The bead board on the front of the box bench was broken. The window itself overlooked the pond and the woods.
“Mrs. Farber’s geese are loose again.”
Sam had thought he’d heard squawking on occasion. Coming up beside her, he looked down to see three white fowl with beaks as orange as their feet waddling along the bank.
It was Kelsey’s expression that had his attention, though. Her smile was soft, the look in her eyes distant.
There was a pensiveness about her here that he hadn’t seen before. He’d caught a hint of it when he’d come upon her outside, seen her mask it before she’d hurried through the mill’s history downstairs. As she reached to brush away a cobweb from above the bench, she seemed even more distracted to him, her thoughts even farther away.
His glance drifted over the long line of her body while she batted away the web’s wispy strings. He was a little distracted himself. He always was when he was around her.
Wanting to believe distraction was all he was after, he reached above her to knock away the last of the dangling web himself.
“Do you still think about living here?”
Something vulnerable slipped into her expression. He caught it in her profile even before she glanced up.
“It was in your diary,” he reminded her, since she looked as if she couldn’t recall having mentioned that. “You wrote that you were sitting in the window.” He hesitated. “Was that this one?”
With a nod, she looked away.
“You wrote about how you wanted to live here and make the building useful again.”
She had wanted a lot of things back then, Kelsey thought, bracing herself to hear how implausible her old dream had been. She knew he thought the place a wreck. That had been apparent enough in the dubious way he’d eyed every surface in the place.
Her glance fell from his broad chest to the seat beneath the window. That worn wooden bench with its storage spaces beneath and broken front panel were where she’d recorded much of what she’d dreamed about. It hadn’t mattered back then that her mother had dismissed the idea. In her mind, Kelsey had painted and scrubbed and filled the space with curtains and cozy furniture. She’d daydreamed of baking bread in the kitchen, made of grain she’d somehow grown and ground herself. As naive and idealistic as her thinking had once been, she doubted she’d given a single thought to the fact that she knew nothing about the mechanics of a mill. She doubted she’d even noticed that the only source of heat upstairs was a stone fireplace, that the plumbing rattled or that the window frames in the stone walls had rotted. As a young girl, she knew she hadn’t been terribly practical. Practicality ruined fantasies.
“Living here was never possible.”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you ever think about living here now.”
“Not really,” she murmured. Sometimes, she admitted to herself. She did think about being here. Only not the way Sam meant. This was the place she escaped to in her mind when she’d lie in bed at night trying not to think about whatever it was keeping her from sleeping. It was her escape. The safe place she could come to flee the awful feeling that she was madly treading water in an ocean that was getting bigger by the moment. It felt sometimes as if the shore were getting farther away with each stroke and that the only way to reach it was to swim harder, faster, but the harder she tried the farther the shore receded.
It was hard to remember that she’d once loved to swim.
“I really wish you’d forget what you read in that diary. Please,” she asked. Nothing in there mattered anymore. Not the way it had all those years ago.
Or so she wanted to believe in the moments before he reached over and tipped up her chin.
“Which part?”
Seconds ago she’d been prepared for his skepticism or, at worst, his disbelief at what she’d wanted. She’d also battled the awful feeling that the senses of hope and optimism she’d come here to find no longer existed. She’d once felt tranquility here, but she’d also felt anticipation, eagerness and a passion for what she’d let herself dream. It was the passion she hadn’t felt in longer that she dared remember. For anything. For anyone.
With his fingers under her chin, his thumb moving slowly toward the corner of her mouth, anticipation suddenly surfaced.
Her pulse skipped. “All of them.”
Sam met the vulnerability in her eyes as he slowly shook his head. Her fresh scent drifted toward him, hooking him, drawing him closer. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted to touch her until he found it impossible to keep his hands to himself. He could still recall the incredible softness of her skin, her hair. He could still imagine the feel of her lithe, supple body pressed to his. He had imagined it, too, late at night when he should have been sleeping, only to find himself restlessly pacing the floor instead, trying to find something, anything, to do to take his mind off of her.
“I’d really like to accommodate you,” he admitted, letting his thumb skim the fullness of her lower lip, “but June is still stuck in my mind.”
“June?”
“The Tame and the Tempted. You wanted me to kiss you the way some guy named Jack kissed someone named Angela before he carried her off to bed. You just didn’t say exactly what way that was.”
She felt her heart bump as his fingers drifted down her throat. “The Torrid.” Her voice went a little thin. “It was the Tame and the Torrid. It was a soap opera.”
He’d read that entry out loud. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the embarrassment she’d felt at that moment. She should have felt it now, too. And she probably did. But she was aware mostly of the thoughtful way he watched her, and that he held her there with nothing more than his touch.
“I figured as much.” His glance drifted to the buttons on her shirt, skimmed the gentle swells of her breasts. “Then, there’s July twelfth.” The slivers of silver in the gray of his eyes seemed to glint when he glanced back up. “Do you remember what you wrote?”
The blunt tips of his fingers had settled on the hollow of her throat. Beneath them, her heartbeat jerked. “I read it the other night.”
