Her Ideal Man Read Online Free Page B

and snobbish about her desire to leave New York, and she’d let him go after a few months of dinner-and-show dates, with no regrets.
    It was a surprise to find herself awash in a crush at the age of twenty-five. She didn’t exactly know how to handle it, particularly when the object of that crush was about as attainable as a movie star.
    It was just plain silly, a ridiculous fantasy born of too many fairy tales.
    Practicality had never been her strong suit, but for this bit of time stranded in Tyler Forrest’s cabin, Anna would try hard to employ it.
    She bent her head sideways to read the titles of his books—and smiled. There were several books on the Crusades, and serious historical examinations of European history, and the expected books on woodcraft and carving and renovation. As a carpenter, Tyler was unequaled, and he was much in demand for his handmade banisters and railings, for the hand-carved doors and window frames and baseboards he made in the old way. Louise said he could make a fortune if he charged what he was worth, but he didn’t.
    He also had children’s books, no doubt for Curtis, and a collection of serious novels. Very serious novels—Hermann Hesse and Willa Cather and Jerzy Kosinski. Ugh. Not only serious literature, but very dark books, as well. Anna fingered Hesse’s novel Narcissus and Goldmund , and remembered the tale of an aesthetic priest and a sensual artist with some fondness. She pursed her lips. Tyler had both in his nature, but she’d have bet a large sum that he fancied himself the aesthetic priest—while she had always identified with the sensual man.
    Finally she found a row of paperback fantasy. Something readable, anyway, though most of it, too, was of serious nature. She doubted Tyler allowed himself anything frivolous. Choosing a retelling of the Tam Lin ballad from the shelf, she settled by the fire, covered up with a thick cotton throw, and settled in to read.
    Charley, apparently pleased, padded over to lean against the couch next to her. She chuckled. “What a good companion,” she said, scratching the pup’s ears. Gratefully, he licked her wrist, then, as if to give her permission to ignore him, curled into a surprisingly compact ball and fell asleep.
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    Tyler had escaped outside more to put his thoughts in perspective than out of a need for wood. The cabin had no furnace, only the big fireplace, the potbellied stove in the kitchen and another in Curtis’s room, so woodchopping was something he didn’t neglect. There was a small generator to augment the solar panels he had installed last summer, but they would still have to be very careful with lights until the storm was over.
    He wondered with a frown if Anna understood how much she would be roughing it here. Because of Curtis, he had installed a septic tank last year, and water was no problem, but the cabin was still rather crude, as modern conveniences went. And she was a city girl.
    Unlike Kara. Out in the storm, with snow lighting on his face, he called up a memory of his late wife. She had loved the snow, and especially loved fierce storms like this one, when they would be trapped for days or weeks alone together. Kara had sewed one of her many quilts, and hummed to herself, while Tyler contentedly carved wood. At night, she’d drunk one of her specially concocted herb teas while Tyler sipped at a snifter of blackberry brandy, and they’d talked until the fire boiled in them, at which point they would drift to bed and make love for long, slow hours.
    A sharp pain cut through his belly. Not only over the loss of his wife, but over the loss of his ability to commemorate their time together in his usual way. Today, she had been dead four years. He had planned to drink brandy and carve wood tonight, and remember her, honor her memory. He’d done so every year, and now Anna would be in his way.
    â€œI’m sorry, Kara,” he said aloud, as was his