Chapter Three
Pippa unwrapped the towel from her hair and breathed in the moist, warm air while she combed the tangles free. The hot shower and the resulting thick billows of steam had thawed her out entirely, leaving her feeling relaxed and warm, through and through. It had felt so good to fly up the side of the mountain, snowflakes pelting her, the wind brushing past. The snow machine—snowmobile, as Seth called it—had been easy to handle, responsive, and one heck of a lot of fun. She’d felt so . . . alive. Alive in a way she hadn’t felt, or, more to the point, hadn’t allowed herself to feel in far too long.
She knew she was fine, knew her throat was fine, her voice was fine. Or as fine as it was going to be. It had been eleven months since the surgery. She’d done everything the doctors and specialists had told her to, following their guidelines down to the letter. She’d been given the all clear to begin singing again months ago. She had a few precautions she needed to take, but there was nothing to stop her from resuming her old life. With a reduced performance schedule at first, yes, but ... she should be out there, singing, recording, performing.
Should be.
Every time she spoke, however, she heard a completely different voice come out of her mouth. One that was still foreign and unfamiliar to her. Her doctors said the last bit of throatiness could fade in time, though she might retain a bit of it forever. It wasn’t the huskiness she minded. In fact, she thought it made her sound a bit sexy. She giggled at that as she caught the image of herself in the slowly defogging mirror. “Oh, you’re dead sexy, you are.”
She was a pipsqueak, or so her grandda had always called her, with all the curves of a ten-year-old lad. She hardly thought having a bit of throat in her voice was going to suddenly imbue her with sex appeal. But she didn’t mind it. Maybe she’d even get used to it. Some day.
It wasn’t really that she was afraid it would change her sound, although that did concern her a wee bit. No, mostly it was that every time she opened her mouth and spoke, and heard that rasp, she was reminded of that day, standing on the stage in London. It was the last day of her first world tour, one that had taken a far greater toll on her than she’d been wanting to admit, even to herself. She’d been singing her heart out, and, as it happened, she’d sung her voice right out, too. She’d known she needed a rest, knew her voice needed a rest, and she’d planned a nice long one, just as soon as they packed up and headed home to Dublin. But it had been one show too many. Her vocal cords had ruptured right there, on stage, leaving her unable to make any sound at all.
Everything had happened so quickly after that, and though utterly terrifying at the time, she’d come to terms with the catastrophe over the painstakingly slow, seemingly endless, weeks and months of arduous recovery that had followed. That was behind her now, too. She could sing again. Finally.
Only she hadn’t.
She had a vocal coach who specialized in post-surgical reentry for singers. Only Pippa had never actually had a single session with her. She’d never so much as uttered a single note, not even in the privacy of her own shower. Not because what came out would sound foreign ... but because she was utterly, if irrationally, terrified it would happen again. She’d come to terms with the fact it had happened once, but her surgeon had told her that if it happened again, she was done singing. For good.
“So, instead, you’re just going to bloody end it now by not taking the chance,” she said with a resigned sigh. She wanted to take a chance. Wanted to get up her nerve. Wanted to find her way back to the thing that had always been part of her. She’d started singing shortly after she’d taken her first step, or so her ma told everyone who would listen. Song had been Pippa’s boon companion ever since, accompanying her through every single day of her life, both good and bad. Music and song were the soundtrack of her being.
She wanted her song back. Desperately. Not for her career, nor even for the fans who had so delightfully and shockingly given her a livelihood she cherished. She wanted it back for herself. She missed her steadfast companion. So much so, she ached.
That little shriek in the snow pile out there had been the first sound she’d made louder than normal conversation since that night on stage. “And look, nothing bad happened,” she reminded herself. “You’re fine.”
And yet . . .
Pippa realized she was caressing her throat, protecting it, and dropped her hand away. She dried herself off and pulled on the T-shirt her rather gargantuan host had kindly loaned her. It literally fell all the way to her knees. The long sleeves hung well past her fingertips. She took it off, rolled up both sleeves, then carefully slid it on again and turned to the mirror. She laughed and struck a few poses. Her towel-dried hair fell in an unruly mass past her shoulders. Not exactly wavy, definitely not straight, nor curly, just ... unruly. Her face was still a flushed pink from the cold and now the steam. She did the fish-face model pose, then stuck her tongue out at herself. “Oh aye, you’re the epitome of allure, Pippa Mavreen, that you are.”
Smiling, she dug her black leggings out from the pile of clothes she’d shrugged out of earlier and pulled them on under the T-shirt. Seth had given her a pair of jogging bottoms, but she didn’t even bother trying them on. She’d need a cummerbund to keep them up and would have to roll the legs up so many times she’d need straps around her ankles as well. She’d worn the leggings under two other layers and they hadn’t gotten damp, so they’d do for now.
