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night as to how long it was, and whether it was wavy or straight. Then he wondered what she would wear and how she'd style her hair today before squashing those thoughts and reminding himself that he had everything to lose if their affair turned sour.
    When he entered the antechamber to the offices that held the drafting tables, Lucky had his answer. She stood with her back to him, as she leaned over one of the tables. Wearing light gray breeches over her slightly curved backside with black boots, they did not hide the fact that she was slender and tall for a woman. She had a pink short-sleeved jacket fitted over a white high-collared shirt. As he visually caressed the bare golden skin of her forearms, his mouth suddenly went dry and the tickle in his throat began to rise. He coughed, gaining her attention. When she turned to him, she smiled, revealing those enchanting dimples. His chest tightened and his heart began to race.
    So much for resolutions of thinking only pure, appropriate thoughts about another man's wife––even after sitting in church the night before and vowing before God that he would be on his best, most gentlemanly behavior around her. It did no good because his sleep had been peppered with erotic dreams all night long about having her dark red hair fanned out on his pillows, her body writhing beneath his while he thrust into her until they both reached completion.
    "Good morning, sir." Her golden-brown eyes shone bright as the smile broadened, revealing those even white teeth that he longed to part with his tongue.
    Oh, God. Mercy. Please. He forced a cheerful reply. "Good morning to you, too, Mrs. Watkins." She came forward and, wiping her hands on her trousers, she held out her hand again for him to take. He noticed her hand was stained dark gray, likely from the graphite pencils she'd been working with, but he took it anyway. Anything to touch her. Anything to untie the lace netting holding her braid coiled at the nape of her neck and run his fingers through her hair. But he hadn't been invited to touch her hair. Only her hand.
    "I have been working on a few preliminary drawings since you left yesterday and I'm excited to show them to you." She took her hand back and his felt the absence of her warmth. "But first—," She turned to the open door of her husband's office. "I have someone for you to meet." Pushing the door open further, she motioned for him to follow her. "Mr. Watkins, our potential client has arrived."
    Lucky entered the office behind Mrs. Watkins and noticed immediately the slight figure of an elderly man behind the same desk where Mrs. Watkins had sat just yesterday. Lucky stepped forward and nodded his greeting as the older man rose and stretched out his hand. It was cold, the skin dry and thin with an ashen hue and Lucky sensed the man was not long for this world.
    But that didn't make coveting his wife any less sinful.
    "Have a seat and tell me how Hamish's lad fares," the gray-haired gentleman asked. Lucky noticed that Mrs. Watkins had backed out of the room and closed the door silently behind her, leaving the two men alone. He wondered why she'd done that since she would be the designer on the project.
    Nearly an hour later, Lucky realized he found himself in the awkward position of liking this man whose wife he'd dreamed of the night before. Though he shouldn't, he couldn't help but wonder at the nature of their marriage. Surely it wasn't normal. He just couldn't imagine that with the great disparity in age they could have anything in common outside of their work. And as the elder man spoke of his years beginning his yard with Ian's father and another man who'd given it up for the church, Lucky knew he probably should listen a little more closely than he was. Instead he found himself nodding at what he hoped were appropriate times as the elder man droned on.
    He told Mr. Watkins about Ian's wife and daughter, and promised the man that Ian would certainly come in person at least