“At home with Grandma.” A pang of regret sliced through her heart at the thought of Josh and his reaction to the news that the father he’d never known was dead.

As if he read the pain in her expression, Luke said, “Wait here, I’ve got an idea.”

“For what—?” she asked but he’d already turned on his heel and was striding toward the kitchen. A second later the screen door banged shut behind him. Curious, she couldn’t help but follow the sound and walk into the kitchen where she looked through the window and watched as he dashed through the raindrops to the carriage house, then took the stairs to the upper floor two at a time. A few seconds later he reappeared carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. She watched as he jogged across the yard and entered the house with the smell of fresh rain clinging to him.

“I think we should christen the place,” he said, removing a corkscrew from his pocket and piercing the foil over the cork with the tool’s sharp tip. “Come on,” he encouraged, as if witnessing skepticism on her face. “Let’s do it right. In here.” As he started uncorking the bottle he led her into the parlor where bay windows, draped in gauzy curtains overlooked the front yard and a marble fireplace loomed against the opposite wall. The cork popped. “Here, you pour. I’ll be right back.”

“What now?” she asked, but watched him leave again and didn’t argue. There was something enchanting about spending some time alone with him here.

Careful, you’ll only get yourself into trouble, her mind warned as she tipped the bottle and the rich, dark Merlot streamed into the two stemmed glasses.

“I wouldn’t have thought of you as having anything like these,” she observed, holding up one of the goblets and twisting its stem between her fingers as he returned carrying chunks of firewood and kindling. He leaned over the grate and cast a glance in her direction. Over his shoulder he muttered, “Castoffs from the divorce.”

“Oh.” She didn’t want to be reminded that he’d been married once. Not tonight. “I just meant that you seem more like a guy who drinks beer.”

“Sometimes. Whatever suits the mood.” He looked over his shoulder again, his eyes a deep, glittering blue. “I think it’s good to mix things up, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He turned his attention back to the fire and she noticed the darker streaks of blond where rainwater had run, from the top of his head and the way his neck, at its base, spread into strong shoulder muscles that disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.