Claire stood at the kitchen counter chopping carrots, her back to him. Her braided hair brushed her nape and stopped at a point high between her shoulder blades, her blue flannel shirt tucked into slim jeans. His gaze lingered on the narrowness of her waist, the curve of her hips, traveled the length of an incredible pair of legs. She'd traded her chunky rubber boots for beat-up pink slippers. One of them looked like it might have been used as a dog's chew toy.
"Take a seat," Janey said, jarring Dillon from his sightseeing. His hostess emerged from a hallway at the rear of the cabin and swept toward the kitchen. "We were just about to set out dinner. I hope you brought your appetite."
Dillon's glance swung back to Claire. More than he'd expected, it would seem. He looked away. "I'll wash up."
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