She looked up into his eyes—dark like the warm molasses her mother used to put on her bread. Right now he didn’t look grumpy or old. The tummy-turning deliciousness was back, helped along by a breathlessness so foreign to her she didn’t recognize it at first.
Brody Hamilton was sex on a stick, from his delicious eyes to his long legs to his manner that somehow managed to convey energy and a lazy ease. There was no escaping the facts; the only thing she could control was her reaction.
She took a deep breath and pasted on her polite-yet-distant royal smile…the one and only aspect of her new life she’d mastered. She remembered how big the house was and nodded. She probably wouldn’t even run into Brody most of the time. “I appreciate it.”
“Let me finish up with Pretty and I’ll take you up. You can have a look around if you want.”
“I’ll do that.”
He led the horse away, and Lucy watched them depart down the corridor, boots and hooves echoing through the quiet space. His faded jeans fit him as if they were made for him, the dark T-shirt emphasizing his broad shoulders. The black brim of his cowboy hat shaded his neck.
She squared her shoulders and set her jaw. Life had been full of enough complications lately. And she’d be damned if she’d let Brody Hamilton be another one.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCY perched on a wooden stool, sipped on a cup of strong, rich coffee and came to two important conclusions.
Number one, Brody Hamilton ran a good ship. Everything was kept in tip-top shape, and from what she’d seen, that extended to his horses. This was a good thing. You could tell a lot about a man’s stock by the state of the rest of the farm. Prairie Rose was neat, tidy and organized. Brody Hamilton paid attention.
And number two, Mrs. Polcyk ran the house. Full stop.
Lucy smiled into her mug, remembering how the housekeeper had put Brody firmly into his place. Brody had introduced her to the round, apple-cheeked woman who had instantly bustled her inside. Mrs. Polcyk had then ordered Brody to bring up Lucy’s things, and he’d obeyed without batting a single one of his obscenely long eyelashes. He’d done it without a grimace or an eye roll but with an innate respect and acceptance of her, and Lucy liked that about him as well.
Lucy, on the other hand, was ushered through to the kitchen where she was now watching Mrs. Polcyk take some sort of pastry out of the oven. The room smelled of coffee grounds and cinnamon and fruit.
All of it filled her with such a sense of homesickness she thought she might cry. She missed afternoons like this. Tea in the drawing room was not quite the same as hot coffee and cookies in the kitchen.
“Your bags are in your room.”
Brody’s rich voice came from behind her, and she swallowed coffee and the tears that had gathered in her throat. She hadn’t realized that coming here would hurt her so much. Hadn’t realized that it would remind her of a place where she no longer belonged. And it was clear Brody took all that for granted. She wondered if he realized how lucky he was.
But she couldn’t say any of that, of course. She put the smile back in its place and spun on the stool to face him. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
He took a few long steps until he was at the stool next to her. He hardly had to move at all to perch on its seat and Lucy was reminded again how very tall he was. His voice was deep and full of teasing as he leaned forward, egging on Mrs. Polcyk. “If you tell me that’s cherry strudel, I’m yours forever, Mrs. P.”
She flapped a hand in his direction, but pulled a thick white mug out of a cupboard and poured him a cup of coffee.
Lucy felt his eyes on her and she refused to meet them again. If she did he’d see the tears that still glimmered there, and the last thing she needed was for him to see her vulnerable. And with him watching her so intently, there wasn’t an opportunity for her to wipe them away. She opened her eyes as wide as she could, willing the moisture to evaporate. She’d thought of this trip as a chance to escape. Instead, the grief she’d tamped down for the last months rose up, leaving her raw and breathless.
For a few minutes they sipped in silence. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, and she couldn’t come up with anything to talk about. Her personal life was strictly off-limits. For one, she would fall apart, and for another, he would treat her differently, and that was the last thing she wanted. Maybe it was jet lag, because she knew she should ask him about Prairie Rose and his breeding program and hundreds of other relevant questions. Instead her brain was riddled with personal questions. Why was he the only one here? Did he run this place completely on his own? How was Mrs. Polcyk related to him? But for her to ask him those questions would be opening herself up to ones of a similar nature, and she couldn’t have that.
Instead she stared into her coffee cup, fighting off memories and twisting her lips. It had to be fatigue, nothing else made sense. Certainly the feeling of resentment that was bubbling underneath all the other emotions didn’t add up. He was teasing and comfortable. And she knew he had no idea how he was taking his situation for granted. No one ever did until they’d lost and then they were left with regrets. She’d bet any money that Brody didn’t have regrets.
At least that made it easier for her to dislike him. Disliking him was vastly easier than liking. If she didn’t like him, she wouldn’t be tempted to reveal more than she should.
“Miss Farnsworth?”
She chanced a look up. He was looking at her over the rim of his cup, his eyes serious. “We’ve got plenty of time to talk business. If you’re tired, you don’t need to put up a good front. The jet lag alone has got to be killing you.”
He was giving her an excuse; being kind to a guest. And it would be a good opportunity for her to create more distance between them. She should take it. Yet the thought of facing an empty, unfamiliar room wasn’t that attractive. She’d spent enough time alone lately.
“You can start by calling me Lucy.” The staff in Marazur reluctantly called her Miss Farnsworth after she’d dressed them down for using her official title. She couldn’t abide the “ma’am” they’d come out with on her first day, either. Even “Miss Farnsworth” made her feel like a stranger; she was used to her stable mates calling, “Hey, Luce” down the corridor. But she hadn’t been able to convince the staff to call her Lucy. She didn’t want to be Miss anything or Princess anyone. She wanted to be Lucy. Maybe if Brody would call her by her name she wouldn’t feel like such a fraud.
“I like your house,” she offered, an attempt at civility. “It’s very…homey.”
Something dark flitted through his eyes even though his tone was teasing as he responded, “As the head of King Alexander’s stables, I expect you’re used to finer accommodations.”
“Not at all. It’s not like I grew up in the palace.” That much was true. She hadn’t laid eyes on Marazur until a few short months ago. And arriving at the palace had been a shock. She’d grown up in a very modest middle-class neighborhood. She was used to worn furniture and chipped dishes, not antique settees and fine china. She was torn jeans and T-shirts; Marazur was linen and lace. “I had a typical middle-class upbringing, you might say. I’m just…ordinary,” she conceded.
“How did
