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Rose(37)

By:Leigh Greenwood


And George was his father’s son.

Even before the war, he had known he had the same weaknesses. He swore he wouldn’t make the same mistakes. He knew this meant giving up much he might have enjoyed, but he also knew a man had to be true to himself.

The boys didn’t stand in his way. At least they wouldn’t for long.

It was Rose. That was where the danger lay. That was where he had to keep a watch.

He tried to figure out what it was about her that made her so appealing. How could a woman look absolutely delicious with her hair up, her brow moist with perspiration, and her body shrouded in a loose brown dress that covered everything from her chin to the tips of her toes and her fingers? It didn’t even have the advantage of being pretty or of fitting her body suggestively.

She had her back to him, her attention centered on the meal she was preparing. Yet he wanted to stay with her so much he offered to set the table. He didn’t know how to set a table. He’d never done anything more than pour a glass of milk.





Chapter Seven


“Zac deserved a chance to play a little while. I’ve worked him hard all day.”

That was just an excuse to be alone with her.

“Turn the plates over,” Rose told him. “I don’t want flies getting on them.”

George discovered a woman’s back could be a very sensual part of her body, even when shrouded in an old brown dress.

The lace-trimmed collar reached almost to the hair on the nape of her neck. The tiny area of white skin dusted by a fine mist of hairs that would not remain in her bun made him want to see more.

He didn’t know why he had failed to notice it that morning in Austin, but she had a very tidy figure. Not even the dress could hide that. And she was pretty. Well, more than pretty. He couldn’t find the exact word he wanted, but then he wasn’t used to expressing himself about women.

“Turn the glasses and the cups over, too.”

“What do I do with all these forks and knives?”

“You need the napkins first.”

She reached into the drawer of one of the cabinets and pulled out napkins, washed, ironed, and folded.

“The boys won’t know what to do with these. I doubt Zac’s ever seen one.”

“Then it’s time he did.”

Piquant. That was the word he wanted. Pretty, too, but piquant. There was a liveliness about her, a kind of charm which had a greater impact than mere beauty. Not that George was about to spurn beauty. But he had found that beauty needed spice to make it come alive. He had met too many debutantes before the war who had been taught that being beautiful was primarily the art of being. Tables, chairs, and hearth rugs could be just as well as women, but you never found men tripping over themselves to get a second look at them. But piquant, that caused people to take a second look, ask questions, remember.

“Maybe you don’t think a housekeeper should concern herself with manners and napkins,” Rose said.

“I guess it’s a good idea. The boys need to learn how to behave. Their wives will thank you someday.”

“I don’t expect to be here long enough to meet their wives.”

Much to George’s astonishment, her words jolted him. Five days ago he’d never heard of her. Now he was surprised to find he hadn’t thought of her job coming to an end.

“If you mean to turn Zac and Tyler into perfect gentlemen, you’ll be here forever.”

“Zac will do just fine,” Rose said. She opened the oven to check the turkeys. “That boy is clever enough to do anything. And charming enough to get away with it, too. I don’t know about Tyler. He stays as far away from me as he can, but I don’t think he much cares about people, or what they think about him.”

“You’ve reached a pretty fair estimation of the boys’ characters. What about Jeff or the twins?”

She had just broken her own promise.

“I’ve said enough for the time being,” Rose replied. She tried to remove the turkeys from the oven, but it wasn’t as easy to handle a hot pan as a cold one.

“Here, let me help you,” George said. But when he tried to take the pan from Rose, there wasn’t enough room on the handles for both their hands. His hands covered hers.

George doubted he would have felt the pain if the handles had burned him. The jolt he received from touching Rose was more powerful than a mere burn.

“I can’t let go,” Rose said.

Neither can I, George thought. His muscles refused to respond to any message he sent them. But common sense warned him he had to do something before they dropped the turkey and spilled the boiling juices over themselves and the floor.

George forced himself to concentrate on the pan rather than Rose. He loosened his grip. “I’ve got it. Slip your hands out.”