She had wanted him to kiss her. She had wanted him to slip off her shirt so she could feel his skin against hers. She didn’t know which disturbed her more just then. Knowing he knew that. Or the thought of being held by him, of being skin to skin with the hard muscles of his chest and surrounded by all that strength. He caused her knees to feel weak doing nothing more than brushing her mouth with his thumb.
“Then you know how it starts,” he murmured, trailing his fingers back up. “And it really would be a shame to let a perfectly good fantasy go to waste.”
Meeting the intent darkening his eyes, her pulse scrambled all over again. “Don’t you think fantasies are over-rated?”
“Probably,” he agreed, his head inching lower. “But there’s only one way to find out for sure.”
She didn’t know what she had imagined years ago. Considering how naive she’d been, it was entirely possible she’d thought he would kiss her, then literally sweep her off her feet and into his arms. She knew for a fact that she couldn’t have imagined the warmth she felt at the touch of his mouth to hers, or the way that heat slowly gathered low in her belly at that experimental contact.
It was a kiss designed to test, to satisfy curiosity. She had the feeling that was all he really wanted. Yet, a shiver shimmered through her at that teasing contact, causing her lips to part with her quiet intake of breath. At that small invitation, his tongue touched hers, toying, teasing. The heat pooled lower.
She didn’t know which one of them moved first. It might have been her because her knees suddenly felt weaker and she needed to lean on him for balance. It might have been him, because even as her palms flattened against the hard wall of his chest she felt his hand at the small of her back and its gentle pressure pulling her closer. All she knew for certain as he drew her deeper was that the reality of Sam infinitely exceeded anything she might have once imagin
ed about him. She wasn’t prepared for all the sensations he coaxed from deep within her. Every nerve in her body felt as if they were coming alive as he aligned her curves to his harder angles. Every cell seemed to awaken at his touch.
She had wanted him to show her…everything.
Sam nearly groaned at the thought.
He’d been curious. He would have admitted that in a heartbeat. Any man would have been after reading what a woman had so explicitly written about him. Especially when that woman still seemed to want his touch. He just hadn’t expected the hunger. He was a man who allowed nothing and no one control over him. Yet, the moment she’d sagged against him, wildfire had ripped through him, threatening to turn restraint to ash and his blood to steam. The woman in his arms tasted like honey, felt like heaven and he would have had no desire at all to pull back had it not been for the inexplicable need he felt to not let her pull back first.
She’d all but run from him too many times. The last thing he wanted just then was for her to withdraw from him now.
Easing his hand from the silk of her hair, he lifted his head far enough to see her face.
Her mouth was damp with his moisture. Her eyes, when they flicked to his, held a heavy hint of the caution he was feeling himself.
With the edge of his thumb, he wiped the moisture from her bottom lip. The temptation to draw her back into his arms was strong. The desire to keep her from pulling away felt even stronger.
“As fantasies go,” he murmured, “that one definitely holds potential.” He smoothed back her hair, using the time to slow the rate of his heart. “Now, what about the rest?”
Having no idea which date he had in mind now, and shaken to the core by her response to him, Kelsey looked up in confusion. “The rest?”
“Of what you wrote about. The mill for instance. What would you do if it were suddenly yours?”
Kelsey didn’t know which threw her more. The way he seemed to accept what she’d once wanted as something plausible, or the question itself. She felt a little confused by his touch, too, as he smoothed back the hair he had tangled. His hands had excited before. Now, they seemed to soothe.
Her palms had flattened against his chest. Beneath one, she could feel the strong beat of his heart. She had never experienced the phenomenon before, and she wasn’t at all sure what to make of it, but with that connection she could almost feel her own heart slowing to match its steady rhythm.
“The things I’ve thought about doing with it are totally impractical.”
“Forget practical. What would you do?” he asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Gut it and turn it into a house?”
Her glance flew up from where she’d covered the U on his shirt. “I’d never do that. Gut it, I mean. It’s a mill.”
Indulgence colored his tone. “It’s a building. It can be anything a person turns it into.”
“I thought this was my fantasy.”
“It is. Absolutely,” he insisted, though he liked his idea better. In the right hands, the mill could be a great house. The place had good bones. As solidly as the stone walls were built, the thing would outlast the pyramids. “But you said yourself the big companies killed its business. About all it would be good for is a museum.”
“It needs to be a working mill. So, if it were mine,” she insisted, tracing the U with her finger, “that’s what I would want it to be. It would just have to produce something unique.”
“Such as?”
“Something like artisan flours, I guess. I use them whenever I can for my baking,” she explained, remembering how often she’d thought of this place over the years when she’d placed her orders. As unbelievable as it would seem, she would now never think of it again without remembering how she’d stood there in his arms. “Always for my breads. And always the best quality available. They’re more expensive, but there are grinds and types of flours that consumers can only get in specialty stores or by mail order. There just aren’t that many places that make them.”
“Where would you get the wheat?”
