She’d opened the Dugat-Py as soon as she arrived home and decanted it, closing her eyes as she inhaled the complex mix of licorice, blackberries, and toasty oak. Her little vineyard would never produce a Pinot Noir, most likely—it was a difficult grape to cultivate, and Pennsylvania wasn’t an ideal climate for it—but it was her favorite wine, and with just a hint of apprehension, she hoped Cameron liked it too.
Opening iTunes to her favorite Joshua Radin album, she queued up “The Greenest Grass” and checked her reflection in the center hall mirror. She looked businesslike with her hair back and glasses on, but the softness of her dress counted for something, didn’t it? If she wasn’t mistaken yesterday morning and Cameron had found her attractive, another form-fitting cashmere outfit should confirm it for her, and she hoped, oh, how she hop—
The doorbell rang, and she took a deep breath, taking a quick peek at the soft light flooding from the living room, and opened her door.
Time stopped when I saw you . . . I could barely breathe.
Joshua Radin’s softly sung words were the perfect soundtrack for the way her breath caught and her eyes widened with pure, unadulterated pleasure.
He leaned one hand against her doorway, with his body taking up most of the space in front of her. A light blue dress shirt was rolled up at the cuffs to reveal muscular arms, tan and veined, with a smattering of dark brown hair. They were strong arms that made something inside her wake up and pay attention, and she wondered what they’d feel like holding on tight to her bare skin.
“Hi,” she breathed, sliding her eyes from his arm to his face. His regular five o’clock shadow traced the line of his jaw, and she clenched her fist by her side to keep from reaching up to touch the bristles. Would they be soft or rough? Would they mark her skin if he was to drag his lips over her collarbone, to the base of her throat, pausing at the racing pulse to flick his tongue—
“Eight, right?”
“Hm?”
“You said eight, right? To talk to the contractor?”
She lifted her gaze from his lips to his eyes and felt her face flush with heat. “The contractor. Of course. Yes. Come in. Right.”
And then she promptly shut the door and pivoted around, heading for the kitchen to pour them each a glass of wine. It was only when she heard his muffled voice from behind the door call, “Meggie? Um, Margaret?” that she realized she’d just slammed the door in his face.
“Oh God!” she whimpered, cringing as she raced back to the front door. She swung it open, and Cameron, who was about to knock again, fell forward, just as he had the other morning, catching her around the waist and hauling her against his chest.
His eyes were bright green and wide as they stared down into hers, and his body pressed against hers with every quick, shallow breath he took. Leaning her neck back to look up into his eyes, she felt her body light up like it had just been screwed into a three-hundred-watt socket, every nerve ending on high alert. The heat of his hand against her hip. The steel of his arm pressing against her back. His belt buckle flush against her belly. His eyes boring into hers like he was helpless to look away.
“Meggie,” he murmured. “I—”
“Sorry,” she said, daring a quick glance at his lips as she wet her own, “for slamming the door in your face.”
“Not that I don’t deserve it,” he said gently, his lips quirking up just a little.
“Do you?” she asked breathlessly.
“Sure,” he said, loosening his arm around her. “For all those times I was such a jerk to you in the elevator.”
And just like that, the spell was broken. Because he was right. He was a jerk to her—she had no business mooning over him like a lovesick teenager. He didn’t deserve her regard, and as for her attraction? Muster a little dignity, Margaret! She could try her best to ignore it.
Not a date. A meeting.
Margaret stepped back, smoothing her hair and lifting her chin. “Yes, well . . .”
“Really, Meggie.” He shook his head, grinning down at the floor before looking back up at her. “Margaret. I owe you an apology. It’s been a stressful time at work, and every time I run into you, I’ve been boorish. I’m sorry.”
She searched his face, wanting to believe in his sincerity, but cautious too. This was the same boy who’d gone out of his way to exasperate her as a child, who’d been, in his own words, boorish for months. Trusting him was out of the question. But could she open her heart enough to accept his apology and give him a chance to change her opinion of him?
Margaret. I owe you an apology.
Stranger than Cameron Winslow offering her an olive branch? The way her heart had clenched with sorrow when he corrected himself and called her Margaret. How wrong it sounded slipping from his lips. How unaccountably sad it made her feel.
“Meggie.”
“What?” he asked, crinkling his forehead. “But you hate—”
“Meggie,” she said again, her voice quiet but firm. She didn’t attempt to explain why. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she could.