Hot damn. He’d ma’amed her. It wasn’t the first time she’d been ma’amed in her almost thirty years, but it had been the first time her clothes had almost fallen off at hearing it. There was something about the way this man ma’amed that made Suzanne aware she had ovaries.

She walked into the cozy, open-plan cottage dominated on the far side by two large windows just as Winona had indicated. She knew instantly where she would set up her easel. Crossing to the windows—drawn as only an artist can be to light—she stared out over acres and acres of brittle winter pasture and, in the distance, a large section of wooded land.

“Bedroom’s that way,” he said from behind.

She turned to find him standing in the doorway, obviously not planning to enter. He pointed with the hand that held his hat to the left where she could see a bed through an open door.

“The heating”—he swiveled his head in the opposite direction, using his hat to again point to the far wall and the modern glass-fronted freestanding fireplace—“is gas.” Switching his gaze to the kitchen area situated between the two windows, he said, “Kitchen should have everything you need. You have bags?”

Suzanne blinked at his obvious desire to be gone. It made her curious, and hell if it didn’t make her want to paint him right now. From her vantage point, with the light behind him, he wasn’t much more than a tall, dark shape taking up all the space in her doorway, but his presence was electric, looming.

But not in a threatening way. It was…spine-tingling, and her pulse skipped a beat, which made her feel like an idiot. She’d just met the guy. How freaking embarrassing.

“I…have so much stuff.” Suzanne crossed to where he stood, determined to be businesslike to cover for her ridiculously juvenile response. “A couple of bags, a dozen canvases of varying sizes, about a zillion different paints, a box of books because there’s nothing quite like the smell of a book, don’t you think? My pod coffee machine because I’m such a caffeine junkie, and heaven help anyone who talks to me before my coffee every morning. Some CDs and a player, which I know is a little old-school, but Winona said the internet can be pretty spotty out here, and I have to paint to music because silence drives me nuts. Some groceries I picked up in Credence and—”

Suzanne stopped abruptly, aware suddenly by the ever-flattening line of his mouth that she was babbling. He was staring at her with an expression that left her in little doubt a simple “yes” or “no” would have sufficed.

He gave a brief nod and shoved his hat on his head. “I’ll give you a hand.” Then he turned on his heel and strode to her van.

It took the two of them fifteen minutes to unload everything. Fifteen long, silent minutes broken only by Suzanne occasionally directing him as to where to put something down. Sliding the van door shut with a muffled whump, he turned, his gaze settling on her face. The brim of his hat threw his face into shadow, which made him hard to read. But this close, she could see he had light-green eyes and some stubble. Short but enough to still feel rough.