NATALIE HANOVER
Natalie walked to the breakfast nook and looked out the middle window. The trees and surrounding hills basked in the late afternoon sunshine. The barn even looked rustic in the light's golden glow. It was so beautiful out here—so quiet.
She leaned against the glass, staring at the forest into which her son had disappeared.
Suddenly, Mike burst through the trees, running full throttle toward the house. Natalie drew in a breath.
Her son was laughing.
She watched as his hair whipped around his reddened face. She had never seen him in such childish abandon and it made her heart ache with joy.
A barking German shepherd the size of a small car pranced behind him. Then
Garrett ran out of the forest, too, shouting and laughing, and Natalie pressed against the glass, her breath so shallow she thought she might faint.
The man was a god.
His dark hair streamed like a flag behind him and the wind molded his shirt to his broad shoulders, chest and tight stomach.
His jean-clad legs were long, strong and pumping furiously. She tried to ignore his middle section, but damn it, he looked rather nice there, too. A shocking realization slammed into her.
She was attracted to Garrett.
Just his body. Natalie tried to control her sudden case of hyperventilation. She liked Tom Selleck and Brad Pitt and Carey Grant—but she knew she would never have them.
So, it was the same way with Garrett. She appreciated his body.
She took a deep breath. Okay, appreciation was not attraction. But then the sly little question crept into her mind—did he appreciate her body, too?
Mike exploded through the back kitchen door with a broad grin on his face.
"Mom, I won! Ha! I beat Garrett!"
She smiled at her son. "That's great, hon. Are you hungry?"
He nodded. She gave him the sandwich and a glass of water.
"Why don't you go into the living room with your sisters?"
He headed toward the kitchen door and then stopped. "Mom, I'm sorry I was being such a dork. Garrett might be okay."
"I'm glad, sweetie."
Mike left just as Garrett opened the back door. The German shepherd bounded in and gave Natalie the sniff test. Apparently, she passed muster because he jumped up and put his big, dirty paws on her shirt. His innocent, brown eyes looked into hers.
"Rigby, I presume," she said in a formal tone.
He licked her nose.
"Please lean forward and tell him 'down' in a firm voice," said Garrett.
Natalie followed his instructions. The dog flopped onto all fours, gave a little woof, and trotted out of the kitchen.
"One of your famous techniques, huh?" Natalie
"I have lots of techniques," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "But I don't use all of them on animals."
She looked at him. That had sounded suspiciously like, well, like something flirtatious.
His gaze was much too innocent, she thought, and decided to ignore the comment. She went to the counter, picked up the plate with Garrett's sandwich, and handed it to him.
He looked at the squashed bread heels and raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"
"To what?"
"The sandwich. It looks like a truck ran over it."
Natalie peered at it then shrugged. "Looks fine to me."
He made a noncommittal sound and then went to wash his hands. When he picked the sandwich back up, he chuckled. "You were serious about the heels, huh?"
"It's the consequences of your actions," she huffed, not wanting to admit to herself she felt guilty for smashing his food.
"Ah. Well, then," he said and took a bite. "Hmmm. Onions. I love onions."
She bit her lower lip. Of course he liked onions. Why else would the man have them in his refrigerator—for the dog?
"So glad you like it," she ground out, feeling anger rise swiftly on guilt's golden wings.
He had charmed her children, taken care of a sick dog, gotten through to Mike, and made her attracted to him in less than twelve hours.
He was supposed to be overbearing and not understanding and a terrible person. It annoyed her that he had been gentle and patient and decent.
She glared at him and he stopped eating.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
He chewed, swallowed, and took another bite. She glared at him some more.
"What?" he demanded again.
"Nothing."
"Then quit staring at me."
"Hah!" she said, stabbing a finger into the air. "Isn't that just like a man not to know the difference between staring and glaring?"
His brows slashed together and he put the sandwich down. "Natalie, what the hell are you talking about?"
"You. Me. Us. The kids."
"Could you be more specific and use verbs?"
"You want verbs?" she asked in a low tone.
"They are generally used in sentences," he retorted. "Maybe you'd like to throw in a few adjectives just to make it interesting."
"Adjectives?" she repeated. "How about arrogant, rude, mouthy, and—and grumpy!"
"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," he said. "I don't think you're grumpy."
"I'm talking about you," she said very slowly, enunciating each word.
"Oh."
"I'm talking about your high-handed ways, your crummy attitude, and your butt," she clarified in no uncertain terms.
"My butt?"
His amused gaze almost melted her into a puddle of embarrassment. Heat crept up her cheeks. "No. Not your, uh, actual butt. I meant your butting in all the time."
"We haven't even been together a whole day," he said in a reasonable voice that made her grit her teeth. "Just when have I butted in? Or is it really my rear end you're interested in?"
"I am not!" she said.
"Why not?" he asked. He turned around and looked at it over his shoulder. Her gaze was riveted to his jean-clad behind. She swallowed heavily. It was a nice rear end, she concluded.
Then she looked at his broad shoulders and lean hips, glancing again at the behind in question, and his long, muscled legs molded by the jeans. The heat in her cheeks cascaded down her entire body and pooled in the middle of her thighs. She pressed her legs together and cleared her throat.
"Are you so desperate for attention that you need me to judge your backside," she said in an amazingly firm voice.
He turned to face her. "Maybe."