Her socks, however, were soaked. She eyed the nice thick pair of red and gray ones Seth had given her and decided they were better than going barefoot. She pulled them on, then rolled down the tops, making little tubes around her ankles. She looked like she had duck feet. “Glorious,” she said with a grin, wriggling her toes in the roomy foot space. But they were comfy, soft, and toasty warm. They’d do just fine. As long as she didn’t have to run anywhere.
Seth had taken her jacket when they’d come inside, and her boots. She bundled up the rest of her damp clothes and the damp towels, and walked back through the house to what he’d called the mudroom, where they’d first entered. There was a washer and tumble dryer there, and in short order, she had a load going. The bathroom she’d used was adjacent to the guest bedroom he’d said would be hers. She’d stuck her nose in the two other rooms at that end of the chalet, but they appeared to be guest rooms as well, so she assumed he lodged at the other end of the place.
She walked out into the main room and took a slower turnabout now that she was alone. Seth had gone back out into the snowstorm, back to whatever it was he’d been doing before her ignominious arrival. He’d told her to make herself at home, and that whatever was in the kitchen was up for grabs, as he’d put it. She wasn’t sure when he’d be returning and had decided it really wasn’t her business to know.
He’d made some mention of only being informed of her arrival shortly before it had happened and apologized for not being more prepared for guests. All told, he’d been polite enough. There had been a hint of a smile once or twice when they’d been out in the snow, but otherwise he seemed neither pleased nor displeased by the situation thrust upon him. Maybe a bit nonplussed. Then, after he’d given her those few instructions, he’d headed back outside.
She could hardly blame him. It had been on the tip of her tongue during their trek in from the barn, where they’d left Dexter to defrost on his own, to tell her erstwhile host that she’d make other arrangements for her stay.
Katie was the only person Pippa had confided in about her internal struggles, and her youngest sister had repeatedly encouraged her to get away, completely away, from everyone and everything in her regular orbit. Pippa had come to see her point, but had been wrestling with herself on where exactly she should go, and how she should go about doing it. The world was indeed her oyster these days, yet it felt like there was no place to hide.
When the situation with Katie’s old college roommate had arisen, Pippa took the spontaneous offer as a sign, and agreed on the spot. She’d freaked out her assistant and her manager by telling them she was going off grid, promising she’d check in from time to time, then had chartered a flight and had been winging her way across the pond before she could change her mind. It had all felt good. Wonderful, in fact.
Until now. She wasn’t going to be an imposition on someone, as that wouldn’t do either of them any good. And yet, in the end, she hadn’t said anything about finding other lodgings. She still wasn’t entirely sure why. Her host ... intrigued her. Yes, that was one way to put it. But her curiosity shouldn’t come before being considerate.
A quick look through the spectacular, soaring, two-story window that fronted the chalet showed it was still snowing like mad. “So, I guess it’s not something I’m going to be figuring out today.” With that knowledge tucked away for now, she turned and took in the rest of her host’s lair. It was hard to think of it as anything else. He was a towering giant of a man, at least from her five-foot-two perspective. At well over six feet, with broad shoulders that had blocked the snow, thickly muscled legs that had trenched through hip-deep snow like it was nothing, and hands the size of . . . she broke off in mid thought as a little zip of awareness riffed through her. It had been a good long while since she’d felt that particular kind of tingle.
Of course, that zip would lead to absolutely nothing, save a few delicious dreams, perhaps. Katie had warned her that Moira’s big brother was something of a flirt, though of the heart-of-gold variety. Pippa was having a hard time seeing the former, but given he’d rushed out into a snowstorm to save her, the latter did appear to have some basis in reality. Katie had made a point of telling Pippa she didn’t want anything to mar the close friendship she and Moira had shared since their early days at university. Pippa had promised her sister that romance was the very last thing on her mind. In fact, though the gossip rags liked to portray her otherwise, she was still the girl from Donegal, and not at all the type for flings.
Fling or not, however, she was intrigued by the place Seth Brogan called home. She took a slow turn and studied the cozy interior. The central area of the chalet was a big, airy space that formed the base of the two-story A-frame. There was a gorgeous stone fireplace and generous hearth to the left with a large woven rug on the hardwood floor in front of it, and a series of leather and what looked like hand-woven fabric couches, chairs, and ottomans positioned in a rough semicircle in front of it. On the other side of the room was an antique potbelly woodstove that looked a lot like the peat stove her grandda had, and a plank-style dining-room table with bench seating on either side and large ladderback chairs at either end. The tabletop was empty save for a fat red candle inside an hourglass-shaped holder in the center, surrounded by a pinecone arrangement. She wondered if he’d styled that, or if someone had done it for him.
