the right word. Like a lion.
She was still staring up at him, breathless, a little frightened, when he smiled and said, “Here’s the real problem.”
Before she could protest, he’d reached for the buttons at her throat. He undid three of them and tugged the shirt wide. It fell open to reveal the edge of lace at the top of her bra.
She glanced down and flushed. And grabbed the edges of cloth and pulled them back together.
“Don’t,” he murmured. He freed her hands, which fell to her sides, and rearranged the cloth, opening it wide again.
Her eyes stayed on the toes of her sensible penny loafers.
He lifted her chin with a finger, forcing her gaze up to his. “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I showed up at your door. You shouldn’t be all buttoned up, Mandy. You need to let go a little.”
She hadn’t heard that nickname since high school. It brought back memories of more carefree days that were long gone. She was a grown-up now. She was a responsible woman.
“It’s hard to reverse the habits of a lifetime,” she said, her fingers itching to rebutton her shirt. She reached up again, feeling much too exposed.
“Don’t,” he repeated quietly, taking her hands in his, tugging them away from the crumpled cloth.
His hands were warm and strong, and Amanda could feel the calluses on the pads of his fingers. Abruptly, he let her go and took a step back. “We’d better get back to work.” He turned his back on her and picked up a piece of lattice and held it out to her.
Amanda resumed the chore he’d given her, wondering how she was going to make it through the rest of the afternoon. How awkward. How mortifying. How utterly—
“Penny for your thoughts,” Rabb said.
She glanced up and saw he was grinning. “What’s so funny?” she asked irritably.
“You are,” he said. “You’d think I’d stripped you down to your bra and panties.”
Her face caught fire. Because she had been imagining what that would be like.
“When was the last time you did something rash and impulsive?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Amanda said stiffly.
Rabb dumped the broken piece of lattice in a nearby wheelbarrow and said, “I’m hungry. How about you?”
The sudden change of subject caught her off guard. “Hungry?”
“You promised me lunch. Let’s go eat,” Rabb said, grabbing her hand and heading for the kitchen door.
“What about the gazebo?” she said, glancing back at the carnage.
“It’ll wait. We have more important things to do.”
“Like what?” Amanda said.
“Eating first,” Rabb said. “Then…I haven’t made up my mind yet, but something…whimsical.”
She glanced at him sideways. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Not at all,” he countered as he opened the screen door and ushered her inside ahead of him.
She’d never realized how small her kitchen was, but there didn’t seem to be room for the two of them. She was aware of Rabb’s size, and the smell of raw male, and the fact that he was a very attractive man.
He caught her eyeing him and said, “I should get my shirt.”
She was flustered and said, “Only if you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “But my mother wouldn’t have let any of us boys come to the table like this. I’ll be right back.”
An instant later he was out the door again, and she took a deep breath trying to calm her nerves. What was wrong with her? This was Rabb. Jake’s brother. Who couldn’t read.
He was back a second later wearing the scrap of T-shirt, but it wasn’t much of an improvement. She could still see too much of him. And liked what she saw too much.
She’d had Jake over to dinner a number of times, but he’d always sat quietly and let her put food on the table. Rabb was into everything, leaning against her as he reached up for the glasses for tea and stretching around her as he got ice cubes from the freezer. He even held her chair for her, insisting that she sit before him.
Talk about siblings who were different from one another. Jake was the strong, silent type. Rabb never stopped talking.
“I’ve been working on some new designs for the furniture I’m building,” he said. “More baroque.”
“Baroque?” she blurted. She hadn’t thought of Rabb as an artist, or as someone who understood artistic styles.
“Most of what I’ve done in the past has been plain and practical, simple lines. But I got started adding a little of this and a little of that and before I knew it, this particular bedroom suite started looking like something out of the seventeenth century.”
“Hmm,” she said, because she didn’t know what to say.
“What’s your preference, artistically speaking?” he said.
She took a bite of meat loaf and pointed, showing she couldn’t speak because her mouth was full.
“I prefer the French modes to the Italian,” he said. “The lines are—”
Amanda quickly swallowed and said, “Where did you learn all this? I mean, this all sounds pretty complicated and…sophisticated.”
Rabb shrugged. “I was never any good at reading.” He paused and said, as though he were admitting to a sexually transmitted disease, “Dyslexic.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.” Dyslexics weren’t any good at reading because the letters and numbers appeared mixed up on the page, but that didn’t keep them from being highly intelligent. Einstein had been dyslexic. She looked at Rabb with newly opened eyes.
“I always liked looking at the pictures, though,” Rabb continued with a self-deprecating grin. “You can learn a lot about art and architecture from pictures.”
“Hmm,” Amanda said, because she was feeling foolish. As a teacher, she should know better than to jump to conclusions about people. It seemed she’d misjudged Rabb. “When did you find out you were dyslexic?”
“My mom and dad were pretty insistent that we get a good education. I spent a lot of time studying but never did well on tests. Turns out they were familiar with dyslexia because one of my uncles grew up with the same problem. It helped to know why I couldn’t read well, but it was still hard not to fight back when someone called me a dummy.”
Amanda’s heart went out to Rabb. How awful for him. And she’d been as bad as everyone else. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“I got over it,” Rabb said. He held out his hands and turned them over, as though marveling at them. “My hands have never failed me. I’ve found something I can do well, and I get a tremendous amount of satisfaction from creating unique, one-of-a-kind pieces.”
“I’ve always loved my gazebo,” she admitted in a soft voice.
“I’m glad,” Rabb said.
“I’d love to see more of your work.”
“You’re welcome to come to my workshop.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “When?”
“When can you spare the time? With the wedding coming up, you must have a lot to do over the next couple of weeks.”
Oh. The wedding. She’d completely forgotten. “I have so much to do I’m not sure how I’ll finish it all,” Amanda