Far worse.
She rose slowly.
Her size made the movement deliberate.
The reinforced chair creaked as her weight shifted.
She stood before him.
Closer now.
Cole could smell rain in her hair.
Tea.
Something faintly sweet.
Abigail looked up.
Then said:
“Can I kiss you?”
The companion nearly dropped her gloves.
Cole stared.
“What?”
Abigail flushed bright pink.
“A kiss.”
The housekeeper turned away, possibly to hide her expression.
Cole looked around the room.
Every person suddenly pretended not to listen.
He returned his attention to Abigail.
“Why would you want to kiss me?”
She looked at him as if the answer were obvious.
“Because you look sad.”
Cole swallowed.
The words struck somewhere he had spent a decade protecting.
He covered it with irritation.
“You think kissing strangers is treatment for sadness?”
“Not generally.”
“Then why?”
Abigail looked around the enormous ranch house.
Dark wood.
High ceilings.
Perfect furniture.
No clutter.
No children’s shoes.
No unfinished sewing.
No book left open on a table.
Nothing that suggested anyone lived there rather than maintained it.
Her eyes returned to him.
“Because your house is too quiet.”
Cole went still.
He asked:
“How do you know I don’t have anybody?”
She looked around again.
Then answered:
“Because nobody who is loved properly comes home to rooms this silent every day.”
His jaw tightened.
Her companion stepped forward quickly.
“I’m terribly sorry.”
She reached for Abigail’s arm.
“We should go upstairs.”
Cole lifted one hand.
“Wait.”
The companion stopped.
Cole looked at Abigail.
She seemed suddenly uncertain.
He stepped closer until only a small space separated them.
“You really think I look sad?”
She nodded.
“Sometimes.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
Cole should have laughed.
Or ordered them out.
Or returned to his office.
Instead he heard himself ask:
“And this kiss?”
Abigail’s face warmed.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Something in Cole’s eyes changed.
“That may be the problem.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“It might.”
Silence.
Abigail looked down.
Then back at him.
“May I?”
Cole had not been kissed with tenderness in ten years.
He had been touched occasionally.
A handshake.
A doctor examining an injury.
A ranch hand clapping his shoulder after a good sale.
But nobody had cupped his face.
Nobody had decided he looked as though gentleness might help.
He whispered:
“Okay.”
Abigail raised both hands.
Slowly enough that he could stop her.
He did not.
Her palms settled against his face.
Warm.
Soft.
Cole’s eyes closed involuntarily.
Her thumbs rested beneath his beard.
She rose slightly and pressed a small kiss to his cheek.
Nothing more.
No seduction.
No performance.
Simply warmth.
Cole opened his eyes.
Abigail smiled.
Then noticed the tear.
His tear.
It moved from the corner of his eye into his beard.
Cole felt humiliated.
Then another appeared.
Abigail did not look shocked.
She brushed it away with her thumb.
That made everything worse.
The ranch house remained completely silent.
Cole whispered:
“You shouldn’t do that.”
Abigail’s hands stayed against his face.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know me.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“But I know what lonely looks like.”
Cole’s hands moved almost without permission.