“Just a little desk. It won’t take me long.”

As he stalked forward, his eyebrows rose expressively at the discrepancy between her definition of little and the massive desk that had taken four men to bring in.

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Erica insisted.

He nodded, but there was no answering smile, and while he studied her project, she studied him. After six months, Erica was still trying to get used to Kyle in a different working uniform. She used to think that nothing could accent his black-Irish good looks more than a suit and starched shirt. With thick black curly hair and a pair of flashing turquoise eyes, Kyle had projected drive and assurance in business attire, an aura of strength and controlled power tempered with a sense of humor. He had a more casual look now, in his dark, loose sweatshirt, jeans so worn and soft that they molded themselves to his muscular thighs and hips. But the soft texture of his clothes was denied by the new hardness she saw beneath the surface, from the lean, whipcord muscles that had developed with six months of physical work to the grimly determined expression that had replaced the old gleam of laughter in his eyes.

“Honey…” He rocked down on his heels next to her. “Oak’s a bitch to restore, isn’t it?”

She smiled again, radiantly, relieved there would be no argument. “Incredible. But the desk is so gorgeous! There are two secret drawers and a little hidden cubbyhole-”

“Erica.”

She glanced back at him, only to find a white rag blocking her vision as he gently rubbed at the stain on her nose. His tender touch was a total denial of the harsh quality of his voice.

“You’ve taken on too much.”

“I haven’t,” she denied.