“No problem.” He leaned in but paused before their lips met. “A good-night kiss?”
Closing the distance between them felt natural. Felt right.
And while she’d enjoyed all their kisses up until now, this one was sweet and tender and caused disturbing flutters deep inside. When he left with a wink and a smile, Rose stood there for a moment, fingers pressed to her mouth.
Slightly bemused that fate was definitely in charge of her world.
9
Chance stopped on the front porch of the large family home, wine bottle at the ready. He stood a little straighter, preparing himself for—
The front door opened before he could put his hand on the oversized knocker. A young woman with wildly curly black hair popped up in front of him like a cheerful jack-in-the-box. He recognized her from Rose’s family pictures as the youngest sister, Fern.
“Hi. You’re here. Come in.”
Fern stepped back and allowed him in far enough to close the door.
“I just got home myself,” she said as she twisted to remove an oversized backpack then began unpacking it. Art books, drawing pads, a prosthetic arm with a black glove on the hand.
“Can I help with anything?” Chance offered.
She hung up the bag then turned to offer him the pile of art supplies. “Sure. Bring these with us? I’ll take my arm, though. Need to charge it.”
Chance accepted the pile of books even as he stole a closer look at her arm. “Very nice. Is that a myoelectric device?”
She raised a brow. “Oh, now that’s intriguing. The gallery owner knows bionics.”
“Not really. A number of artists I commission work from wear prostheses, but that’s about all I know,” Chance told her.
She motioned him forward. “This way. Charging station is in the dining room next to the kitchen. That’s where Rose will be.”
The competent young woman marched ahead of him, briskly passing through rooms that made him want to slow down and linger. The dining room held a massive table completely covered with gardening supplies and painted boxes. The narrow room after that held floor-to-ceiling bookcases and two cozy chairs tucked into opposite corners. Everywhere, there were pictures of family, most of them unscripted and unposed.
They marched toward the kitchen where singing drifted on the air, and the smells of rosemary and something sweet teased his senses. He stepped through the arched entrance, and a rush of images flooded him.
The kitchen. A family room. French doors wide open onto a garden blooming with colour. More chairs and tables, all in small, intimate gatherings.
Rose stood at the stove. Fern slipped past her to the corner of the next room. A slim woman with pale blonde hair worked at the taps, head cocked to one side as she held a phone in place and chatted quietly.
“Chance. So good to have you here.” The somewhat familiar voice of Malachi Fields turned Chance’s attention to the left. Rose’s father strode forward and pressed an oversized bowl into his hands. “Shuck these, please.”
“Come. There’s a chair here.” This time it was a much softer voice, and Chance turned to see the older woman who had to be Rose’s mother gesturing toward a stool at the kitchen island. “I’m Sophie. Here’s the pot for the peas.” She patted him on the shoulder and then marched away, lifting her phone and instantly resuming a conversation. “How much blood are we talking about?”
The rest of the conversation was lost as she moved out of hearing range.
Chance bemusedly settled on the stool and began working on the bucketload of peas he’d been handed.
Someone nudged his shoulder. “I see they put you to work already,” Fern teased.
“I love work,” Chance insisted seriously.
Fern laughed then turned to her sister. “What do you need help with, Rose?”
“See what’s in the garden for salad?” Rose suggested.
“No problem. See you later,” Fern said to Chance. She grabbed a bowl and took off through the French doors.
Malachi was back. “Impressionist or Renaissance?”
