Home at Rose Cottage by Sherryl Woods Page A

regrets for too long now. She didn’t want another one—her own or his—on her conscience. “Don’t be,” she said harshly. “We’re both adults here. Sometimes things just happen. The only mistake would be in making too much of it.”
    He faced her then. “Just a kiss, right?”
    It was like equating an earthquake with a little shiver, but still she nodded. “Just a kiss.”
    He smiled, his eyes smoldering in a way that told her he understood the depth of the lie as well as she did.
    “Maybe we’d better get Jessie in here now,” he suggested. “Before I get any other bright ideas.”
    Melanie laughed and the intense moment was broken…for now.
     
    Mike had never thought of himself as the type to play with fire, but apparently he’d been mistaken. He was playing with a whole damned inferno when it came to being around Melanie. She could send him up in flames in a heartbeat.
    He told himself it was only because he’d been a celibate saint since he’d moved to town. After all this time, it was perfectly natural to assume that sooner or later some woman was going to set him off.
    Unfortunately, it just happened to be a woman who was hurting and vulnerable, rather than someone like the very willing Brenda, who could fend for herself. If he took advantage of the chemistry between him and Melanie and wound up hurting her, he’d feel like a first-class jerk. And if he let her into his life, already knowing shewas going to run out on him in the end, it would prove him to be an even bigger jerk.
    That meant he ought to be steering clear of her, avoiding her like the plague, maybe finding some new route to get to work that wouldn’t take him directly past Melanie’s house every morning and night. Instead, he punished himself for his wayward thoughts by driving by Rose Cottage and testing his willpower.
    Since he appeared intent on pulling into her driveway not two days after lecturing himself on avoiding her, apparently his willpower sucked almost as much as his judgment.
    Mike slogged through the mud, telling himself he wouldn’t stay long. He’d tell her that it was still too wet to plant the flowers they’d picked up last weekend, despite the sliver of sun that had finally worked its way through the clouds on Thursday afternoon and seemed to be struggling against this morning’s gloom, as well. Then he’d leave. No big deal.
    Famous last words.
    He found her outside whacking at the rosebushes with an oversize pair of hedge clippers and a deadly gleam in her eyes. The sight of it horrified him on so many levels it had him tearing across the lawn to snatch the clippers away from her before she did any more damage.
    She stared at him as if he’d gone mad. “Why’d you do that?” she demanded indignantly. “Aren’t you the one who’s been carrying on about getting these bushes under control?”
    He barely contained a groan. “Under control, not murdered in their sleep.”
    She scowled at him. “I’m not murdering the damn bushes. I’m trimming them back.”
    “Heaven save me from amateurs,” he murmured. “Where are your garden tools?”
    “In the shed over there,” she conceded grudgingly, then followed him when he stalked off in that direction, still muttering.
    “Whatever you’re saying about me, say it so I can hear it,” she said.
    “You don’t want to hear this,” he retorted, yanking open the door and staring at the excellent collection of gardening implements. It was yet more testimony that Cornelia Lindsey had been an expert gardener who’d cared for the tools she used as well as she had for the garden itself.
    “Ever heard of dusting?” he grumbled, as he found some first-class pruning shears.
    Melanie glowered at him. “In the house. Not in a tool shed.”
    “The same rules apply.” He shook his head. “Never mind. Just come with me. Try not to get in my way.”
    “If you’re this charming when you’re teaching Jessie, I’m not surprised she rebels,” Melanie