Julia
“The food is here,” Van called as he walked toward the door to the suite. His long legs were clad in blue jeans and his button-up shirt was untucked with the sleeves rolled up to nearly his elbows.
Leaning back against the dining room chair, my soft sweater fell from one shoulder, revealing the camisole I wore beneath. It was then that I realized Van had my full attention, enthralling me with the powerful yet graceful way he moved. Donovan Sherman was the personification of a man in control—a wolf, a predator. Effortlessly, he commanded a room, whether it was with hundreds of guests, as at my parents’ party, or here, with only the two of us.
And at the same time there was a calmness about him.
Do others see the calm or only the wolf?
My gaze went to the computer monitors before me and back to him.
Without a doubt, watching him was a better view than that of the monitors or the notes I had flagged in my notebook.
As my core twisted, I knew the reason I stared.
Plain and simple, I enjoyed the view.
Van’s deep voice resonated through the suite as he spoke with the hotel’s delivery person, followed by the echo of the door closing. As Van came my way, carrying sacks instead of pushing a cart, his gaze met mine as if he knew I’d been staring.
Instead of mentioning the obvious, he replied to my unspoken question, “I was getting tired of the hotel room-service menu.”
“I miss Paula’s meals.” Tilting my head toward the kitchen, I offered, “I can cook. I’d need to shop.”
Van placed the bags on the one clear spot on the long dining room table. “I’m ready to go home as soon as you are. I’d rather you spend your time collecting all the information you need rather than spending your time cooking. Once we’re back in Ashland, you can astound me with your mad culinary skills.”
I pushed the chair back and stood, curious as to the delicious aromas escaping the bags. “I never claimed culinary excellence. I can cook and keep us from starving.”
He kissed the top of my head. “I’m not incapable. I’ve been known to survive on coffee and soup in the cabin. Time is the issue. It’s a valuable commodity. I’d rather pay Mrs. Mayhand to make the meals than to spend my own time doing it.”
“You do know that her name’s Paula?”
“She calls me Mr. Sherman. I call her Mrs. Mayhand. It’s a thing we have between us.”
My eyes narrowed. “Is it a good thing?”
“Yes.” Van’s response came with a nod and a grin as he began unpacking our dinner.
“Is there more to that story?” I asked.
“When I first moved to Ashland, I didn’t know anyone. I bought a house, one that was on the property I still own. I’d left here” —he pointed his chin toward the windows and the lights of Chicago— “tired of people and wanting more privacy.”
“Is that the house where you now live?”
“No, I had that one demolished.” A shadow in his eyes was soon replaced as his smile grew. “The location is now a Christmas tree farm.”
A warm feeling came to me, remembering our hunt for the perfect tree. Lifting a container Van had placed on the table, I found a large Caesar salad. Prying the plastic lid from the edges of the bowl, I plucked a crouton from the mix and asked, “Did you move to Ashland alone?”
The container in Van’s grasp was the source of the fantastic smells. As he opened it, I saw the soft, buttery breadsticks and the air became thick with the garlicky scent, causing my stomach to rumble.
He replied, “Technically, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I was officially unattached.”
Eligible bachelor.
I wanted to ask about Madison. It was on the tip of my tongue, but as Van shared, I was afraid to slow his momentum.