Honeymoon with the Rancher / Nanny Next Door: Honeymoon with the Rancher / Nanny Next Door. Michelle Celmer
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at all, put them on. And meet me back here in five minutes.” With a put-upon sigh, he disappeared.
She had gotten the better of him, and while it was a small victory, it felt good. He had to know she was not a meek little sheep that needed caring for. She was discovering she had a daring, adventurous side she’d never known existed. Oh, perhaps painting a shed wasn’t very adventurous. But after being the girl who’d done as she was told, too afraid to do otherwise, all this felt absolutely liberating.
She skipped to the house and came back moments later wearing the caramel trousers and a white linen blouse. It was as casual as she had in her cases, but she’d remedy that somehow. Tomas came back holding a navy bundle in his hands and she drew her eyebrows together, puzzled. It didn’t look like something from a boutique.
“Put these over your clothes,” he said, handing her a pair of paint-splattered coveralls.
“You’re kidding.”
“You don’t want paint on those clothes, do you?”
“No, but …”
“Anything from the boutique is brand new—you don’t want paint on those things, either, do you?”
Why did he have to be right?
She put on the coveralls, hating the baggy fit but zipping them up anyway. The sleeves were too long and she rolled them up. And felt ridiculous standing there in her sandals.
She caught a glimpse of a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. “Sure, go ahead, laugh. I know I look silly.”
“Put these on,” he said, handing her a pair of shoes.
“What are these?”
“Alpargatas.”
She put on the canvas and rope shoes that looked like slipon sneakers. They were surprisingly comfortable.
“I believe I am ready.”
“I hope so. The morning is moving along.”
Like she needed another reminder that she was late.
She followed him to the shed, admiring the rear view despite herself. Today he was wearing faded brown cotton pants and a red T-shirt that showed off the golden hue of his skin, not to mention the breadth of his back and shoulders. He was unapologetically physical and she found herself responding as any woman would—with admiration. Seeing how capable he was made her want to succeed, too, even if it was just at the most menial task.
“Don’t you have horses to feed or something?”
He shook his head. “I did most of the chores while the bread was rising.”
“You didn’t need to make bread on my account.” She pictured his hands kneading the dough and wet her lips. He really was a jack-of-all-trades. It wasn’t fair that he was so capable and, well, gorgeous. A total package. It made her feel very plain and not very accomplished at all.
“I was up. In Maria’s absence, it is up to me to make sure you’re looked after.”
Great. He didn’t need to say the words obligation and burden for her to hear them loud and clear.
“Is there nothing you can’t do?”
“When the gaucho is out on the pampas, he is completely self-sufficient. Food, shelter, care of his animals … he does it all.”
“And have you always been so capable?”
A strange look passed over his features, but then he cleared his expression and smiled. The warmth didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Oh, not at all. It was Carlos who taught me. And I’ll be forever in his debt.”
Sophia wanted to ask him what that meant, but he reached down and grabbed a stick to stir the paint.
“Tomas?”
“Hmm?” He didn’t look up from his paint. He kept stirring while Sophia’s heart hammered. Getting the best of Tomas was one thing. But dealing with this relentless … stoicism was another. There was no sound here. Nothing familiar. All that she might have was conversation. It was the only thing to connect her to anything. And the only person she could connect to was Tomas.
“Could we call a truce?”
His hand stilled and he looked up.
“I know this is not what either of us planned. Can’t we make the best of it rather than butting heads?”
His gaze clung to hers and in it she saw the glimmerings of respect and acceptance and something that looked like regret. That made no sense. But it was all there just the same.
“I am not generally very good company.”
Sophia laughed a little. “Shocker.”
Even Tomas had to grin at that. She saw the turn of his lips as he bent to his work again.
He handed her a can and a brush. “I thought you could start on the trim. You probably have a steadier hand than I do.”
The shed wasn’t big, but it did have two doors that opened out and a window on each of the north and south sides. Sophia held the can in her hand and wondered where to start. The door and windows had been taped to protect against errant brush strokes. She stuck the brush into the can and drew it out, heavy with the white paint.
“You’ve never painted before, have you?”
She shook her head.
Tomas sighed. Not a big sigh, but she heard it just the same and felt a flicker of impatience both at him and at herself for not being more capable. “It was never …” She didn’t know how to explain her upbringing. Or her mother’s philosophy on what was done and what wasn’t. You hired people to do things like painting and repairs. They were the help. It had been made especially clear after Sophia’s father had moved out. It was then that Sophia’s mother had put her foot on the first rung of the social climbing ladder.
“We weren’t much for do-it-yourselfing,” was all she could bring herself to say.
He came over and put his hand on top of hers. “You’ve got too much paint on the brush. It will just glop and run. This way.”
Sophia bit down on her lip. His hand was strong and sure over hers, his body close. Her shoulder was near his chest as he guided her hand, wiping excess paint off the bristles. “There. Now, if you angle your brush this way …” He showed her how to lay the brush so the paint went on smoothly and evenly. “See?”
“Mmm hmm.” She couldn’t bring herself to say more. She was reacting to his nearness like a schoolgirl. His body formed a hard, immovable wall behind her and she wondered for a moment what it would be like to be held within the circle of his arms.
She pulled away from his hand and applied the paint to the trim, chiding herself for being silly. The purpose of the trip was to do something for herself, to show her independence. It was not to get besotted over some grouchy gaucho.
Tomas cleared his throat and went back to pick up his own brush.
As they put their efforts into painting the shed, Sophia stole a few moments to look around. The morning was bright, the air clear and fresh. The area around the barn was neat and trimmed and beyond it she saw a half-dozen horses or so seeking shade at one end of a corral, their hides flat and gleaming. Birds flitted between bits of pampas grass, singing a jaunty tune.
No traffic. No horns honking or elbows pushing. Also no shops, no conveniences, no restaurants.
It was stunning, but it was very, very isolated.
“How long have you been at Vista del Cielo?
“Three years.”
“You’ve worked for the Rodriguezes all that time?” She slid excess paint off her brush against the lip of the can, but looked around the corner when Tomas paused in