certain numbness had protected her since she’d lost what had felt like the other half of herself. Yet, as with the first time this man had touched her, something about him scraped at the edges of that barrier, made her conscious of things she truly didn’t want to consider.
Out of nowhere, the need to be held sprang to mind. It was such a simple thing, so basic that she’d never truly considered it until it had been found and suddenly lost—that need for security, comfort, a sense of oneness. But she knew how rare it was to find that sense of belonging, and the need didn’t feel simple at all. Not when she realized she was actually wondering what it would feel like to be folded against Erik’s broad, undeniably solid chest. A woman would feel sheltered there. Safe from what troubled her. And for a few moments, anyway, free of the need to stand alone.
Shaken by her thoughts, by him, she started to move back, as much from the need behind the unexpected admissions as from the man who’d prompted them. The stacks behind her allowed her no escape at all.
His scrutiny narrowed. “If you’re okay, why are you still holding your arm?”
She was holding in his touch. Realizing that, hoping he didn’t, she promptly dropped her hand.
“It’s nothing.” Rattled, trying not to be, she shrugged. “It’s just a little sore.”
“Why?”
“Because I landed against the corner of a dresser.” She was just tired. Tired and apparently in need of some downtime with her yoga mat. If she could find it. Or, even better, some fudge. The one thing she did not need was to think about this man’s chest, his arms or the way he was scowling at her. “I was trying to move a table and lost my grip.
“So,” she said, fully prepared to move on so he’d move himself.
He didn’t budge. “Which table?”
Trapped between the counter, bins and boxes, she leaned sideways and pointed toward the eight-foot-long, solid oak-and-iron refectory table jammed between a bedroom set and the dairy case. “That one.”
His scowl deepened as it swung back to her. “You tried to move that yourself?”
“It wasn’t going to go inside on its own.”
Forbearance entered his tone. “You said you were going to wait for the kids who moved you here to help with the heavy stuff.”
“What I said,” she reminded him, just as patiently, “is that they’d be back next week.”
“When next week?”
“When they can fit it in.”
“Meaning this could all be here a week from now,” he said flatly. “Or the week after that.”
She didn’t particularly appreciate the cynical certainty in his tone. Especially since she was trying not to dwell on that discouraging suspicion herself.
“What about your friends?” he asked, clearly prepared to pursue other possibilities. “Have you asked any of them to help you?”
“I’m sure everyone’s busy.”
“Do you know that for certain?”
She could omit and evade. No way could she lie. Thinking of the few people she still thought of as friends, she muttered, “Not exactly.”
“Then ask.”
She started to say that she didn’t want to. Fearing she’d sound like a five-year-old, not liking how he prodded at her defenses, she ignored the command entirely.
Since he had yet to move, she ducked around him. “I’ll go turn on the heat.”
She would do her best to cooperate with him for his help with the store. She could cut corners somewhere else to keep expenses down.
“I only took two bar stools inside, so there are a couple more back there we can bring up to sit on. I’m going to tell Tyler I’ll be out here. He’s watching a DVD on my laptop.”
Erik watched her slip behind the counter, his focus on the resolute set of her shoulders as she disappeared inside. Her son was undoubtedly watching her laptop because her television was buried somewhere in the stacks beyond him. He also gave the guys she’d hired about a fifty-fifty chance of returning to finish their job.
He didn’t care what she said. She did need help here. She just didn’t want to ask for it.
Considering that she hadn’t wanted to accept his little housewarming present, either, he couldn’t help but wonder if the woman was always unreasonable, impractical and stubborn, or if some less obvious trait compelled her to refuse assistance when she clearly needed it.
What she needed now was some serious muscle.
Judging from the size of the decidedly upscale sofa and armchairs, sections of wall units, tables and a huge mirror sitting between the rows of shelving, there had been significant space in the house she’d left behind. The larger of two armoires was the size of a king-size mattress. He had no idea where she was going to put that. It might have fit in the largest of the bedrooms upstairs, but it would never make the bend at the top of the staircase.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checked the time before scrolling through his contact list.
He’d just ended his call when she hurried back through the door.
“I have a friend on the way to help with the heavy stuff,” he announced. “You and I can take care of the rest of it.” Pushing up his sleeves, he motioned to an overstuffed, roll-armed, oatmeal-colored chair blocking a bedroom set. “Where does that go?”
Beneath a dusting of dark hair, his forearms were roped with sinew and muscle. They looked every bit as strong as she imagined them to be, but it was his left arm that had her staring. A silvery scar, hook shaped and wide, slashed from wrist to elbow.
“Just part of a collection. Caught a jib line when it snapped,” he said, seeing what had her attention. “It couldn’t be helped.” His glance slid pointedly to the sore spot on her arm. “Unlike banging yourself up trying to move something you had to know was too heavy for you.
“So where do you want it?” he asked. “The living room?”
His presumption made her let the table reference go.
“You don’t need to do this.” Part of a collection, he’d said. He had more injuries like that? “And you definitely didn’t need to call your friend.”
Unease over what he’d done had collided with a hint of concern for the scar. Or maybe what he saw was embarrassment warring with interest. Whichever it was, he could practically see her struggling to decide which should take precedence as she moved with him toward the chair. The process, he thought, was rather fascinating.
“Yeah,” he muttered, undeterred. At least she now had some color in her cheeks. “I did. I can’t get those dressers up the stairs by myself.”
“I meant, you didn’t need to impose on him at all. I can’t ask you to do this,” she stressed, only to have
