Eager to start working, Heather headed toward the sunroom. She’d decided it would serve as her art room. The light was excellent, she could get fresh air pouring in when needed, and it afforded her a fabulous view of the beach. The problem was that there was a strange man working out there, too. Certainly a distraction.
She peeked out the slats of the plantation shutters on the bedroom door to the sunroom. Yes, there he was, working farther out on the grounds. Curious, she opened the slats a bit more so she could watch him work. He was handsome, she couldn’t deny that. He began hoisting long pieces of lumber as if they weighed nothing and carried them up onto the deck. She was aware of the strength that took. Each time he dropped the heavy slat of wood, it banged loudly, startling her.
When he’d moved all of the slats to the deck he stopped, hands on his hips, to catch his breath. It was a hot morning and he was dripping sweat. In a swift movement, he reached down and lifted his T-shirt over his head, then used it like a rag to wipe his forehead and the back of his neck. He tossed the shirt on the deck and turned to stare out at the ocean. From her hiding spot, Heather couldn’t help but stare at him. She couldn’t take her eyes off his body. She wasn’t a voyeur. But as a woman—as an artist—she was struck by its tan, smooth, stark beauty.
His was a young man’s fit body, all lean, sinewy muscle, flat abdomen, and broad shoulders. There wasn’t any of the bulk that she found unattractive, or the thickness that might come later in life. This was a body in its prime.
At first she simply stared unabashedly. Then the artist in her picked up the details. Following a sudden urge, she hurried from the bedroom out to the sunroom and dug through her boxes until she found her sketchbook and pencil. She slid onto a wicker chair, flipped open her notebook, and began to sketch. She worked quickly, catching how different movements changed the muscle. He picked up a hammer and bent low, a few nails in his mouth. When he lifted his arm, the muscles changed. Soon the rhythmic pounding of hammer against wood filled the air, a backbeat to the scratching sound of her pencil on paper.
The pencil flew over the paper in short, quick strokes, capturing the taut muscle, the protruding vein, the droplet of sweat trickling down his taut abdomen. She sighed, thinking it was no wonder Michelangelo so often drew and sculpted a man’s body. Around her the birds chirped, but she didn’t hear them. She was completely focused on her work. So much so, she didn’t notice when her model stopped working.
“Hello!” he called out.
Heather gasped and swung her head around to again find the young man standing at the door. He was wearing once more the now-sweat-drenched black T-shirt and he held one hand cupped over his eyes as he peered in. She flipped her sketchbook closed and slammed her hand over it, blushing furiously and wildly wondering if he’d seen her gawking.
“Sorry,” he said, removing his sunglasses. “I seem to be making a habit of scaring you. I knocked, but you must’ve been too busy working there. And those birds sure sing loud.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.” She put the sketchbook on the table and stood up. “Can I help you?”
“It’s getting hot out there. Could I trouble you for some ice?”
“Of course. Come on in.”
The screen door jiggled, and he looked up with resignation. “It’s locked.”
“Oh.” Heather rushed across the room to unlock the screen door. He slid it open, and suddenly she was face-to-face with the most stunning blue eyes she’d ever seen. It felt like she was looking into the ocean when the sun made the water sparkle. She stood staring into them, mesmerized.
“Uh, excuse me,” he said politely.
Flustered, Heather stepped back, cheeks aflame, muttering apologies, cringing inwardly at acting like a silly schoolgirl.
He walked past her into the house. He was at least six feet tall and deeply tanned, even so early in the season. Probably from working in the sun. His tanned skin was a sharp contrast to his almost-white blond hair and made his brilliant blue eyes shine out like beacons.
As he passed, Heather felt a sharp zing of attraction, unexpected and thus all the more powerful. Whenever she was attracted to someone, it made her even more embarrassingly awkward and tongue-tied. She clutched her hands together, holding herself erect in what she hoped appeared a poised stance similar to Cara Rutledge’s.
By contrast, he didn’t seem the least bothered by the awkwardness. His manner was easy and friendly without seeming overly forward. He stopped a few feet into the room.
“I don’t want to track sand into your house. If you could just put some ice into this here glass, I’d be grateful.” He held out a Tervis tumbler.
His hand was deeply tanned with long fingers and short nails. She clutched the tumbler, careful not to touch his fingers. “D-do you want some water, too?”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve got water outside. I just need the ice. Thanks.” He sniffed the air and looked at her with charming appeal in his eyes. “Is that coffee I smell?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“Oh,” she sputtered, realizing he was hoping she’d offer him some. She could be so dense. “Would you like a cup?”
“I wouldn’t say no. It sure smells good.”
Heather felt a fluttering in her stomach as she hurried to the kitchen and completed this simple task, returning a few minutes later with the tumbler filled with ice water and a mug of coffee. The man was standing near the birds, bent at the knees and making soft whistling noises. He straightened when she entered the room. Once again she was struck by how gorgeous a blue his eyes were. They drew her attention, sucking her in.
“What kind of birds are these?” he asked, gesturing. “Canaries?”
“Yes,” she replied softly, and handed him the tumbler. “I, uh, put water in, too. It’s nice and cold. And the coffee’s hot.” Could she be more inane? her inner voice asked. Of course the coffee was hot.
“Thanks,” he replied, and almost as a gift offered her a dazzling smile that carved deep dimples into his cheeks before he took a long sip.
“That’s good coffee.”
She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear and took a few steps back.
“They all the same kind of canary?” he asked, turning back to the birds.
“Uh, no,” she replied, surprised he’d asked. Most people thought all canaries were the same diminutive yellow bird. She walked over to the travel cages sitting on the table. She pointed awkwardly, not meeting his gaze. “The two yellow ones are American Singers. That white one is a Belgian Waterslager.” She paused, then added, “One of the few white ones in this country.”
His brows rose. “So I’m in the presence of a celebrity.”
She laughed.
“They sure can sing,” he said, his tone impressed.
Her face softened as she looked at her birds. There was so much she’d like to tell him about the birds—their history, how a canary was prized for its singing, how they could brighten even the gloomiest day.
He bent to look at them again. “Is it true only the boy canary sings?”
“Yes.”
He cocked his head toward her. “Sort of like those famous choirboys from England.”