Awakened By His Touch. Nikki Logan
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her for a pizza, Robert. He had his Saturday night shirt on.’
Oh, well...look out, Surfer Girl, then. If her brother had bothered with a clean shirt he was definitely on the make. Girls and surfing were about the only things Owen took seriously.
‘And you didn’t think to just let us enjoy a quiet dinner without him?’ Laney muttered.
‘Elliott has nothing in that chalet, Helena.’
Uh-oh— Helena. Reason had always been her friend in the face of mother voice. ‘The chalets are practically five-star, and I’m sure he has a full wallet.’ And an expense account. ‘He could have easily taken himself for a restaurant meal.’
‘When we can offer a home-cooked one instead?’
‘He went out anyway. He might as well have eaten in Mitchell’s Cliff.’ In fact she’d been sure that was what he was doing as the crunch of his tyres on the driveway had diminished.
‘I’m less concerned with what he does than with what we do. Extending Morgan courtesy to our guest.’
Laney opened her mouth to protest further but then snapped it shut again as feet sounded on the mat outside. An uncontrollable dismay that she hadn’t so much as combed her windswept hair washed over her.
But too late now.
‘He’s coming,’ her father announced moments later.
Elliott had clearly paused in the doorway and was greeting a dozing Wilbur, which meant his disturbed man scent had time to waft ahead. Wow, he smelled amazing. The same base tones as before, yet different somehow. Spicier. Cleaner.
Tastier.
Heat burbled up under her shirt at the thought, but it was true. Whatever he was wearing was tickling the same senses as the stew still simmering in its own heat on the table.
‘Thank you for the invitation, Mr and Mrs Morgan—’
‘Ellen and Robert, please, Elliott.’
He stepped up right next to her. ‘I nicked out to pick this up. Couldn’t come empty-handed.’
Another waft of deliciousness hit her as a bottle clacked against the timber at the centre of the big table.
‘Oh, lovely. That’s a terrific local winery—Helena’s favourite.’
‘Really? I didn’t know.’
His voice was one-tenth croak, subtle enough that maybe she only heard it because he was standing so close. But he wasn’t looking at her, she could tell. Plus, she wouldn’t be looking at him if their situations were reversed. On pain of death.
Her mother laughed. ‘How could you know?’
Was he worried that she might read something into that? Laney spoke immediately to put the ridiculous idea out of the question. ‘You’re either a man of excellent taste or Natty Marshall did a real sell-job on you at the cellar.’
‘She was pretty slick,’ he admitted.
‘Sit down, Elliott.’ Her mother mothered. ‘You look very nice.’
The reassuring way she volunteered that opinion made Laney wonder whether he was worrying at the edges of his shirt or something.
‘He’s changed into a light blue Saturday night shirt, Laney.’
Oh, no...
‘Mum likes to scene-set for me,’ she explained, mortified, and then mumbled, ‘sorry.’
‘Blue shirt, jeans, and I combed my hair,’ he added, amusement rich in his low voice.
Was that a statement about her wild locks? Her hand went immediately to them.
Her mother continued to be oblivious. ‘Sit, too, Laney.’
She did, moving to the left of her chair just as he moved to the right of his. They collided in the middle. She jerked back, scalded.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Ladies first.’
‘We’ll be standing all night if we wait for one of those,’ she quipped, still recovering from the jolt of whatever the heck that was coming off him, and then she slid into her seat, buying a moment of recovery time as he moved in next to her.
So that was her question answered. She’d felt the strength of his torso against hers. He was solid, but definitely not overweight. Not as youthfully hard as her twin, but not soft either. Just right.
Which pretty much made her Goldilocks, snuggling down into the sensation.
The necessity to converse was forestalled by the business of filling plates with stew and side plates with thickly sliced bread and butter.
‘Home-made bread?’ Elliott asked. Such a charmer. So incredibly transparent.
‘Organically grown and milled locally and fresh out of my oven.’
‘It’s still warm.’
The reverence in his voice surprised a chuckle out of Laney. ‘Are ovens not hot in the city?’
An awkward silence fell over the whole table. She didn’t need to see her mother’s face to know it would be laden with disapproval.
But chivalry was clearly alive and well. ‘Bread starts out hot, yes,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s not usually hot by the time it gets to the consumer. This is my first truly home-made loaf.’
The fact that he needed to compensate for her bluntness at all made her twitchy. And just a little bit ashamed. Plus it made her wonder what kind of city upbringing he’d had never to have had fresh-baked bread before. ‘Well, wait until you taste the butter, then. Mum churns it herself.’
And bless her if her mother didn’t join her daughter in the age-old act of making good. ‘Well, I push the button on the machine and then refrigerate the results.’
‘You guys seem pretty self-sufficient here...’
And off they went. Comfortably reclining in a topic she knew her parents could talk about underwater—organic farming and self-sustainability. Long enough to give her time to compose herself against the heat still coming off the man to her left as they all tucked into the chicken.
Okay, so he was a radiator. She could live with that. And enough of a city boy to never have had home-baked bread. That just meant they came from different worlds. Different upbringings. She’d met people from outside of the Leeuwin Peninsula before. There was no reason to be wound up quite this tight.
She slid her hand along the tablecloth until her fingertips felt the ring of cool that was the base of the glass of wine her father had poured from the bottle Elliott had contributed. She took a healthy swallow and sighed inwardly at the kiss of gentle Merlot against her tongue.
‘Still as good as you remember?’ Elliott murmured near her left ear. Swirling more man scent her way.
Okay, this was getting ridiculous. Time to focus. ‘Always. We have hives at their vineyard. I like to think that’s why it’s so good.’
‘This wine was fertilised by Morgan’s bees?’
‘Well, no.’ Much as she’d love to say it had been. ‘Grape pollen is wind-borne. But we provide the bees to fertilise their off-season cropping. So the bees help create the soil that make their wines so great.’
‘Do they pay?’
Back to money. Sigh. ‘No. They get a higher grape yield and we get the resulting honey. It’s a win-win.’
He was silent for a moment, before deciding, ‘Clever.’
The rush of his approval annoyed her. It shouldn’t make her so tingly. ‘Just standard bee business.’
‘So tell me about your focus on organic methods,’ he said to the table generally. ‘That