The Soldier’s Kiss by Patricia McLinn

Author:Patricia McLinn
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781939215710
Publisher: Patricia McLinn
Published: 2018-10-11T14:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

She was getting absolutely nothing done. Nothing. The wretched man.

No. No, it had nothing to do with Brooks Reed.

She simply needed inspiration. Something to get her started. A spark for the subtle mystery that needed to be conveyed in this painting.

Something with a bit of swirl. But lots of negative space … Like that one dishtowel from the Blue Ridge Mountains. That’s what she needed.

Except it wasn’t in the dishtowel drawer.

Where the heck was it? She dug through unlikely drawers, into the laundry. She refused to be the stereotype of the ditzy artist. She might not be precisely conventional, but she was organized, no matter what Mr. Lieutenant Colonel Brooks Reed might say.

Or think, because that was so much worse. The man didn’t say all that much, but boy did he think it, and it showed in those gray eyes of judgment just what—

Brooks Reed.

That first day at her door. The cat. That’s where her towel was.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

He took her towel, still wrapped around the cat. It was probably at his house. Where he was.

She’d just have to find another inspiration.

She took the pile of towels from the drawer again and examined them one by one. Birds from New Zealand, plants from Australia, wildflowers from Wyoming, front doors from Ireland. Not a hint of mystery or uncertainty in the lot.

Well, this was silly.

She would not deny herself the dishtowel she needed to do her job just because of a kiss.

Even if the kiss had been…

No.

So nothing was keeping her from reclaiming her towel except her own silly discomfort.

Discomfort on one hand. Inspiration on the other.

No contest. She was going after the towel.

She marched out the front door and down her sidewalk. When she turned left, she became aware of Mitchell sitting on Charlene and Fred’s front porch.

“Are you coming here, Miss Ann-Elise?” he called.

“No, Mitchell. I have an errand.”

He sat forward, leaning his folded arms on the porch railing. “What kind of errand?”

“Just an errand.”

She felt his eyes tracking her. She would not be uncomfortable because of the scrutiny of a five-year-old. She would not.

She was a woman on a mission.

She turned into the walk leading to Lieutenant Colonel Brooks Reed’s front door. Walked right up and rang the doorbell.

Mitchell sprang up from his chair, “Mom! Mom! You owe me a dollar.”

She thought Charlene’s front door was opening, but before she could turn to check it out, Brooks answered his door and sucked all her attention to him like a six-foot magnet or a … a … six-foot give-nothing away attention-sucker.

“I want my towel back.”

He stared at her.

“I’m here to get my towel back.”

“You want your towel back,” he echoed emotionlessly.

She nodded once. “I want my towel back. That’s what I’m here for.”

He opened the door. She stepped in. He stepped back.

Still, in the compact foyer, they were no more than two feet apart. Standing face to face.

“I want my towel.”

She had to lick her lips to get it out, but it was more than he’d said, so there was that.

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