he hadn’t been surprised. No one had ever chosen him. But if she’d hoped for a better man, he didn’t want to know. He sure as hell didn’t want to see her toss aside his apron if some superior specimen came into his store to woo her.
“All right. If you want to sort the mail, I suppose that will help.” He guided her back into the store, showed her the eighteen cubbyholes for the mail and explained his system.
“Mr. Bench,” nagged one of the customers. “I need half a pound of lard, five pounds of flour and a pound of salt.”
“I’ll be right with you.”
Selina pulled a handful of letters from the canvas mailbag and began reading the names.
John stared at the white stripe of skin under the heavy bun on the back of her head. Would she like kisses there? It would be hours before he could find out. Having her so close would be torture.
“If you come across anything for Pete Olsen, that would be me,” said the miner still leaning against the counter.
“I’ll let you know, Mr. Olsen,” she said in an even, pleasant tone. “But I better get to sorting so it gets done.”
She turned her back on the leering man.
Breathing a sigh of relief that she sounded normal and seemed to understand there was a fine line between discouraging attention and being rude, John spread out a length of paper and scooped flour onto it. Hell, he was just glad she was not encouraging the miner. She could have been a hussy or worse. Did he dare to hope that their marriage might be more congenial than he’d envisioned? That they might do more than come to like each other?
As he lifted the paper onto the scale, Selina bent for another handful of letters. Her backside bumped him. He nearly jumped right out of his Sunday-best suit. Flour showered over the floor and counter.
She swiveled and said, “Excuse me.”
Heat pounded through him. His response to the brush of their bodies was worse than spilling a bit of flour. He fought for control. Breathing hard, he scooped out more flour to replace what littered the floor.
Grasping at the ordinary and normal motions of running his store, he reached to put the paper on the scale and very nearly dropped the flour bundle as Selina darted under his arm and scraped the counter clean.
“Damn it,” he muttered, and then winced. He shouldn’t curse around his wife. Usually he didn’t around ladies.
Her face pinked. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he managed to reply between gritted teeth. He only hoped his response to their backsides touching was hidden by his apron. He wasn’t used to having anyone behind the counter with him, let alone a beautiful woman. Who was his wife.
Her scent flooded his brain. He forgot how much flour he was supposed to be packaging.
In just a few hours he could touch her and kiss her more thoroughly than the entirely unsatisfactory kiss after their wedding. But he couldn’t function while he practically vibrated with need because she was so close.
Her head ducked. “I’ll sweep it up.”
“Go unpack.” He pointed. “Now.”
Her eyebrows drew together, and her mouth flattened. For a second he thought she might protest, but she cast a glance toward Olsen, gave a shake of her head and then moved through the door to the back room. Her spine was stiff and her chin high.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Olsen.
Yeah, John rather suspected he’d not gotten off to the best start with his new wife.
My name is Selina Montgomery. I am the oldest of five. After my father passed I began working in a cotton mill, as my mother couldn’t afford to take care of all of us.
I live in a boardinghouse with my two close friends and fellow mill girls, Anna and Olivia.
I am a hard worker, frugal and of a generally cheerful nature. I get along with most everyone and make friends easily. My closest friends would describe me as determined and practical.
Selina scrubbed the brush across the cold stove surface and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her bun. She had no idea when John might be finished in the store, but she didn’t dare go ask him. If he wanted her to clean and take care of their home, then that was what she’d do. She would have, anyway. But she’d thought if she showed him how much she was willing to help in every way, he’d be glad of it—of her.
But he’d been gritting his teeth, likely to hold back anger, when he’d told her to go unpack. That she’d angered him so soon after becoming his wife had her heart twisting and her stomach churning. Granted, it was mostly her fault the flour had spilled. But surely he had to recognize it was an accident.
She hadn’t realized she would bump him when she bent over. She’d known he was behind her, but she’d been trying very hard to sort the mail as quickly and efficiently as possible. She didn’t want him thinking he’d married a lazybones. She intended to become so invaluable to him that he’d never regret marrying her.
Since she’d been banished to their living quarters, she’d cleaned every surface in his—now their—stifling hot apartment. The place had been neat and swept, but since he kept insisting her place was taking care of the house, she presumed he wanted her not to merely unpack, but to start in on housekeeping.
She heard a steady thump, thump, which could be John walking up the stairs or a hammer working in the distance. All day long she’d heard the sounds of new construction, the clicking of the myriad windmills, the creak and clop of wagons passing in the street. Too many times already she’d thought it was John ascending the stairs to call her back, but it never was.
In spite of her dismissal of the noise, her heart raced. Still, she wouldn’t run to the door and peer down the stairs to see if he was coming. She’d done that once, to see him stacking crates in the storeroom. He’d looked up at her, but hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t taken a step toward her. She’d simply left the door open and returned to scrubbing the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asked from the doorway.
“Settling in,” she said flatly.
He stood in his white shirt, the sleeves folded back, exposing sinewy forearms. Her eyes were drawn to the long length of his legs under his black trousers. Her breath caught and her knees threatened to buckle if she left the support of the stove.
His head turned, but his eyes stayed on her for a second before he looked around the room. The space was large, probably three times the size of the room she, Anna and Olivia had shared in the boardinghouse back in Connecticut. A bed was in the back, a small sofa and an overstuffed chair in the middle, then the table she’d covered with an embroidered cloth stood nearest the stairs.
“Everything is sparkling.” His brows drew together. “You didn’t have to spend all afternoon cleaning.”
Was he displeased with her efforts? Just what had he expected her to do, twiddle her
