“Abigail,” she said automatically, even though he clearly knew who she was. She hesitated, feeling awkward as she pulled her hand back. “And I’m surprised to see you. Unless—”
A surge of hopefulness made her tense. He wouldn’t have come all the way out to her studio to deliver bad news, would he?
“You won the job.” He relayed the information with a curt nod, as if he was reading the results of a CAT scan to a patient. The words were so spare and utilitarian, but the impact was tremendous. “I thought I’d deliver the news personally—”
Abigail didn’t hear the rest of what he said, a wave of relief rolling over her so fast she nearly stumbled backward from it. She clasped her hands together and squeezed the good news tight as a giddy yelp of laughter leaped out.
“Thank you!” She did a little dance in place, sandals slapping out a joyous rhythm. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
She would keep her house and the studio she loved. The commission was enough to smooth the way for her baby’s first year without having to worry about money every month. And, perhaps best of all, she would have a beautiful piece to dedicate to her sister’s memory. The tree sculpture would be for Alannah. A tree of life and hope.
On her doorstep, Vaughn stared at her feet, tracking the happy hop like he’d never seen anything like it before. “I thought it was the least I could do given my demeanor earlier—”
She waved away the concern. None of it mattered now.
“Would you like to come in?” She saw the folder beneath his arm. Guessed there might be a check inside that paperwork. How surprising that the ornery surgeon had ended up being the bearer of the best news she’d had in a long, long time.
The briefest of hesitations.
Maybe the rich doc wasn’t used to spending his time in an artsy bungalow downtown. With her folk music still blaring inside and her watercolors taped in all the windows, her work space was definitely on the eclectic side. Or maybe he just didn’t like art period. Today, she was too relieved to care.
“Sure.” Another clipped nod as his expensive leather loafers climbed the wooden steps. “Thank you.”
Abigail backed into her studio and turned down the volume on her music, eyeing him as he moved deeper into her space. She’d never had a man here in the two years since she’d relocated to Royal from Austin. He had a way of filling up the room, even though her studio was airy and open. Vaughn’s presence, while quiet, loomed large.
He took it all in, his gaze missing nothing as he followed her to the drawing table, where sketches lined the walls around it. She gestured to one of the chairs there, an armless seat she’d made herself of reclaimed wood.
“Have a seat. Can I get you some water? Sweet tea?” she asked as she headed into the kitchenette in the back corner of the studio. She would have gladly cracked open champagne if she wasn’t five months pregnant. Not that she kept champagne on hand. But this new commission changed everything for her.
And even though she hadn’t appreciated the doctor’s contentious approach at the time, he was here, offering her the job that would keep her afloat—financially, creatively and maybe emotionally, too—at the most critical juncture of her life. She couldn’t help but feel a softening in her attitude toward him.
“No. Thank you.” He sat forward in the seat, all business. Withdrawing the folder from under his arm, he laid it on the table. “I brought the contract for you to sign, along with the initial payment.”
He slid the papers out of the folder, carefully positioning them between her morning watercolor of a nuthatch on a tree branch, and an afternoon charcoal sketch of...him?
Oh. No. Horrified she hadn’t tossed the paper in the basket, she rushed back toward the table, hoping to move it before he noticed.
Had he already noticed?
“I. Um. That is—” She was by his side in a split second. Standing too close to him. Hovering over him. Sounding completely inarticulate.
“It’s all very straightforward.” He glanced up at her. Frowned. “Is anything wrong?”
She couldn’t tell from his expression if he’d noticed the half-drawn image of himself. Leaning forward, she slid her scattered papers together in a hurry, knocking the check on the floor and bumping his thigh with her knee. Awareness of him made her senses swim.
She’d been careful to leave her artist’s smock over her dress, so she didn’t think he’d noticed her baby bump. Not many people in Royal knew about it, after all, and she guessed the flash of male interest she’d seen in his eyes would disappear once he learned of her impending motherhood. Was it so wrong to want to savor that attraction just a little longer?
“Ah. No.” She shook her head, imagining she appeared about as innocent as a toddler with a hand in the cookie jar. “Just sorry about the mess.”
Her cheeks burned. All of her was feeling rather warm, actually, and it wasn’t just because of the awkward embarrassment. Her skin tingled beneath the hem of her skirt where she’d brushed up against his leg.
Backing up a step, she tried to act casual even though her heart thudded too fast. He picked up the dropped check and returned it to the table.
“Your studio puts my office to shame.” He studied her with green-gold eyes that tracked her every movement.
“I was straightening up when you arrived.” She hurried over to her desk and shoved the papers in the top drawer before returning to the table. Taking the seat beside him, she tried to collect herself.
Hit the mental reset button.
To cool down and get her thoughts back on track, she turned the contract toward her and started reading.
* * *
The meeting with Abigail Stewart had gone from interesting to downright fascinating. The tension between them had shifted since
