The Welcoming by Nora Roberts Page B

look.” Miss Millie held up a 45. “Rosemary Clooney. Isn’t this delightful?”
    â€œPick out your favorites.” Charity gave the room a distracted glance. How could she prepare for a party when all she could think of was the way Roman had looked at her across the breakfast table? “I’m depending on you.”
    The long buffet and a small server had been cleared off to hold the refreshments. If she could count on Mae—and she always had—they should be coming up from the kitchen shortly.
    Would Roman come in? she wondered. Would he hear the music and slip silently into the room? Would he look at her until her heart started to hammer and she forgot there was anything or anyone but him?
    She was going crazy, Charity decided. She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to three. Word had been passed to all the guests, and with luck she would be ready for them when they began to arrive. The ladies were deep in a discussion of Perry Como. Leaving them to it, Charity began to tug on the sofa.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    A squeal escaped her, and she cursed Roman in the next breath. “If you keep sneaking around I’m going to take Mae’s idea of you being a cat burglar more seriously.”
    â€œI wasn’t sneaking around. You were so busy huffing and puffing you didn’t hear me.”
    â€œI wasn’t huffing or puffing.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glared at him. “But I am busy, so if you’d get out of my way—”
    She waved a hand at him, and he caught it and held it. “I asked what you were doing.”
    She tugged, then tugged harder, struggling to control her temper. If he wanted to fight, she thought, she’d be happy to oblige him. “I’m knitting an afghan,” she snapped. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m moving the sofa.”
    â€œNo, you’re not.”
    She could, when the occasion called for, succeed in being haughty. “I beg your pardon?”
    â€œI said you’re not moving the sofa. It’s too heavy.”
    â€œThank you for your opinion, but I’ve moved it before.” She lowered her voice when she noticed the interested glances the ladies were giving her. “And if you’d get the hell out of my way I’d move it again.”
    He stood where he was, blocking her. “You really do have to do everything yourself, don’t you?”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œWhere’s your assistant?”
    â€œThe computer sprang a leak. Since Bob’s better equipped to deal with that, he’s playing with components and I’m moving furniture. Now—”
    â€œWhere do you want it?”
    â€œI didn’t ask you to—” But he’d already moved to the other end of the sofa.
    â€œI said, where do you want it?”
    â€œAgainst the side wall.” Charity hefted her end and tried not to be grateful.
    â€œWhat else?”
    She smoothed down the skirt of her dress. “I’ve already given you a list of chores.”
    He hooked a thumb in his pocket as they stood on either side of the sofa. He had an urge to put his hand over her angry face and give it a nice hard shove. “I’ve finished them.”
    â€œThe faucet in cabin 4?”
    â€œIt needed a new washer.”
    â€œThe window in unit 2?”
    â€œA little sanding.”
    She was running out of steam. “The painting?”
    â€œThe first coat’s drying.” He angled his head. “Want to check it out?”
    She blew out a breath. It was difficult to be annoyed when he’d done everything she’d asked. “Efficient, aren’t you, DeWinter?”
    â€œThat’s right. Got your second wind?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou looked a little tired this morning.” He skimmed a glance over her. The dark plum-colored dress swirled down her legs. Little silver buttons ranged down from the high