The remainder of the open area was taken up by the kitchen, which was fronted by a wide, angled, granite-topped counter that served as both work surface and eating area. Several comfortable padded stools lined the counter on her side, and she could see that a double sink and grill were inset on the far side. Behind that, galley style, a refrigerator, stove, and glass-front cabinets lined the curved outer wall. It was both rustic and elegant, yet quite masculine, she thought. As was the owner? “Too soon to tell,” she murmured.
Looking up, she took in an enormous ceiling fan that dropped down from a spot just past the apex of the roof. She spied a loft space up there as well that extended out over the kitchen, with a railing made of hand-hewn tree limbs. It was gorgeous and went perfectly with the place. A quick glance around showed no staircase or ladder up to the loft. She looked past the kitchen to the hallway that led to the far section of the house, but it was dark. His bedroom was there, most likely, unless the loft above was a bedroom. She guessed there had to be a way up, but if so, it wasn’t obvious, and it wasn’t at her end of the house.
The snow had been coming down more heavily as they’d made their way from barn to house, so she hadn’t been able to make out much about the architecture from the outside, other than the soaring peak on the front, and a general idea of the overall size. The barn, though, was a stunning piece of stone and wood design she hoped to explore later. She walked over and peered out the front window again, looking toward the barn, but the chill had created a fog in the air, making it hard to see much more than the hulking outline of the place. She couldn’t see the vines from here, either, but she knew from her trip up the hill that they covered at least several acres, stretching out behind the barn and marching down the slope behind it in neat, orderly rows. She looked forward to talking to Seth about it. That is, if he planned on actually talking to her at some point.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since the bagel and tea she’d consumed after she’d woken up on the flight that morning. Taking her host at his word, she poked into the kitchen cupboards, found the pantry behind a small door past the fridge, then took a little tour through the contents of the refrigerator and freezer.
When Seth entered through the mudroom door an hour later, she had a nice Irish stew bubbling on the stove, a fresh pot of tea on the counter close to the stools, and a tray of scones in the oven. She’d been searching the refrigerator for jam when she heard the side door open and leaned back to look toward the mudroom. “Welcome back,” she said with a smile.
He didn’t respond, but he might not have heard her. He was busy divesting himself of the mound of outerwear he had on, all of it covered with snow. She watched as he took off several layers of gloves, draping them on a rack that had been positioned above a small space heater. He unwrapped and took off the long wool scarf he’d had around his neck; then came the heavy canvas coat. It was only when he removed the monstrosity of fur that covered his head that she completely forgot she was standing in front of an open fridge door. Though the cool air emanating from the interior was suddenly quite welcome.
He was, in a word, stunning. All she’d seen of him during their stint outdoors was a snow-encrusted beard, dark sunglasses, and giant, furry headgear in a swirl of white. As it turned out, under all of that he was . . . well, Thor, the God of Thunder came to mind. His hair was long, very long in fact. As it was damp, it was hard to tell for certain, but dark blond was her guess on the color, maybe with a hint of red thrown in, like in his beard. He had it evenly plaited against the back of his head, falling in one long rope that hung halfway down his back. His back, now facing her, was wide, and ridiculously muscular. He’d pulled off several layers and was down to a thin, dark, soaking wet undershirt that clung to him, outlining every last one of those ridges. God bless it.
Though his shoulders were broad, his waist was narrow, at least by comparison. His hips were straight lines, but even in the canvas pants he wore, which now clung to his legs, when he bent down to unlace the tops of his boots, it was apparent that his thighs were not only large, but also very well defined, as was his nicely curved bum.
He turned then and caught her, dead to rights, staring straight at his ass. Her gaze jerked immediately to his as he straightened, and heat flashed into her cheeks. However, the stormy countenance she’d expected to find was not only shockingly absent, but the flash of white teeth, along with a pair of the most beautiful golden-brown eyes she’d ever seen, stunned her right into very uncharacteristic speechlessness. With the chiseled cheekbones just above the beard, which in and of itself made his curved lips look oh so very sensual, his eyes fair to glowed as he grinned at her. This couldn’t possibly be the same man she’d met just hours ago.
“Penguin got your tongue?” he asked, utterly unashamedly, those dazzling, leonine eyes twinkling.
She snapped her mouth closed, realizing only then she’d been gaping. Who could blame her? Holy mother of angels, but he was magnificent. Even that seemed too mild a description. “Possibly,” she finally managed, her normal, easygoing cheek having completely deserted her. Seeing his glance move to the open fridge door she was all but hanging on to, she straightened and closed it. “Jam,” she said rather obtusely. “For the scones. Do you have any?” Get it together, lass.
“Will apple butter do?”
She wrinkled her nose at that. “I’m . . . not sure,” she said, as politely as she was able. She’d never had it, or heard of it, but it sounded absolutely horrid.