Light entered her eyes. In her self-contained little dream, she’d turned the meadow into a wheat field and grown it herself. “From local farms.” Even dreams could evolve. “And I’d grind corn and barley. And oats,” she added, toying with his shirt as she tried to remember what else the farmers around there grew. “We have organic farmers in the area, too. There aren’t many of them,” she recalled, only to cut herself off as further inspiration quietly, suddenly struck.
“That’s it.” Her fingers stilled against his chest. “That’s what I’d do. I’d start a line of organic products.”
She honestly hadn’t thought of it until just then. But the market for organic products was huge. It was also one that would be perfect for a small mill given that organic farms tended to be small themselves. More often than not, those farms were labors of commitment rather than labors for profit. And doing anything with the mill would be a labor of love for her.
“I would blend mixes, too. For breads and rolls. And muffins,” she decided, turning to pace as the ideas flowed, “like for the blueberry kind you like. And the pumpkin pancakes Mom always makes in the fall. Only I’d make them all organic.” Her mind leapt ahead, envisioning product boxes and bags. Natural brown in color. Orange print maybe. Tied with raffia. “I would even sell the pumpkin mixes with the local maple syrup. I know distributors. I have connections in the industry. I’d eventually have to hire a couple of people, but I would have my own little cottage industry right here.”
Every word she spoke was pure hypothecation. Still, Kelsey could feel herself smiling. It didn’t matter that the root of her blossoming idea would go back into dormancy in a matter of minutes. It didn’t even matter that her current concept had more holes in it than a good Swiss cheese. It simply felt good to be enthused about something. To run with possibilities. To think about something that felt right, whether implementing it was possible or not.
Wanting to savor the unexpected moment, thinking she could have gladly hugged Sam for it, she tried to overlook the niggling thought that this was the enthusiasm she’d wanted to feel for one or the other of the positions she’d been offered. Neither one even came close.
“Anything else?” Sam asked.
Meeting the speculation in his eyes, she shook her head. “That’s all I can think of offhand. But thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not laughing at the idea,” she admitted, still smiling, “and telling me how impractical it is. Or pointing out all the reasons it would never work.”
Shooting her down was the last thing he wanted to do. He couldn’t believe how her excitement transformed her. That enthusiasm had started with a flicker of light in her eyes that had grown until she practically glowed with energy. Each new thought had put more passion into her voice. Each possibility had broadened her smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone look or sound so enthusiastic. No one over the age of ten, anyway. He knew for certain he’d long ago stopped feeling anything resembling it himself.
“Would you take that idea over what you’ve been offered?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “In a heartbeat.”
“Then, why don’t you?”
Excitement turned to hesitation. “Turn this into an organic mill?”
“Why not?”
“Because it is impractical.” It was one thing to have someone else poke holes in a vision. It was another entirely to be realistic about it herself. “I know absolutely nothing about restoring a mill. Since I don’t know a thing about running one, either, I would lose every penny I’ve saved on this place. Then, there’s my mother,” she continued, that final reality killing the light. “She encouraged and paid for my schooling and I’m sure she’d feel I was wasting her investment if I didn’t pursue my career.”
Taking a deep breath, Kelsey shook off the last thoughts of the best idea she’d ever had for the place. As she did, she tried desperately to shift the enth
usiasm she’d felt in a more practical direction. “I have a really good job,” she insisted. “The promotion they’re offering me and the offer from Doug are as far up the ladder as I can go working for someone else. With Doug I could even have share of the ownership,” she pointed out, because that was a huge draw for her. “No matter which position I take, I finally get to make the creative decisions, not just implement someone else’s. What more could I want?”
She was trying hard to convince herself to be happy with what she had. Sam could see that as clearly as he had the eagerness that had slowly slipped from her face.
He didn’t know if she realized what she had just admitted in her undeniably practical arguments. But it didn’t sound as if it was a particular job or a position or prestige she wanted. It seemed that what she wanted most was to make her own decisions rather than live with someone else’s, and to move in her own direction no matter how impractical others thought her goals.
Relating to anyone or anything other than on a professional or superficial level wasn’t like him at all. Empathy felt utterly foreign to him. Yet, he knew exactly how that need felt.
“How about your own dream?” he suggested, when speaking of dreams wasn’t like him at all.
He looked from the sudden hesitation in her face to the condition of the worn wood floor and the ivy encroaching along the rotted sill. He couldn’t believe how drawn he’d been by what he’d seen in her. He had no idea what to make of the unfamiliar energy she had him feeling, either. But it felt as if something dying inside him had just caught a breath of oxygen, and he wasn’t at all inclined to let it go.
“I could get you started on the construction,” he told her, reaching past her shoulder to rap his knuckles on the stone wall. “I’d just need to know how authentic you want the place to be so I can start looking around for materials. My uncle still has wood from the old barn they tore down a few years ago. It would be easier if you wanted to renovate and modernize rather than restore. But I suppose,” he concluded, aware of her blinking blankly at him, “you could do a little of both.”
Confessions of a Small-Town Girl Page 10
