of berating him more for startling her, she asked, “Do you need anything?” and hated that she sounded breathless.
“A shower.”
Spoken in his deep voice, those two words sounded like an invitation. April felt her cheeks color. She grabbed the muffin tin and shoved it into the oven, hoping the heat that wafted out would provide a decent excuse for her blush. “I can have breakfast ready in about twenty minutes. Are you always up at this time?”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“Too inspired?”
She’d been referring to his writing, but one side of his mouth kicked up like he’d taken the question another way. “Not yet,” he answered. “But there’s time for that.”
She didn’t understand his mood this morning. He was relaxed and almost flirty, different from the tense, bitter man she’d encountered yesterday.
“Working out helps me,” he offered, as if reading her mind. “Gives me an outlet that I find calming.”
“I teach yoga,” she said with a nod. She opened the dishwasher and started putting away the clean dishes. “It does the same thing.”
“Do you teach at Crimson Ranch?” He moved closer, took a seat at the island. Connor seemed unaware of the effect his upper body was having on her, and she tried to ignore her reaction. Even if he hadn’t been a guest, this man was not for her.
She filled a glass with water and placed it on the counter in front of him. “During the summer months, I teach at the ranch. There’s also a community center in town that offers classes, and another studio between Crimson and Aspen.”
“You’ve done yoga for a while?” he asked, taking a long drink. A droplet of water traced a path along his strong jaw, then over his throat and down the hard planes of his chest. He wiped it away, then met her gaze. It took April several seconds to realize he was waiting for an answer to his question.
“Almost fifteen years.” She concentrated on unloading the dishwasher as she spoke. “I had some injuries from dancing when I was younger, and yoga helped my body heal. I owned a studio in California for a while.” She’d loved the studio she’d built from the ground up, but it had become one more casualty of her illness and then the divorce.
“But you teach for other people here?”
April felt her eyes narrow. Connor was a little too insightful. The woman who owned the private studio outside of town had offered to sell the business to April on several occasions. Marty was in her seventies, ready to retire and move closer to her adult children and their families, but she felt a loyalty to the local clients she had in the area. April knew the older woman had received offers from at least two national chains, but Marty hoped her studio would remain locally owned.
“It gives me more flexibility,” she answered.
“Do you travel?”
She focused her attention on the basket of knives and forks. “No.”
“Have a big family?”
She shook her head, not liking where this line of questioning was leading.
“Why is flexibility important?”
How was she supposed to explain? It was the answer she always gave, and no one had ever questioned her answer. Not until Connor.
April loved Colorado and the town of Crimson, but as much as she was grateful for a new start and the friends that were part of it, there was something missing. A broken piece inside that prevented her from truly committing to this town the way Sara and so many of their friends had in the past couple of years.
There was too much at stake for April, because if she devoted herself to making a life here the way she had in California and then lost it again, she wasn’t sure she’d survive. It was easier to play the part of caretaker and helpful friend. Those roles allowed her to be a part of the community without investing the deepest pieces of her heart and soul in anyone.
Giving too much—feeling too much—left her vulnerable to pain, and she’d had enough pain to last a lifetime.
“Why do you care?” she asked, slamming the empty silverware basket back into the dishwasher and closing the machine’s door. She hated how this man riled her but couldn’t stop her reaction to him any more than she could deny the attraction she felt. All she could do was ignore them both.
He pushed the empty glass across the counter. “Just making conversation,” he said as he stood, his gaze steady on hers. There was a teasing light in his eye, and awareness danced across her skin in response. He didn’t seem upset by her rudeness or realize how out of character it was. But she knew and it scared her. “We’re the only two people here so—”
“Actually, we’re not.” She placed her palms down on the cool granite and leaned toward him. “There are two sweet, sad girls in the other cabin who are afraid to make a sound in case they get me in trouble.”
“They don’t belong here,” he said, the warmth in his voice disappearing instantly.
“They don’t belong anywhere,” she countered. “That fact doesn’t make it easier to manage. I’d think you would understand—”
“I’m here to work.” He pushed away from the island. “Not to play grief counselor.”
“How’s the writing going? Is being alone in this cabin inspiring you?”
She thought he’d walk away so was surprised at his quiet answer. “I’m always alone.”
Just when she’d worked up a good temper, one that could hold her attraction at bay, he’d done it again. Let a bit of vulnerability slip through the impenetrable shields he had to curl around her senses.
April understood alone. She knew the emptiness of loneliness but also the safety it provided. She didn’t want to have that in common with Connor, because it was a truth she hadn’t shared with anyone else in her life. If he recognized it in her...
“You don’t have to be,” she said quietly, and the words were as much for her as him. She wanted to believe them even as the fear that lived inside her fought against it.
“Yes, I do.” He ran a hand through his hair, the damp ends tousling. “I’m going to take that shower.”
“Breakfast will be ready when you’re finished. I’ll—”
“Leave it,” he snapped. “I don’t need you to wait on me.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t complain to anyone. It’s distracting to have you in and out. Leave the food and I’ll take care of myself. I’m used to it.”
He didn’t wait for an answer before stalking from the kitchen.
April blew out an unsteady breath. She was making a mess of this. Sara still had ties to Hollywood and continued to act when the right roles came along. Not as much since expanding the ranch, but the studio that held the movie rights to Connor’s books was important to Sara. It’s why her friend had agreed to arrange two weeks at the cabin for him. It was also why Sara had asked April to step in and help. April’s talent was caring for people. It was something she enjoyed and a gift she used both at the ranch and while teaching her yoga classes. She normally had an easy way with even the most demanding guests.
But she was at her worst with Connor, and she hated it. As abrasive as he could be, he was also her client, and he’d survived a life-altering tragedy that should make her more sympathetic to him.
She imagined that Connor hated sympathy—she had during her battle with breast cancer. The pitying looks and fake support from the women she’d thought were her friends had added an extra layer of pain to her life. Those so-called friends had said the right things but quickly distanced themselves when the treatments robbed her of strength, her looks and most of her dignity.