LITMIR.BIZ

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      He was teasing her. She glanced away. “I didn’t mean…” Warmth fanned over her skin the way a breeze shifts leaves.

      “I could fit you in every couple days, between other jobs.”

      He had mythical eyes. Charcoal auras around Dakota-blue. She smiled into them. “Thank you. I, uh, I assumed you were a trucker, not a contractor.”

      He sipped his coffee, watched her. “I haul. But I own other equipment as well.”

      “I see.” She had no idea what the other equipment might be, or what “I haul” meant. “Can you give me a ballpark estimate for the walk and steps?”

      He quoted a figure. She reserved her pleasure; her savings could handle the cost. Definitely a standard deviation between city and town. Here, expenses remained low-cost and agreeable to her budget. If she wanted a future in Misty River, she needed both feet on the ground for secure financial investment, which meant calculating her pennies, learning to be an employer instead of an employee. “Sounds reasonable,” she said. “You’re hired.”

      “I can patch the wall as well. For a minimal fee.”

      He’d do that? “Mr. Tucker—”

      “Seth.”

      “Seth. I don’t think that would be—” Fair? Proper? Compared to California landscapers, his price was a godsend. “That’s very generous of you.” Her cheeks warmed.

      “When do you need me?”

      Forever. She rolled her lips inward. “Monday?”

      “Monday’s fine.”

      The bandaged finger roved the mug’s rim. “How come you’re doing the hiring? Paige sick?”

      “She’s fine.” Breena reckoned her choices and went with instinct. She needed someone to understand, to recognize what she’d done and why. I need a friend. “I’ve bought into the shop.”

      His nod encouraged her. “Paige is thinking of retiring come January. She’ll continue as a silent partner. We’re keeping the information confidential for now.”

      Another nod. He sat back, set an arm along the bench. “You planning to stay, then?”

      “Maybe.” She studied the idle morning outside. “Probably.”

      “What’d you do in San Francisco?”

      A black crew cab with five young men pulled up to the curb. “I was a family therapist and a marriage counselor.” A half laugh. “Dumb, huh? I couldn’t see the problems in my own marriage till it was too late.”

      Everything about him stilled. “You’re a social worker?”

      “Psychologist.”

      “But you work with Social Services.”

      “If a patient is referred, yes.” She studied him. He’d gone from warm and congenial to cool and cautious. “You don’t like therapists, Mr. Tucker?”

      “No.”

      His response stung. Her profession shaped her. Someone, somewhere, had twisted his perception. “Perhaps you’d rather not fix our store.” She said it kindly. With empathy. Or maybe not.

      The arm left the bench. “I’ll do it. And I’ll leave my opinions at home.”

      As long as she kept her career and her thoughts hidden. She could do that. “I’m not here to counsel anyone, Mr. Tucker. Unless it’s my finances and your costs.” She offered a smile and shook inside. “This is my home now. I may never go back to Frisco. I don’t know if I could deal with…deal with…” Her throat hurt. He wouldn’t understand. How could he, when she who lived with the deceit, the betrayal, the agony, couldn’t make sense of it?

      His eyes were quiet. “The chance of seeing them again?”

      Around her heart, tightness eased. He understood. For the first time in months, someone—and a virtual stranger at that—someone grasped the bitterness fogging her corner. She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Most of all, that. I kept thinking if I ran into them…”

      Somewhere dishes clinked above the murmur of patron voices.

      “Your relationship,” he said, “a divorce?”

      “And a regular carousel ride.”

      He lifted his cup, didn’t drink. “On a feral beast.”

      “It was like eating live slugs on Fear Factor.”

      His cheek creased. “Or crossing a river full of alligators on Survivor.”

      Their eyes caught, held. A long while. His features were harsh, tough. His eyes—she could wander under those skies and never feel lost. She observed her hands clenched in her lap.

      “You okay?” he asked.

      “I’m fine.” She essayed a smile. “Sometimes reminiscing gets a little crazy.” They were talking like old friends, comparing tragedies, lives. Did you know my husband slept with my sister?

      He remained silent.

      She sighed, needing to explain. “I’ll get over it.”

      The smell of bacon, grits and grease aromatized the room.

      “Sorry for getting tight-assed about your career.” His lashes were sooty, thick as lawn grass. “There have been things— Never mind.” He took a sip of coffee. “Living in a new town, changing jobs, it’ll help.”

      “If it doesn’t, I’m in trouble. Well. Enough of the maudlin. What time can I expect you Monday? We open at nine-thirty.”

      “I’ll be there at one o’clock.”

      She nodded, grateful he hadn’t quit on the spot, what with all her blubbering. “Do you need us to prepare the yard before you arrive? Mow the grass? Move shrubs?”

      She caught it again, the amusement playing in his eyes, on his lips. As if he envisioned her and old Paige spading up the cement blocks, tossing them into a neat pile on the perimeter.

      “No,” he said. “But I’ll need to take some measurements. Six tomorrow okay?”

      “I’ll be there.”

      And she would be. Her shop, her town. Maybe next September—depending how the shop fared under her management—she could buy Paige out. Leftovers from the sale of the house in Frisco might even mortgage a rambling-rose cottage near her aunt.

      Wishes and dreams, peaches and cream.

      Like Seth Tucker’s somber mouth. How would it feel on hers?

      “Where—” She cleared her throat. “Where is your office?”

      “A couple blocks that way.” He inclined his head.

      “I’d like to discuss some details about the work.”

      He set aside the mug. “Why not go over them now?”

      “I should talk to Aunt Paige first.”

      “Sure. We could meet back here for lunch.”

      Such a strong face. And those Dakota eyes— “How about five at your office?”

      He extracted a napkin from the dispenser, flicked a pen from his shirt pocket. A map took shape. “Follow Main east to Chicksaw Lumber, then turn left on Peak Avenue. After you cross the railway tracks, turn left for a block. The office is on the corner. Old, red-brick building.” A circle marked the spot. “Can’t miss it.”

      The napkin glided across the table under his hand. She took the paper; electricity zinged between their fingers.

      Caching the map in her tote, she smiled. She could find the place blindfolded. Misty River was that kind of town, that kind

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