office to look at more of her art and consider the folly of inviting her into his home.

Chapter Three
    The room he’d assigned her featured a large four-poster bed covered in a coverlet so old she’d been sure the fabric would rip as she removed it from the mattress. She did a quick scan for bugs—hoarder, after all—and found the room free of life forms but coated in dust. Instead of dealing with it after a day of travel, she’d dug out her trusty sleeping bag and snuggled in for a thankfully dreamless night of rest. She woke with the dawn seeping in the old farmhouse windows and stretched. Her mind whirred to life, planning and plotting against her temporary roommate.
    Shuffling downstairs in yoga pants and a T-shirt, she crept to his office door and leaned her head on the wood. Soft strains of Sinatra leaked through the door along with a small beam of light. A large keyhole, big enough for an antique skeleton key, caused the stray line of brightness so she knelt and peered through it.
    She barely stifled her gasp of surprise. Unlike the rest of the house, his office appeared modern, clean and