He chuckled at that, and the transformation continued. Who was this gorgeous, charming man? Not the abominable snowman who’d made that daring rescue attempt, then grumbled his way through their brief exchange before depositing her here. Those brief glimpses of something resembling a smile paled in comparison to the real thing.
“Let me change into some dry clothes and I’ll get it for you. I think you’ll be a convert. If not, I’m sure Addie Pearl stashed some of her jam in the pantry the last time she was out here.”
Pippa didn’t know who Addie Pearl was or why she’d been putting things in Seth’s pantry, but that wasn’t any of her business either. Maybe Katie had gotten it wrong about Seth’s relationship status. She’d said he was single, but he was a grown man, after all, so it was unlikely he shared every personal tidbit with his sister, or his family. She certainly didn’t.
“Don’t go to any bother,” she said. “About the jam, I mean. Not about the clothes. You should get out of those.”
His eyebrows lifted; then he laughed outright when she blushed so deeply she felt her face grow hot. Seriously, Pip, this isn’t like you one bit. And it wasn’t. She was the one who surprised other people. She could put the most starstruck fan at ease with an easy smile and fast quip, just as she could put the most overly confident lothario in his place with a swift, devilishly concocted response. The kind that left him unable to determine whether he’d been delicately refused or witheringly emasculated until well after she’d made her departure.
Yet here she was, in front of a man who hadn’t made any untoward comments or acted in any way other than honorably toward her, who had seemed, until this moment, more put out with her than anything, and she was completely floundering. Your hormones aren’t. They know exactly what they want. She ignored that. Or tried to,
Apparently somewhere during his time spent out in that storm doing goodness knew what, he’d had a change of heart. She narrowed her gaze on him then, hoping that change of heart hadn’t included a change in any other part of his thinking where she was concerned. Since she’d climbed into the spotlight with her music, she’d become very adept at reading people. She’d read him as the stalwart, savior type, the kind of man who’d be far more likely to defend her honor rather than sully it. She was rarely wrong, but it did happen.
“I think I’ll go do that,” he said, seemingly unfazed by her stare-down. “Would there happen to be enough for two of whatever you’ve got cooking on the stove there? If it tastes half as good as it smells, I’ll make sure you’ll never want for jam again.”
She smiled at that and his easy humor helped her find her voice again. “There is,” she said. “And you’ve got yourself a deal.”
He sat on a stool in the mudroom and started to work the buckles and the rest of the laces on his boots. She opened her mouth to ask if he needed help, then closed it again. She most definitely did not need to be putting herself in his immediate personal space right at that moment. Or maybe any moment. Certainly not until she got her sudden raging case of dumbstruck attraction under control.
“You said to make myself at home, so I hope you don’t mind my commandeering your kitchen. If you’d rather I not, let me know what your schedule is, and I’ll simply cook around it.”
“My schedule is all over the place. Cook anytime you like,” he said, then grunted as he tugged the first boot, then the second one free. He set them by the space heater. They looked huge to her.
She looked back to him and found him watching her, his expression still open and easy, but the smile polite now, rather than ragingly sexy.
“Sorry I wasn’t more prepared,” he said. “You shouldn’t have had to do the cooking, at least not after that long flight, and the—” He nodded toward the window and, she assumed, the snow.
She smiled. “It was no bother, really. Though I hope you didn’t have plans for that roast in the freezer. I made a pot of beef stew. My gran’s recipe. It’ll last you a few days. I thought it was the least I could do since you didn’t know I was coming. I was going to make some bread, but couldn’t find the yeast. So, I made scones.”
“You like to cook?”
She smiled then. “You sound surprised.”
“No, I just supposed you had someone who did that for you.” He smiled before she could form a reply. “Part of that entourage you mentioned earlier.”
“Ah,” she said. “Right. I do have a few folks to help me manage my daily affairs, but I fend for myself in the kitchen. I like to cook, so that’s okay. There are times I’ve thought it would be lovely to have someone do the laundry and change the beds, though,” she added with a smile. “I tried it once, having a housekeeper, I mean. Lovely as she was, it just felt odd having someone about, living under the same roof.” Her smile curved into a grin. “I do have a cleaning service that comes in once a week now, if that sounds a bit more star-ish. I just make sure I’m not there when they are, and we all get on quite well.”
“Well, I’m not a star of anything but this vineyard, so I don’t know what explains the service I use,” he said, his expression one of amusement now, “but I agree on the needing to be out when they come in.”
And she blushed all over again. “Here I am, thinking I’m putting you at ease, showing you how normal I am, and I’m just digging myself deeper into the hole I started with that snow machine, aren’t I?”
“We’re all our own brand of normal,” he said easily, apparently not offended by her patronizing little speech about how she handled all of the day-to-day details of her oh so entitled life. He got up and walked down the hall toward the set of rooms at the opposite end of the house. “The jam should be on the third shelf down, inside the fridge door. I’ll be out in fifteen.”