“Can I help?” he asked.
“Sure, grab the plates and forks.” She set ice cream on the counter, pulled the pie out of the oven, and set it on a blue and white ceramic trivet. As she cut and served the dessert, still bubbling from the oven, a dollop of filling plopped onto her hand. She made the faintest of squeaks, not enough to disturb Einars and Bass, but Isaac noticed. Hell, he felt it. Without a word, he doused a towel in cold water and took her arm. He rubbed the spot to make sure the filling was washed off completely, then held the cool towel over the burn. He kept his eyes on the pale skin, luminescent in the firefly light, not wanting to make eye contact with her—afraid he wouldn’t see his own feelings reflected in her face. Instead he focused on the smoothness of her skin, and the rose scent wafting and twining with the cinnamon. In the dim light, it was all too easy to forget they weren’t alone.
But he could never forget that they should never be alone, at least not like that. He’d thought a lot about her kiss—and where that whisper of a touch could lead. He’d probably thought too much about it. Each time it led to the same wall. He and Bass couldn’t stay here forever. Eventually, they had to return to California, and when they left, he didn’t want to hurt her. He had to keep his focus on helping the orchard. That must be his focal point, not his longing to feel her eyes on him.
At last he met her eyes. Her pupils were saucers in the darkness, taking over the blue. She stared at him. He only needed to step forward a few inches, and they would be touching from head to toe.
“Better?” His voice crackled as the word emerged.
She nodded, but didn’t move. Isaac braced himself for at least a mild rebuke for manhandling her around the kitchen.
“Yes, thank you.”
Isaac wiped the dampness from the dish towel off his hands by rubbing them on his thighs, but couldn’t erase the memory of her skin under his.
“I burn myself all the time in the kitchen. If it still stings, hold an ice cube on it.”
“It feels fine.” She rubbed the spot where his fingers had just been.
“Let’s dish this up before the ice cream melts.”
She quickly served up two slices topped with ice cream that Isaac delivered to the table. When he returned, Sanna handed him his plate, then headed to the table with her own.
“Wait. I have something I want to give you,” Isaac said.
“Better than first aid?” She returned to his side, her eyes smiling.
He pulled the stack of sticker-labels from his back pocket.
“I made these today . . . when you mentioned none of your cider bottles had labels . . .” He spread them out on the counter like a stack of cards. They were four-by-four-inch stickers, ranging in colors from a vibrant aqua to a rusty red, colors taken from her journal. On the side in a bold font read IDUN’S ORCHARD. Underneath, in tiny letters, the address. He’d spent a few hours designing them and a few more hours imagining the delight on Sanna’s face when she saw them. He wasn’t disappointed. Sanna trailed her fingers over them, finally pulling one out to examine it.
“How did you do this?”
“They didn’t take long.”
“They’re beautiful. No one has ever . . .” And then she hugged him, pulling him in tight, her rose scent enmeshing his carefully constructed, logical wall and tumbling it down. He let his lips graze the silky skin on the side of her neck, relishing Sanna’s quick intake of breath. He didn’t care if all the ice cream in the world melted—he wasn’t pulling away first.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Pa, you ready to go?”
Isaac couldn’t stop his head from turning instantly toward the sound of Sanna’s voice. She strode from the side of the barn toward the ATV, where Einars sat next to him. Bass followed behind, carrying a crate of bottles. Her floppy hat kept her face in shadow, but he didn’t need to see it to know there were light pink roses on her cheeks from a day of working or that her sharp blue eyes took in his every motion before turning away.
After last night’s hug and covert neck kissing—which wasn’t really a kiss, but it wasn’t not a kiss either—he had decided the best way to handle this attraction was to embrace it. Resisting would only prolong the emotions. If he let it run its course, the sooner it would evaporate, and he’d stop feeling like a teenager ogling the girl next door.
“Where you headed? I can take him,” Isaac offered.
Sanna stopped in front of him. She wet a bandana from her water bottle and wrapped it around her neck—stray drips escaped to trace a path down her chest and disappear into the tank top she wore under a long-sleeve denim shirt.
“It’s haircut day.”
Typical Sanna, only giving the barest of information. This woman was driving him crazy.
“What Sanna isn’t explaining,” Einars chimed in, “is that we normally cut each other’s hair, but I can’t cut hers with my arm cast, so we have to go to Mrs. Dibble’s salon.”
Mrs. Dibble had a salon? Sanna must have noticed his confused expression.
“She owns a hair salon. She rarely cuts hair anymore, but she still goes there almost every day. It’s the best place to hear the latest local dirt.” Sanna rolled her eyes. “Maybe I’ll grow my hair out.”
“I can cut it,” Isaac said. “I’ve been trimming Bass’s for years. And you look good, right, Tuna?” Bass had climbed between Isaac’s legs in the ATV and pretended to drive.
“Sure, Dad.” He smiled, glad to be included in the conversation, then pretended to push some buttons—most likely destroying the Death Star or flying a fighter jet.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll bring the truck around.” Sanna sniffed.
“That’s probably for the best. Now that it’s August, I’m sure Mrs. Dibble can’t wait to get the full story about how it’s going with Bass and Isaac,” Einars added, smiling when Sanna crossed her arms.
Isaac could see her calculating which was the worse option. Exposing herself to an hour of Mrs. Dibble’s meddling, which would fuel the Door County gossip train, or letting him touch her hair. He held his breath, unable to guess which would be the lesser of two evils and hoping it was him.
Sanna eyed Bass’s head as if trying to determine the quality.
“Let’s do it before dinner. You can cut Pa’s hair, but first let me get in a shower.” She nodded decisively, then disappeared into the house.
“I can’t believe she said yes,” Isaac said.
“You have no idea how nosy Mrs. Dibble can be on her own turf. She’d probably let a blindfolded Bass cut her hair.” Einars looked at Isaac. “You sure you can do this?”
Isaac thought of all the times he’d trimmed the hair on Bass’s wiggly toddler head bribing him to stay still just two more minutes.