Page 58 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Nay, that isnae what I meant.
But before she could answer, he straightened and turned to face her fully. The air between them thickened.
“Come here.” It was not a request.
Sorcha hesitated, surprised by the command. He had barely spoken to her since the council meeting she had interrupted.
She crossed the barn slowly, the hay crunching beneath her boots, impossibly loud in the quiet space.
Rowan gestured to the timber beside him. “Hold this.”
She blinked. “What?”
“The beam. Hold it steady while I work.”
He wants me to help?
Sorcha stepped close and placed her hands where he indicated. The wood was rough beneath her palms, and the grain bit into her skin.
“Like this?”
“Tighter.”
He moved behind her, and she felt the heat of him before he touched her. His chest nearly brushed her back. His arms came around her, his hands covering hers on the beam.
“Ye brace it here,” he said near her ear, his voice clipped, “so it doesnae shift when ye work.”
Her breath grew shallow. She could smell him—leather and sweat and something woodsy beneath. Could feel the warmth radiating from his bare skin.
He isnae wearin’ a shirt.
The words echoed in her mind over and over like a prayer.
“Ye understand?” His voice was closer now, his lips almost brushing her hair.
“Aye.” The word came out in a whisper.
He did not move away immediately. His hands lingered over hers for a moment longer than necessary, then he stepped back.
The loss of his warmth made her shiver.
“Come,” he said, his voice rougher now. “There is more.”
He led her to the adjoining stable, pointing out weak spots in the stalls, places where the wind would drift through. Sorcha followed, trying to focus on his words instead of the strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead. Instead of the sweat trickling down his chest.
Why is he showin’ me this? Why now?
“This one needs new hinges,” Rowan said, gesturing to a stall door. “The latch is nearly rusted through.”
Sorcha reached for it at the same moment he did, and their fingers brushed. She snatched her hand back as though it had burned her. Rowan went still, his grey eyes fixed on her face.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Above them, the threatened rain finally broke loose, drumming fiercely against the wood, and water began to seep through gaps in the roof, dripping onto the straw below.
“Ye should go back to the keep,” he said quietly. “Before the mud makes the path treacherous.”
“And leave ye here to work alone?”
“I’ve worked alone before.”
