When we reached the house, she gave me a quick hug. “Think about coming tomorrow, OK? Nine o’clock. I’m making the French toast casserole you like.”
I moaned. “With the brown sugar and banana? Now you’re just being mean.”
She laughed and patted my cheek. “Not mean, just smart. Maybe I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Maybe.”
“Night.”
I watched her go inside the house and shut the door before turning around to head back. As I walked through the trees, I remembered Margot falling out of the willow this morning, and shook my head. Now that I knew her a little better, I was amazed she’d even managed to climb it. She must have really wanted that better view. I smiled briefly, wondering what she’d thought once she got an eyeful. Had she liked what she’d seen? Then I wondered what she’d thought of the way I’d dropped to the ground when the branch snapped.
She probably thought you were a fucking lunatic, but what does it matter? What she thinks about anything—you, this farm, that kiss—doesn’t mean shit.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About kissing her. About touching her. About getting to know her better. Was she just a spoiled rich girl intent on getting her way or was there more to her? Was she actually attracted to me or was she just messing around with the stable boy, so to speak? Did she think I was an asshole for grabbing her that way? Did she think I was a dick for pushing her away? What would have happened if I hadn’t?
It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. In a few days she’ll leave town and go back to Detroit where she belongs and you’ll never see her again.
Something tightened in my gut.
I’d never see her again…unless I went to that meeting tomorrow.
Don’t. Seeing her again will only cause trouble.
Maybe. Or maybe by seeing her again and remaining in control of my temper and my desire, I could prove to myself—and to her—that yesterday was a fluke. I’d sit right across the table from her, look her dead in the eye, and force myself to feel nothing.
I was still a soldier, wasn’t I?
I could do it. I had to.
Fourteen
Margot
The first thing that threw me off was that Jack was there when I arrived at Pete and Georgia’s house the next morning. Sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, looking a little tired but rugged and handsome and sexy as hell. His t-shirt hugged the muscles of his arms so tight, I went dry in the mouth and wet in the panties. All I could think of were those arms around me yesterday in the barn. Our eyes met—and both of us immediately looked away.
Frantic, I glanced around at everyone. Was it obvious there was awkwardness between us?
“Good morning, Margot,” Georgia chirped, setting a giant glass pan of something that looked and smelled delectable on the table. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“Um, yes. That looks amazing.” My heart was racing, and I turned away from the table to set my bag down in one corner of the room, telling myself to stay calm. This was a work meeting, and I was a professional. I had to act like it. Come on, Margot. You’re good at this. Grace under pressure. A few deep breaths later, I went back to the table.
“Why don’t you sit there, Margot?” Georgia said, indicating the chair across from Jack.
Great.
I lowered myself into the chair and smoothed my skirt. Patted my hair. Touched my necklace.
My necklace, where his tongue had been not even twenty-four hours ago. I risked a glance and caught him staring at my fingertips on the pearls. My stomach fluttered.
What the fuck? Now the butterflies made an appearance? I couldn’t handle butterflies right now!
So stop looking at him.
But I couldn’t help it. And when I looked again, I found him looking right back. Eyes hard. Jaw locked. Neck muscles tense. Almost as if he were angry with me. He swallowed. Sat up taller and squared his shoulders.
What the hell? What had I ever done to him?
Unexpectedly, my eyes filled and I furiously blinked the tears away. And something happened—his eyes softened for a second, his lips parting slightly before pressing together again. God, he was all over the place! Did he want to kiss me or punch me?
Just pretend he isn’t here.
It wasn’t easy. Although he said nothing, I felt his angry eyes on me constantly. I was so aware of his presence I might as well have been sitting on his lap. But I kept a mask of cheerful nonchalance on my face, praising the meal, sipping coffee with cream, and chatting with Pete and Georgia about New York. Beneath that mask, though, I was a nervous wreck.
“This is delicious! Is it French toast?” Please don’t let my cheeks be too pink.
“Could you pass the cream, please?” Oh God, I said that too loud, didn’t I?