The laugh lines around his eyes deepened. Beads of water still clung to his face.
Well, thank you for nothing.
She would not talk to this insufferable man. She just wished Poppy was here. He would set Wesley Clarke straight.
Tara folded her arms and glared at him, aware of her bedraggled state. But then did he look any better? Her gaze raked over him and loved the disdain she felt for a half second.
. It wasn’t fair that any man could look that good in a soaking-wet, blue checked flannel shirt.
Her sniff would have rivaled any offended female from the nineteenth century.
“Your eyes are gray-black. This morning they were the silvery gray of a misty morning.” He leaned close. His breath brushed against her cheek, inundating her with the strength of his presence. The desire to swoon right into his arms swept over her. For the life of her, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t resist the power of his gaze.
“Did anyone ever tell you that your eyes are totally bewitching?”
Like wisps of early morning fog in a country valley, the animosity floated from her body in feathery gusts. Her heart began tapping a rhythm sounding very much like a song.
Tara opened her mouth, and the words came from a throat tightened with huskiness. “No.”
Brilliant, Tara. Fantastic conversation.
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