He sat beside her and tapped the tan-colored yarn. “What are you making?”
“Scarves for local homeless shelters.”
Not what he’d expected to hear. “That’s really kind of you.”
“What goes around comes around,” she mumbled so softly he almost didn’t hear her.
“It would be good if more people thought that way.” He and his family had so much that sometimes, no matter how many charity foundations they set up, he wondered what more they could be doing. He felt a twinge of conscience about not giving enough of his attention to the upcoming wilderness initiative fund-raiser. Isabeau was here to help him and still he found her a major, tantalizing distraction. “When did you start crocheting scarves for homeless shelters?”
“And blankets and hats. My mother and I were gifted with some of each when I was a young teenager.”
Shock knocked him off balance for a beat. He blinked through it and willed his face to stay neutral. “You were homeless?”
“After my dad ran off for a while and we got evicted. We were only in a shelter for a couple of weeks, but it saved us.” Her fingers worked deftly, yarn transformed from static string to the beginnings of a scarf.
She didn’t look at him.
She didn’t move, other than her fingers.
“I’m so sorry.” He understood what it was like to have your world uprooted by turmoil, but he’d always known he had a place to live.
“No need to be sorry. I’m here and successful and okay. There was this little old lady there who crocheted for us.”
“As a volunteer or staff member?” he asked, enjoying the sound of her voice and appreciating her opening up to him.
“A former resident. She understood what it was like and that was her way of giving back.” Isabeau’s eyes took on a pensive air, as if seeing inward to the past, looping yarn over the crochet hook faster and faster. “She helped me while Mom searched for a job. It was summer, so school was out. We sat and she showed me how to crochet.”
He searched for something to say, but words weren’t his strength, and it wasn’t like he could ask her to coach him on this. “You’re really talented.”
She glanced at him quickly, half smiling. “Just because someone’s poor doesn’t mean they have to be grateful for donations that look like crap.”
“Good point.”
She laughed softly. “You still seem confused though.”
Such an understatement. When his family had approached him about working with an image consultant, he figured he’d be working with a vapid woman only interested in the veneer of things. Not one whose heart had such depth. Now, after meeting Isabeau, he felt a splash of embarrassment for his initial assessment of an image consultant stereotype. “I just didn’t expect an image consultant to be so...deep.”
“I’ll try not to be insulted.” She yanked free a length of yarn before setting to work again.
“I’ve made no secret of the fact I’m participating in this makeover under duress. I’m just not that into superficial appearances.”
“People gain confidence in different ways, and if that confidence is used to do good for others, then this—” she held up the scarf in progress “—helps me more than the receiver.”
Those bright eyes met his and she lifted her project to show him the small progress. He could almost see a younger Isabeau—the one in the shelter, gaining confidence because an old woman had given her a fine scarf.
“Yes. You’re definitely a surprise.” Leaning toward her, he studied her face, the way her fingers moved, the careful attention to the smallest detail.
He studied her mouth.
“Well, thank goodness I’m not boring.” She took her bottom lip between her teeth, releasing it slowly.
A bolt of desire shot straight through him. Electrifying him. “Lady, you are far from boring.”
More than air, he wanted to kiss her again. Holding back was difficult as hell. But something told him this wasn’t the time to press her on that—or more. He didn’t want to spook her and lose ground.
He was definitely making progress. So the best bet?
Double down with another outing to romance her.
* * *
Later that week, Isabeau wondered when she’d lost control of her client.
When he’d kissed her? Or when he’d looked at her with a passion so intense it seared her?
After she’d steadied her blood sugar and nerves with some good old-fashioned crocheting, she’d spent the evening locking down a schedule of podcast interviews for Trystan.
Only to have him surprise her with the announcement of another planned outing. As she’d started to argue that work needed to come first, he’d surprised her yet again by revealing he’d set up a publicity opportunity on his own. He’d secured a news interview at a gold rush festival in Juneau.
She tightened her hold on Paige’s leash as they walked through the festival goers, proud of her dog’s firm focus in such a melee. Boy, was there a lot to take in. Surveying the crowd, she had to admit that although this might not have been an event she’d have set up for Trystan, the festival was full of life.
Chain saws hummed in the distance from the woodcutting competition where woodsmen—and women—showed off their prowess carving art from huge logs of Alaskan pine. The scent of fresh sawdust, sweet and sap-tinged, hung in the air everywhere they explored. A small livestock show nearby kept kids entertained with a petting zoo where eager goats cavorted for the reward of a treat. And now, she paused as she heard the cheers of another crowd near the band pavilion.
For a moment, she lingered, watching a lean twentysomething brunette hoist an axe above her head and aim at a target fifty paces away with surprising accuracy. A small crowd made up of older couples and young families cheered, loosing whistles and whoops of approval into the air. Beaming, the young woman
