Page 22 of Hers By Summer’s End

He tipped his head back and laughed, the raw sound echoing off the misty glass panes and sending a damnable shiver down her spine.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over him. “Nurse Mary is petite and quiet and kind and gentle⁠—”

“She's fifteen years older than I am.”

“You might have unusual tastes! You seemed to like me, after all.”

His laughter softened into a fond chuckle. “And she's married.”

“I’d forgotten that part,” she admitted, heat infusing her cheeks. “It’s just…I saw you leaving the Fresh Air Cottage together. I couldn’t understand why you were there in the first place if it wasn’t to see her.”

“I visit the children now and then. They’re cooped up for weeks with little to do but stare at the walls.” He shrugged, ducking his head in a sheepish way that did him far too many favors. “I put on a show, throw a few punches, flex my arms when they ask. It makes them laugh.”

Well.

That was…attractive.

“I’m certain it does,” she said curtly. “You have always been a talented showman.”

He stepped a little closer, studying her with cautious amusement, as though uncertain whether she'd dissolve into tears or challenge him to a duel with a trowel. She wasn’t certain herself, which only added to her discomfort.

“And Nurse Mary…” He spoke slowly, the smirk fading toward the unfamiliar terrain of vulnerability. “She cared for my mother before she died. We were remembering her.”

Oh.

Oh.

Every one of her ridiculous theories crumbled into a mortifying heap.

“Where is she now?” she asked in a small voice.

“She’s inside with Granddad.”

Her stomach sank even lower. “I hope he hasn’t fallen ill.”

“Not at all. Just eighty years old and determined to live until Octogenarian Day. He coughed once last night, and he’s convinced he’ll perish before the week is out. I asked Nurse Mary to humor him a little before setting him straight.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. Unfortunately, the situation remained unchanged. She was still entirely in the wrong.

“I’m a monster,” she declared.

“You’re not,” he said, stepping so close she could catch the faint, earthy scent of his aftershave. Close enough to spot flecks of green in his brown eyes she’d never noticed before. “You’re spirited and determined and forthright. To be honest, I’m not sure whether I should applaud your honesty or…” He shook his head slightly, falling silent.

“Or what?” she rasped, the question a sharp, instinctive tug on the heavy stillness stretching between them.

Drew’s gaze dragged slowly over her face, searching her features for an answer. What answer he hoped to find, she couldn’t say. She stared back, her heart hammering against her ribs, all too aware of how thick and humid the air was around them.

“Or kiss you,” he finished.

There was no teasing glint in his eye, no smug curl to his mouth—quite the opposite, really. No one had ever looked at her after she'd made a complete fool of herself with anything approaching tenderness. Yet Drew looked as though he'd been given something entirely unbidden and entirely precious.

Her? Was she precious to him?

The agonizing line separating what had been and what could be tautened to a knife’s edge. One of them had to cross it.

“Kiss me,” she blurted.

The words flew out so quickly she scarcely recognized them as her own, but before embarrassment could claim her, she caught hold of the textured corduroy of his lapels and tugged. Drew caught his balance with a sharp intake of breath. They were toe-to-toe, hip-to-hip, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from hers.