He spoke so quickly she winced. “Thanks,” she said dryly.
He rubbed a hand down his face. “You know that’s not how I meant it. This is a bad idea. We work together.”
“I know. Forget it happened.”
“I will.”
They didn’t look at each other the whole way back. Brooke’s face felt hot with embarrassment—but the memories wouldn’t stop. She could still taste him, still smell the soap of his morning shower. And he’d moaned, as if kissing her had been his wildest fantasy.
She realized that Adam had returned to Valentine, all silent and wounded and nothing like the brash, overconfident kid he’d once been. She’d noticed everything about him, from his uncomplaining hard work to the way he’d dismounted from his horse stiffly. She remembered the slight limp he’d had after helping rescue the horses. She wanted to know why—she wanted to know everything about him.
She’d been told lust could hit you right between the eyes, but hadn’t believed it—Monica would say the magic of Valentine Valley finally had her in its grip. Not that she intended to find out what her friend would really say. She wasn’t going to tell anyone about this madness. Surely she was reacting to the fact that she hadn’t dated anyone recently, and Adam was close at hand, all masculine and soldierly.
When they were done feeding cattle and had returned to the ranch, Brooke was relieved when her father sent Adam home early because of the storm. She waved a good-bye without meeting his eyes, then went in to take a hot shower. She was going to curl up under a blanket in front of the fire and read a good book.
And not think about Adam.
But it was hard to relax when everyone else was trapped in the house, too. Even Nate didn’t return to his cabin that evening. She wistfully wondered what it would be like to live alone—then grew angry with herself, especially when she was able to help her mom with dinner. They spent the hour laughing over the latest ranching story and planning the holiday crafts they’d make together. Brooke didn’t need to be reminded how lucky she was.
When Adam arrived back at the boardinghouse, he saw several cars parked out front, snow piling up on them in accumulating layers, depending on when they’d arrived. He let himself in the back door. Not wanting to disturb whatever committee meeting the widows were holding, he made himself a couple sandwiches and ate them at the kitchen table, munching on celery sticks at the same time. Someone had left a platter of brownies on the table, and he helped himself. If these were from the Sugar and Spice Bakery—and the widows were known to bring home goodies—then he knew why the place already had such a great reputation in just a couple months.
When no one came into the kitchen, curiosity finally got the better of him, and he opened the swinging door into the dining room. Now he could hear the murmur of voices, but he walked softly, peering into the front parlor without speaking. He saw two middle-aged women sitting opposite one another, magazines in their laps. But they weren’t reading; they were discussing someone’s new baby. Beyond them, he could see that the French door to the library was closed. Through the glass he noticed a man’s back.
And then the man stood up, and Adam heard raised voices. The two women stopped talking and glanced uneasily at the library door. Frowning, Adam stepped into the parlor, but before he could go farther, Grandma Palmer opened the door and marched out, her cane thumping on the polished wood floor, showing more vigor than Adam had yet seen.
“Follow me, Sylvester,” she called to the man behind her.
“Now, Renee,” he began in a booming, lecturing tone, then came up short, frowning when he saw Adam.
The man was somewhere in his sixties, with curly gray hair and glasses perched on a sizable nose. Though he was overweight, he dressed well in a suit and trench coat, which seemed out of place in Valentine Valley.
The two middle-aged ladies also looked up at Adam, but with interest and anticipation.
“Is something wrong, Grandma?” Adam asked in a calm voice.
She beamed at him. “Adam, you’re home early! How was your day, you dear boy?”
He gestured absently toward the window. “Stormy. But I haven’t met your friend.”
He looked pointedly at Sylvester, who lifted his chin defensively, then stuck out his hand. “Sylvester Galimi,” he said, “owner of the True Grits Diner.”
Adam shook his hand. “Adam Desantis.”
“Staff Sergeant Adam Desantis,” Grandma Palmer said with pride.
“Not anymore, Grandma,” he said without breaking eye contact. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Galimi?”