LITMIR.BIZ

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probably been a mistake, Trent thought glumly as he stared into his refrigerator on Friday of the following week. He’d thought she might like it, but he hadn’t been prepared for her to show her gratitude quite so…fervently. A stack of casserole dishes—enough for several days of meals—were neatly stacked in the fridge. Two loaves of fresh-baked bread sat on his counter. There was a plant on his kitchen windowsill, for Pete’s sake.

      He’d only given her an extra chair that had been sitting in his workshop—a chair with a patched arm, for that matter. Had no one ever been nice to the woman before? He should have tried harder to talk himself out of the impulse when it had first occurred to him.

      He closed the refrigerator and reached for the cup of coffee he’d poured a few minutes earlier. He’d thought he was hungry, but seeing all that food in there had killed his appetite. No more generous gestures, he promised himself. He didn’t want to encourage any more awkward expressions of gratitude.

      She knocked on his front door just as he finished his coffee. As he went to let her in, he hoped she wasn’t bringing food or flowers this time.

      Fortunately she was only carrying her cleaning supplies. She gave him one of her dimpled smiles when he reached out to relieve her of the heavy tote. He hated the way his abdomen tightened when she did that.

      He was trying his best not to be attracted to her. But he was. He didn’t even particularly want to like her. But he did. Damn it.

      “Good morning,” she said.

      He nodded, dragging his gaze away from her sweetly curved mouth. “I thought I would fix that kitchen-cabinet door by your sink today. I noticed it keeps swinging open.”

      Her smile tilted ruefully. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hit my head on it. I was beginning to think I was going to have a permanent goose egg on my forehead.”

      He glanced automatically at her smooth forehead, seeing no damage there. No flaws at all, for that matter.

      “Anything special you want me to do here?” she asked, her voice suddenly uncertain—as if the tension he was feeling this morning had rubbed off on her.

      He shook his head. “I’m on my way out.”

      He left quickly, before he could make a total fool of himself.

      As he let himself into her house a short while later and inhaled the lemon-and-flower scents that he associated now with Annie, he reminded himself that the month he’d originally granted for this arrangement was over. He’d gotten quite a lot done on her house; he could quit in good conscience now. Of course, it had been kind of nice having his house cleaned regularly, his laundry done, his fridge filled with ready-to-nuke meals. And her house did need quite a few more repairs.

      Maybe he would give it a couple more weeks. After that, it would probably be better if everything went back to the way it had been before.

      “THAT WAS VERY GOOD, Sam,” Annie told the six-and-a-half-year-old boy on the piano bench beside her the following Monday afternoon. “You have a lot of natural talent.”

      The boy seemed pleased. “I like music.”

      “You still want to learn how to play the piano?”

      His head bobbed affirmatively. “I want to play like John Tesh.”

      His stepmother, Jamie McBride, had entered the room just in time to hear that statement. She laughed and rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy’s the only six-year-old in his class who would rather listen to John Tesh than the latest pop group. He saw him on TV at Christmas and he’s been playing at the piano ever since. We’ve tried to find a teacher for him, but the few local teachers were either booked up or think he’s too young to start.”

      “Oh, I don’t think so.” Annie gave the boy a bracing smile. “I think Sam’s old enough as long he’s willing to do what it takes to learn. And that means practicing at least twenty minutes a day to start out, even longer as you progress further. Do you want to do that, Sam?”

      He nodded eagerly. “I’ll practice an hour a day.”

      Annie chuckled. “Eventually, you may very well practice that long, and more, but there’s no need to burn yourself out at the beginning. Would you like to play for your mom now?”

      Jamie raised her eyebrows. “You learned to play something in your first lesson?”

      He beamed. “Two songs. One’s called ‘Happy Hands’ and the other is ‘Buzzy Bees.’ Do you want to hear them?”

      “Of course I want to hear them.”

      His lower lip gripped between his teeth in concentration, Sam positioned his right hand on the keyboard, looking at Annie for confirmation that he was beginning correctly. She nodded encouragingly. The boy drew a deep breath and stared intently at the open music book in front of him as he played the very simple, four-measure melodies Annie had taught him during the past hour.

      Jamie applauded enthusiastically when he finished. “Sam, that was great! I can’t wait until your dad hears you. Who’d have thought you’d be able to play the piano after your very first lesson?”

      He gave her a reality-check look. “It wasn’t very hard.”

      She laughed and ruffled his blond hair. “Give me a break, will you? If you’re going to take piano lessons, I reserve the right to be disgustingly proud every time you learn something new.”

      Though he was smiling, Sam made a production of rolling his blue eyes. “Oh, man. This is going to be embarrassing.”

      “Bet on it,” Jamie assured him cheerfully.

      Annie noticed that the boy didn’t look particularly dismayed. Quite the opposite, actually.

      She stood and stepped away from the piano bench. “That’s the end of our first lesson. Practice your exercises and I’ll see you next Monday after school, okay, Sam?”

      He nodded, his attention already focused again on the music book in front of him. “See you, Ms. Stewart.”

      Jamie motioned toward the doorway. “Would you join me in the kitchen for a cup of coffee, Annie?”

      “Yes, I’d like that.”

      Jamie led the way through her comfortably decorated house to the kitchen. She had just filled two good-size mugs with fresh-brewed coffee when they were joined by Abbie, who was almost three.

      “Juice?” she asked Jamie hopefully.

      Jamie obligingly poured apple juice into a spillproof toddler cup, handed it to the blue-eyed, blond cherub, then joined Annie at the table. “Sam certainly seems to have enjoyed his first piano lesson.”

      “I can tell he’s going to learn quickly. You were right, Jamie. He has a genuine affinity for the piano.”

      Jamie beamed. “Of course. I know real talent when I see it.”

      “Yes, I suppose you do.” Annie knew from gossip that Jamie had spent nearly ten years working as an actress in New York before moving back to Honoria almost two years ago to teach drama at the high school.

      Some people had expressed surprise that the flamboyant redhead had married Trevor McBride, a conservative lawyer and widowed father of two. Having seen Jamie and Trevor together on a couple of occasions at his office, Annie had sensed the deep, loving bond between the couple that had made their differences irrelevant. And it was very obvious that Jamie was crazy about her stepchildren.

      “Speaking of talent…have you ever done any acting?” Jamie asked, studying her guest in a manner that almost looked assessing.

      A bit warily, Annie asked, “Not since college. Why?”

      “I knew it. You were a music major—musical theater?”

      “Piano, mostly, but I had a few singing roles. What—”

      “Have

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