“I’ll help her,” Ian said as more drops began to pour. “You all go into our house where it’s dry.”
His mother gave one more pleased look at him and Samantha before she grabbed a child with each hand and hurried toward the house.
* * *
SHE HAD TO ADMIT, the man looked utterly adorable carrying Oscar and Calvin as they hurried into the house with Betsey trotting after just as a rumble of thunder shook the trees.
“That came up out of nowhere,” Ian exclaimed.
“That seems to be how our summer storms go around here. You’ve probably noticed that already. One moment it’s lovely and feels like the perfect summer day, the next everyone is ducking for cover. It’s worse in August but we have a few in June and July, too.”
She was able to keep Coco dry by tucking the puppy under her shirt. Inside her house, she set the puppy back down on the pad inside her mother’s sewing room, then stepped away so Ian could do the same with Oscar and Calvin.
“Thank you,” she said, suddenly nervous to find herself alone with him again, which she told herself was ridiculous.
“Glad to help.”
“I like your parents very much. They seem to adore the children. Do you live close to each other in England?”
“Not really. The children and I live in Oxford, which is northwest of London while Summerhill House, the family home, is in Dorset, closer to the south coast. It takes about two hours to travel between our homes. We do meet up in London where possible as they live there part of the year, and usually we spend a week or two at Summerhill House. We talk often on the phone and video chat where we can.”
He gestured to the puppies. “You’ve made a cozy little room for them here.”
“My mother is probably rolling in her grave to know I’ve transformed her sewing room to a puppy playroom. I didn’t know what else to do with them.”
They were side by side, both looking in on the puppies as Coco and Oscar wrestled and Calvin chased after a ball.
He smelled delicious, rugged and masculine with that undertone of some kind of expensive soap. Exactly as she might expect of someone who spoke casually of his family home with a grand-sounding name like Summerhill House. She again couldn’t help picturing something out of Pride and Prejudice, the Keira Knightley movie version, something with statues and Doric columns and vast, ornate gardens.
His home in reality was probably nothing like that, but that didn’t keep her from imagining it that way.
“You called this your mother’s sewing room, not yours,” Ian said. “Do you have a sewing room of your own?”
“I’ve always kept my sewing machine in my bedroom. Since my mother died, I’ve moved the machine into the sunroom, where I have a view of the lake and can watch television.”
She gestured behind them to the comfortable space she had carved out by taking several ugly pieces of furniture to a charity thrift store in Shelter Springs. Rain still pattered against the glass, creating a warm, intimate bubble.
He took in the fabric swatches, the table covered with scissors and thread, the sewing machine set up in front of the windows.
“It seems like a good workspace. Very calming.”
“I like it.”
She thought he would leave then but he seemed reluctant to rejoin his parents. Was he drawn to her or was he simply trying to avoid his family?
“What programs do you like to watch?” Ian asked, gesturing to the television.
When was the last time any man had seemed genuinely interested in what she liked? She couldn’t remember, which probably said a great deal about her choices in men.
“A little of everything. From Hallmark movies to true crime to travel shows and everything in between. I’m an equal-opportunity viewer and change channels a lot. What kind of shows do you watch?”
He shrugged. “I don’t watch much telly, if you want the truth. Give me a good book and maybe a little Glenlivet and I’m sorted for the night.”
He winced a little. “That makes me sound like my father, doesn’t it? Sorry. At least I didn’t say a cup of tea instead of the Scotch, which is probably closer to the truth most of the time.”
She smiled at his honesty. “Either way, it sounds nice. You don’t need to apologize for what makes you happy, Ian. Some people like haute couture while others are most comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt. I learned early on