After exchanging eye contact with the mysterious new surgeon at church, Margaret bumps into him in town.
When the bell shook against the door, announcing her arrival, the customer at the counter turned.
The customer was Doctor Steele, sporting his grey waistcoat with a gold watch chain tucked neatly into a pocket. But the rest of him was disheveled, hair untouched by a comb and jaw rough with a day’s worth of beard growth.
His gaze lingered, and Margaret’s face went hot. There was a hint of pleasant surprise in his expression, if she wasn’t mistaken, yet he did not smile. As one long second, then another ticked by, the heat in her face slowly spread down her neck and lower still.
She’d experienced thesame perplexing heat in his presence when he’d passed her at church.
Aware they were now openly staring at one another, she quickly sidestepped to the table piled with sacks of flour and muttered, “Good Morning.”
The heat of his gaze still burning into her, he grabbed his crate full of what seemed to be bottles the way they tinkled against each other, and strode toward the door.