Finally, she shook her head once more and stooped to grab the handle of her basket. Then, without meeting his eyes again, she turned and all but ran toward the kitchen door.
To her domain.
Where she belonged.
“Fook,” he whispered, tilting his head back so the sun caught his face once more. “Fook!”
She’d tasted like everything good on a summer’s day, and he’d ruined it. Of course.
Then, with a sigh, he swallowed and shifted his crutch under his arm. She’d left him there in the gardens, and there was no way he could follow her inside just then. Instead, he’d stay right where he was and do what she’d accused him of doing at the beginning: practice walking.
And he would try not to think about her lips, her eyes, her touch. Try not to think about taking himself in hand and stroking himself to completion, while imagining her sparkling green gaze as she laughed.
It wouldn’t be easy.