Her

It was still raining. The first thing he noticed when he pried his eyes open in the morning, was the gloom. It could have been any time from dawn to dusk. The old clock on the stone mantel said nine-fifteen.

He hadn't studied the room the night before. Travel fatigue, and the pretty sight of her making his bed, had fuzzed his brain. He did so now, warm under the pooling quilt. The walls were papered so that tiny sprigs of violets and rosebuds climbed from floor to ceiling. The fire, gone cold now, had been set in a stone hearth, and bricks of turf were set in a painted box beside it.

There was a desk that looked old and sturdy. Its surface was polished to a high gloss. A brass lamp, an old inkwell, and a glass bowl of potpourri stood on it. A vase of dried flowers was centered on a mirrored dresser. Two chairs, covered in a soft rose, flanked a small occasional table. There was a braided rug on the floor that picked up the muted tones of the room and prints of wildflowers on the wall.

He considered rolling over and going back to sleep. He hadn't yet closed the cage door behind him-an analogy he often used for writing. Chilly, rainy mornings anywhere in the world were meant to be spent in bed. But he thought of her, pretty, rosy-cheeked; her. Curiosity about her had him gingerly setting his feet on the chilly floor.

At least the water ran hot, he thought as he stood groggily under the shower. And the soap smelled light, and practically, of a pine forest. The simple hominess of the bath, and the white towels with their charming touch of embroidery suited his mood perfectly.

But it was breakfast that sent him downstairs.

He wasn't surprised to find her in the kitchen. The room seemed to have been designed for her-the smoky hearth, the bright walls, and the neat-as-a-pin counters.

She'd scooped her hair up this morning, he noted. He imagined she thought the knot on top of her head was practical. And perhaps it was, he mused, but the fact that strands escaped to flutter and curl around her neck and cheeks made the practical alluring.

She turned then, her arms full of a huge bowl, the contents of which she continued to beat with a wooden spoon. She blinked once in surprise, then smiled in cautious welcome. "Good morning. You'll want your breakfast."

"I'll have whatever I'm smelling."

She turned back to her stove and in an unconscious habit, she tucked loose hair back into pins. Her nerves were humming a little. She supposed it was due to the way he stared at her, that frank and unapologetic appraisal that was uncomfortably intimate. It was the writer in him, she told herself and dropped potatoes into the spitting grease.