The Matchmaker. Lisa Plumley
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“Your home is quite wonderful,” she said conversationally, knowing Marcus would see her industriousness as he entered the kitchen. “So expansive. All the most modern amenities, too.”
She gestured toward the indoor water pump, the grand, if dusty, stove, and the expanse of marble-topped worktable meant to be used for pastry. She didn’t have anything nearly so fine at her bakeshop. Everything in Marcus’s home was covered in the bits and pieces of bachelor life, of course, but that was to be expected with a man like him. It was obvious he needed her help to learn about civilized living.
Boot jerky, after all, was not an appropriate tabletop centerpiece.
Molly averted her gaze from the offending footwear, propped on the worktable where he’d left it, and turned her attention instead upon Marcus.
Shall we get started? she intended to ask. The words faltered on her lips, though, at her first sight of him.
He looked magnificent.
“Do I pass muster?” he asked from the doorway, spreading his arms to indicate his newly clad self. “Or perhaps you’ll want to inspect me at closer range before we begin.”
As though to help her in that regard, he strode nearer. His boots rang against the plank floor. Although his tone had been perfectly solicitous, Molly couldn’t help but find it distinctly at odds with the mischievous expression on his face. Nervously she stepped backward.
How had he accomplished so appealing a demeanor? And so quickly, too? His hair was combed, thick and dark to his collar. His jaw was clean shaven, his clothes…
Molly shook her head. “That, Mr. Copeland, is not a suit.”
It was instead, she saw to her chagrin, an ensemble nearly as revealing as the one he’d answered the door in. A knit Henley-style shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and strong chest, and was crossed in the appropriate places by the braces that held up his trousers. Those, Molly noticed, were the same risqué pair from their earlier encounter.
Holding her breath, she dared to peek.
His britches were fully buttoned.
Sweet heaven. What had gotten into her?
Biting her lip, Molly hurriedly shifted her gaze. Of all the things she’d aspired to become, a loose woman had not been among them.
“I must protest. That, Mr. Copeland, is not proper business attire.”
He grinned. “It’s proper enough for today.”
“I strongly disagree!” Where had all those muscles in his arms and chest come from? The fineness of his physique had certainly never been apparent beneath his customary tailored wool worsted suits and waistcoats. “You look like a lumberman!”
“I was a lumberman. How do you think I began my mill?”
That was neither here nor there. Flustered, Molly tried not to gawk as his smile widened.
“I’m sure you were a wonderful lumberman,” she told him firmly, “but for today, a suit would have been better. Much better. You have such lovely suits.”
Please, put one on, she begged silently. Dressed like this, he seemed much too…not stick-in-the-mud…to her. Like this, Marcus seemed a different man. An approachable, wholly masculine man, unbuffered by formal clothes and the decorous attitude that usually came with them. He seemed very much not like the man who’d been her unwitting nemesis for the past several months…and very much like a man who could make ladies everywhere titter and swoon.
Including Molly, if she weren’t careful.
With shocking casualness, Marcus propped his hip on the tabletop. He regarded her. “I don’t wear suits on Saturday.”
He seemed regretful. Molly was positive that regret was feigned. Behind Marcus’s warm brown eyes, a certain teasing lurked. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
“You shall, for our meetings!” she blurted. “I insist!”
“I’m afraid, Molly, that you’re in no position to insist.”
Lazily, Marcus straightened. An audacious tilt cocked his brow as he came closer.
At his advance, the room seemed to cozy in upon them. Molly found herself stepping backward again. Her bustle squashed against the tabletop, bringing her up short. An instant later, Marcus halted his booted feet mere inches from her own. The warmth of his body reached out to her, along with an unidentifiable fragrance. Soap, surely. And something more?
“Now…are you?” he murmured.
She swallowed, looking upward. “Am I…what?”
“In a position to give orders.” He sent his gaze over her face, seeming to savor the sight of her. “Especially to me.”
Oh, my. Her whole being quivered with a nonsensical urge to agree. To nod her head, to blurt her assent and be done with it. In the shadow of Marcus’s imposing form and surprising force of will, Molly could barely remember what they’d been talking about.
“I’ll wear what I like,” he assured her.
His tone, deep and sure, somehow signified that something greater than mere wardrobe was at stake. Alerted by that tone, Molly felt her usual backbone return.
Time to be brave. Businesslike. Unimpeachably proper.
“Perhaps a hat, then?” she ventured.
He laughed out loud, stepping back a pace. Something akin to respect glimmered in his eyes. “You don’t give in, I’ll credit you that.”
“I do not,” Molly agreed. “Is that a yes?”
“To the question of a hat? No.”
Disappointed, Molly frowned. But she had made progress, she was sure. It was almost as though by standing up to Marcus, she’d passed a test of some sort. Things between them had shifted subtly.
They shifted again when Marcus next looked at her. Speculation enlivened his expression. “All this talk of suits has me thinking of work. But I’m not expected at the mill until noon, and until then the place is in capable hands with my foreman Smith. Why don’t we use this time to take a walk together instead? These things can wait.”
The sweep of his hand indicated the baking supplies Molly had prepared. Dumbly she stared at them, then at Marcus’s broad palm. His hands looked capable, she thought inanely. Masculine. Unreasonably enthralling. She wondered how one of them would feel clasping one of hers.
“You don’t really want to think about a boring business venture like ours, do you?” he went on, his tone persuasive. “Not when the sun is shining and there is leisure to be had.”
His smile coaxed her to agree. Lulled by it, Molly almost nodded. It would be nice to take a stroll, to enjoy the changing colors of the oak leaves outside. Especially with someone whose company she enjoyed by her side.
At times, she did grow lonely in Morrow Creek, where the townsfolk only thought of her as flighty Molly Crabtree, liable to embark on a silly quest at any moment. They didn’t understand that she’d only been searching for something all this time…something that would make her feel whole.
“Your expression says you agree,” Marcus said, breaking into her thoughts. “Excellent.”
He grasped her hand. His fingers, strong and slightly callused, entwined with hers as he tugged her away from the kitchen. The sensation was every bit as enthralling as she’d imagined. Surprised, Molly let herself be led for a moment, her only protest a backward glance at the flour, sugar and milk assembled in a tidy row.
The supplies seemed to offer a silent rebuke. Are you here for a pleasurable stroll? they asked. Or a businesslike arrangement?
She couldn’t very well expect Marcus to help with her dreaded bookkeeping, she realized abruptly, if