Falling for the Mum-to-Be. Lynne Marshall
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than my studio at home. I love it.” She stared at him, searching for a reason for him to be so generous to a complete stranger. “Are you serious about this wing sitting empty?”
“Yes. I don’t even use three of the bedrooms. I probably should have sold and moved a couple of years ago, but I built this house, and it’s a part of me. I couldn’t bring myself to leave it behind.” He stood, knuckles on hips the way men sometimes do. Masculine as hell. Thoughtful, too. “You probably think I’m crazy living in this big place all by myself.”
“I don’t judge.” Who was she to comment on his choice of living? “I’m sure you have your reasons.”
His almost white brows lifted and his chin came up, as if he had something further to say, but he didn’t make a peep. Okay, so he had his reasons, and he wouldn’t be sharing them with her today. Besides, if she pried into his life, he might want to pry into hers, and that was definitely off-limits for now. She was damned if she’d share her latest news with him. They were strangers living in the same house for a time. End of story.
Besides, he’d find out soon enough.
He studied her as she checked out the studio, but from the corner of her eye she noticed him, too. He looked to be around six feet tall, lean yet solid, the kind of body a man earned from hard labor. His hand had felt rough when she’d shaken it earlier, and the naturally cut muscles lining his forearm and bulging beneath his sleeves hadn’t gone unnoticed. There was a term for a guy like him—a man’s man. The kind many women went crazy for.
Not her. She had other things to concentrate on for the next several months, and men had been kicked to the bottom of the list.
“Well, I’ll get out of your way so you can unpack if you want. The dresser is empty, and there’s a walk-in closet.” He turned to leave, then swung around again. “I’m starving, so I’ll be cooking dinner. If you’d like to join me later, I’ll give you a holler.”
She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she needed to eat. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
With that, he left her standing in the center of a bedroom big enough for a princess, wondering what had happened in his life three years ago and assuming it had something to do with a woman. Didn’t it always with a man like that?
Probably a broken heart.
That was something Marta could definitely relate to.
* * *
Leif caught himself humming while he cooked dinner and sipped wine. Cooking was one of the few things that brought him contentment. Well, that, his dogs and building houses, oh, and his favorite pastime, woodworking. See, his life wasn’t nearly as empty as he’d thought. Building was the one endeavor that he felt came anywhere near to being creative in Marta’s sense. He wouldn’t dare call his woodwork artistic, but he liked what he saw whenever he finished his mantels and built-in bookcase projects. He’d done all of the woodwork for his home, right down to the posts, and was proud of it. Ellen had loved his special touches throughout the house, and her being an interior designer, he’d loved hers, too. He hadn’t changed a thing since she’d died.
He took another sip of wine, then used clean hands to mash together the fine bread crumbs, parsley, minced fresh garlic and ground chicken with egg. He formed it into small meatballs and put them into the frying pan lined with olive oil. Not knowing what Marta’s eating habits were, he’d taken the safe route and used chicken instead of ground beef for the meatballs.
He couldn’t get Ellen out of his mind, maybe because of the new woman in the house. A dozen years ago, when he’d worked for his father and was still a bachelor, he’d make excuses to go back into the model homes they’d completed, knowing Ellen would be there. Her job was to stage the homes before the open-house events. He loved her style, and, more important, he liked the way he felt whenever he was around her. The first time she’d smiled at him, well, his world had changed forever.
He washed his hands, tossed the diced mushrooms into another pan, began to sauté them and took another sip of wine.
He’d taken a shower and thrown on fresh clothes after taking the dogs for their long afternoon walk through the hills. He’d put on his broken-in nicer pair of jeans instead of one of the dozens of work-worn pairs in his drawers. In lieu of a sloppy sweatshirt, his usual go-to, he’d chosen a polo shirt, one without any visible holes in it.
And he’d said he wasn’t going to let having a woman in his house change how he lived. Right.
The dogs had been fed, but they still sat expectantly behind him praying for fallout, no doubt. He added the sliced zucchini and diced sweet red bell pepper to the simmering mushrooms, threw in some salt and stirred. The water had started to boil in the third pot, and after he moved the meatballs around to brown on another side, he put the angel-hair pasta in the boiling water. And took another sip of wine as he hummed another nameless song.
Moments like these were the only remaining shadows of joy he once knew. Feeling good, he tossed each dog a cooked chicken meatball after blowing on it to cool.
The table had been set and the pasta was about ready. He’d told Marta he’d holler when dinner was served, but somehow that didn’t seem right. He’d given her plenty of time to unpack and get organized, so he turned everything down to simmer, quickly covered the distance from the kitchen to the stairway and took the steps two at a time to tap on her door. The dogs followed and beat him there. Just as he was about to knock, he saw her shadow behind the thick milky glass and the door swung open.
“Oh,” she said.
“It’s time for dinner.” The dogs watched her curiously. So did he.
She’d changed clothes. Had put on lounging-type pants and a bright green patterned tunic over a black tank top, which dipped low enough to display cleavage.
“Thanks,” she said. “I could smell the cooking up here.”
As they descended the stairs he said over his shoulder, “I hope you’re hungry.” He got a murmured response.
They entered the kitchen. She held back a little bit, but he pretended he didn’t notice.
“I’m having wine. It’s a blend of three whites and is pretty good. Would you like a glass?”
“Oh, no, thank you. Water will be fine. Actually, make that milk if you could.”
Okay, so she wasn’t a drinker. No problem. “Kent, my doctor, has me on fat-free milk. Is that okay?”
“Yes. Fine. Thanks. May I help with anything?”
“You can take the plates to the table while I get your drink. How much pasta?”
He used a pasta spoon to measure the cooked angel hair for her plate.
“A little less, please.”
They made eye contact so she could direct him on the portions for the sautéed veggies and meatballs. Either this one was a small eater, or she didn’t care for what he’d prepared. Either way, he wasn’t going to let it bother him. Then he served his own plate with generous portions and handed that to Marta, as well. She carried them to the table as an idea popped into his head. He’d wired the entire house for sound and rarely used it anymore. So he flicked a switch, and they had music to dine by. But then he quickly worried she’d get the wrong impression—like this was a date or something.
“Is music okay, or do you prefer silence?”
She listened to the light classical sounds and nodded. “It’s fine.”
He poured her milk, topped off his glass of wine and brought them both to the table. The basket of whole-grain sourdough bread was already in place. So was the butter. It had felt dumb for them to sit one at each end of the long dining table, and he thought it would be too casual to sit at the breakfast bar for their first dinner together, so he’d sat her to his left, like he and Ellen used to do.
They ate for a few minutes