A muscle worked in his jaw and she feared he wouldn’t share. Finally, he admitted, “I make specialty axe handles.”
“Truly?”
He nodded, rubbing at his neck.
“Ah, this is lovely.”
“Lovely?”
“Sorry, my beastly tough chap, I’m sure lovely is a word you’ve never heard associated with you.”
“Not if the person wanted to walk again,” he muttered.
“Whoo.” She fanned at her face. “That was right sexy and disturbing at the same time.”
“You don’t hold much back, do you?”
“Why?” She shrugged. “Everyone likes me. I might as well keep things fun and light.” She smiled at him. “Goodness knowsyou’renot going to lighten the mood in here.” She gestured around the closet.
He chuckled and she joined him.
“I’d better get to looking through your clothes.”
“Okay. I’ll help you. Then you can tell me all about axes and how you form them.”
His eyes widened. He looked her over and warmth erupted in her chest. “Does anyone ever tell you no?”
Her dad regularly told her no and that she was in the wrong—when he was actually around—but she didn’t let it faze her. “Why would they?” She inflected extra sass into her voice, put a hand on her hip, and tossed her short hair.
He laughed again at that and splayed his hands. “Okay. Let’s go through your clothes. You have a lot of them.”
She was the one laughing now. “Oh, my fine chap, you have no idea what an abundance of clothing is. Someday, you come see me at my London flat. I converted an entire bedroom into a closet.”
“Wow. There are no words.”
Her eyes widened at his attempt to joke. “You’re joshing with me now? Yes!” She threw both hands in the air in celebration and then rubbed them together. “Ah, this makes me cheery.”
He shook his head and picked up a cashmere sweater, running his hands over it.
“Youdon’thave a closet full of clothes, I take it?” She enjoyed watching his large hands touch her sweater. It felt intimate.
“No, ma’am. That duffel bag out there constitutes most of the clothing I own.”
“Tragic. That does it. I’m going to start a bully tough menswear line. We’ll call it Rambo Rocks.” He stopped with her sweater in hand and laughed again. She loved it.
“You’ll be my premier model,” she continued, happy they could tease. “We’ll have so much smashing success you’ll have no choice but to retire and let me stick pins in you to get the fits perfect.” Actually, imagining fitting clothes on him was tantalizing. She’d run her hands along that taut waistline or over his broad shoulders.
“That’s happening … never.”
“Ah, don’t you ruin my vision.”
He smiled. He must’ve finished with the sweater because he grabbed an empty hanger and started shoving it on it.
“Oh, no, no, no.” Mia didn’t even think as she entered his personal space and wrapped her hands around his. He froze, and so did she. Looking up, way up, into those smoky-blue eyes, she realized she couldn’t catch a breath. “I’m sorry, but you absolutely cannot hang cashmere. It’s a rule.” Her voice was trembling, and she didn’t move her hands. She loved touching his strong, capable hands and loved how close she was to him right now. That clean scent permeated her senses, and she would give anything to arch up and kiss his firm lips.
He might make sure she didn’t walk again if she tried to kiss him.
“Forgive me,” he murmured.