She trembled. He absorbed the first glorious sensation of having Brenna O’Toole tremble against him. Then immediately wanted to feel it again.

But he gave way when she braced a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“You took me by surprise when you kissed me last week,” he told her while her eyes gradually cleared. “I seem to have done the same to you now.”

Pull yourself together, girl, she ordered herself. This wasn’t the way to handle the man. “Then we’re in the way of being even.”

His eyes narrowed in speculation. “So is it a contest then, Brenna?”

More at ease with the faint irritation in his voice than she’d been with the smooth, seductive tone, she nodded. “I’ve always thought of it so. But, in the fortunate way of sexual matters, we can both win. I’ve customers to serve.”

Her lips still tingled from his as she walked out of the kitchen.

“Maybe we’ll both win,” he murmured, “but I don’t think I’ll be playing this your way, Brenna, my darling.”

Pleased with himself, he went back to his stove to make the German tourists happy.

The sun decided to shine on Sunday, and the sky was clear and blue. The smudge of gray far away to the east told him the storm hovering over England would likely put in an appearance by nightfall. But for now it was a fine, fresh day for walking the hills.

He thought if he happened to wander over to the O’Tooles’ he’d get himself invited in for some tea and biscuits. And he’d enjoy seeing how Brenna would react to having him sitting in her kitchen after what had passed between them the night before.

He thought he understood what was in her head. She was a woman who liked to get things done—her way. Step by step and at a smart pace. For some reason she’d set her sights on him, and he was starting to like the idea. Quite a little bit, if it came to that.

But he had his own way of getting things done. One step might not follow the other in such a straight line, and he preferred a meandering pace. After all, marching head-on you missed the little things that happened all around you.

He was one for treasuring the little things. Like the clear call of the magpie, or the shine of the sun on a particular blade of grass. And there, the way the cliffs stood strong against the incessant beat of the sea.

He could wander for hours, and did when he forgot himself. He was well aware that most people thought he got nothing done during his dreaming time, and they smiled indulgently. But in truth he got everything done. The thinking, the restoring, the watching.

And because he was watching, he didn’t see Mary Kate until she hailed him and ran in his direction.

“It’s a fine day for walking.” To be on the safe side, he tucked his hands into his pockets.