Felicity had thought being a companion to the wealthy Mrs. Bancroft would be different—that maybe she’d earn some respect in the community, especially with her sister Charity’s marriage to a rich Eastern man.
While working for Mrs. Bancroft, she had quickly realized the wealthy lady viewed her as a project, a lump of clay that she’d hoped to fashion into something better. The older woman had seemed to find pleasure in pointing out all of Felicity’s flaws, making her feel more deficient than she had before.
Whatever the case, she’d learned once again that she didn’t fit into another social class and that she couldn’t aspire to more.
Philip Berg was not the kind of man she was interested in. Not in the least. She would do better with a solid and steady man like Weston Oakley.
Just not now . . .
“So, you’ll allow him to sleep a little while longer?” Mrs. Keller asked.
“Yes, of course.” It was the least she could do to repay him.
Felicity returned to the front room quietly to find that he was still sleeping as heavily as before. Even if he wasn’t the type of man she was interested in, she couldn’t keep from pausing and letting herself admire him. She was like a miner examining the mother lode, greedy for every inch of him sprawled out in the chair, his long legs stretched out, his arms crossed, his jaw softened in slumber, and his long lashes dark against his cheeks.
At the sight of his bags and camera equipment by the door, her heart gave an extra beat. He must have gone back into town at some point yesterday and retrieved his belongings. But surely he didn’t intend to stay beyond today, did he?
Even if he did linger an extra day or two, he was just passing through in his grand traveling adventures. She couldn’t forget that. Absolutely couldn’t. Philip Berg would walk out of her life, and she was determined that he wouldn’t walk out carrying her heart with him.
6
The kitchen was one place Felicity never felt the pressure to be perfect.
She blew the liquid on the spoon to cool it and then tasted it. The tang of tomatoes, peppers, basil, and oregano burst on her tongue. She’d learned to make the Italian sauce from Mr. Rosetti, who operated a small restaurant in town. Felicity had easily bonded with the man over their love of cooking.
She leaned against the counter and took a bigger sip. This time she closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, baby, you’re so good.”
“I love when you talk about me like that.” Philip’s voice from the kitchen doorway was low and gravelly.
Her eyes shot open to find him leaning casually against the doorframe, his lids half lowered, his gaze emanating a heat she didn’t understand but that caused her cheeks to warm. His hair was messy, as if he’d hastily combed his fingers through it, and his clothes were rumpled.
Even so, he looked as delicious as the sauce, especially with how dark his eyes were and the way they were trained upon her mouth. It was almost as if he were wondering if she could taste him the same way she had the liquid on the spoon.
Taste him? She shook her head. What kind of hussy was she turning into? “I’m not talking about you, Mr. Berg, and you know it.”
His lips inched up into a crooked smile. “I could have sworn your nickname for me is baby. If not, I won’t object if you want to call me that instead of Philip.”
“You won’t hear either from my lips.”
“From your lips?” His gaze again riveted to her mouth. “I like how open you are about discussing your lips and what you’d like to do with them.”
Philip Berg was awake and back to his usual war of words and wreaking havoc in her life.
“There is nothing I’m doing with my lips except scolding you.” Except, now that they were talking about lips, she couldn’t stop herself from looking at his lips. What would it be like to have those lips touch hers?
He started toward her with a devilish gleam in his eyes.
Against her will, anticipation shimmied inside her.
“I’ll take a scolding from you any day. Let’s hear it.”
“Hear what?” She backed up into the stove but then stopped at the heat blazing from inside.
“The scolding you’d like to give me. I can hardly wait.” He was fast closing in on her.
She had to find a way to stop him and this interaction. Now. Before she said or did something she’d regret. “You’re a scoundrel, Mr. Berg.”
Couldn’t she think of anything better than that?
With a mental slap, she spun to face the bubbling pot on the stove and breathed in the aroma of the sauce as she busied herself stirring.
When he halted behind her, close enough for her to hear his breathing, her stirring slowed to a crawl and her body tightened, feeling his presence as if he were already touching her.
What was he doing?
“Are you giving out tastes?” The whisper brushed near her ear and neck.
Oh, dear heavens. Her eyes closed involuntarily. Delectable heat zinged along every nerve ending—nerve endings that wanted his whisper and his breath to keep on caressing her. Everything about this man affected her much more than she wanted it to, much more than she dared to admit. He made her feel alive and excited and slightly off-kilter, as if she never knew what to expect from him.
And she liked it.
With a huff, she started stirring again. Why? Why couldn’t she feel this way about Weston Oakley? A man who cherished her and considered her an equal and wanted her to be a part of his life. A man who cared for her enough to rearrange his life to be with her. A man who desired her so much that he wouldn’t leave her the first opportunity he had.
She sidled away from the stove and away from Philip’s mesmerizing presence. As she took a step away from him, she realized she’d taken the spoon with her and now it was dripping onto the floor. Regardless, she held it out like a weapon, needing him to keep his distance so that she could clear her head.
“The only taste you’ll get is at supper.”
His gaze raked her mouth. “I’ll take it.”
“A taste of the sauce, and nothing more.”
His eyes widened with fake innocence. “You’re not planning to cook any pasta to go with the sauce?”
She couldn’t keep her smile back any longer. “You’re too much.”
He held open his arms, drawing attention to his broad chest that strained against the buttons of his shirt. “This”—he waved a hand toward himself—“is never too much.”
She could agree that he had the kind of body and face no one would ever tire of looking at. But she wouldn’t say so to him. He was already puffed up enough and didn’t need her adding to his arrogance.
She had to bring the conversation under her control. She moved toward the worktable, which was littered with the remains of the vegetables and herbs she’d chopped. “Thank you for all that you’ve done to help.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice held a seriousness and sincerity she hadn’t expected.
She gathered up a handful of peelings and leafy tops and dropped them into a compost bucket. “I was surprised to wake up and find you still here.”
“I was glad I could help.”
“The sleep was just what Mrs. Keller and I both needed.”