had read about hot dogs and was eager to try one. Clara, however, hung back, looking as if she were about to cry. “I don’t want to eat a dog, Uncle Quint,” she said.
Quint chuckled. “It won’t be a real dog, sweetheart. Just a sausage on some bread. Come on, you’ll like it. I promise.”
Clara trailed them to the umbrella-shaded hotdog stand, dragging her feet all the way. When Quint handed her the bun-wrapped sausage slathered in mustard she took a cautious nibble, frowned, then took a bigger bite.
“Do you like it?” Quint asked.
The little girl nodded, her mouth stuffed too full to answer.
“And how about you?” He turned toward Annie, who was trying to maintain a ladylike demeanor while she enjoyed her hot dog. “Do you like it?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she muttered.
“You’ve got a spot that needs wiping. Look at me and hold still.” He raised his paper napkin and dabbed at her chin. His warm brown eyes gazed into hers, twinkling with mischief. “Mustard becomes you, Miss Annie,” he drawled. “You ought to wear it more often.”
Annie swallowed, struggling for composure. Quint would be well aware of his effect on her. For the space of a breath he held eye contact, one brow tilted roguishly upward, as if he could hear her thundering pulse. What an incorrigible flirt the man was! Any woman foolish enough to take him on would have her hands full.
Summoning her will, she tore herself away. “Oh, dear, Clara, you’ve spattered mustard on your pinafore,” she fussed. “I do hope it will wash out.” Crimson-faced, she scrubbed furiously at the tiny yellow spot with her napkin. Quint watched her, betraying his amusement with a deepening dimple in his cheek. What a mess she’d made of things. How could she have let down her guard last night, telling him how he’d been her white knight for years? How could she have allowed him to kiss her, taking those intimate liberties with his tongue? The wretched man had probably laughed himself to sleep afterward.
One thing was certain, Annie vowed—it wasn’t going to happen again.
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