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      DIXIE BROWNING

      has won numerous awards for both her paintings and her romances. A former newspaper columnist, she has written more than one hundred category romances. Browing is a native of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, an area that continues to provide endless inspiration.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      One

      Marty allowed herself ten minutes, start to finish, to shower, shampoo the stink out of her hair, dress and get back downstairs in time to meet the fourth carpenter. If he even bothered to show up. What the devil had happened to the work ethic in this country?

      She knew what had happened to her own. It fluctuated wildly between gotta-do, gonna-do and can’t-do. Between full speed ahead and all engines reverse, depending on the time of the month.

      At least she had no one depending on her for support. Not even a cat or a dog, although she was thinking about getting one. Something to talk to, something to keep her feet warm in bed at night while she read herself to sleep. But then there were all those shots and flea medicines and retractable leashes and collars and tons of kibble.

      So maybe a couple of goldfish…?

      She checked her image in the steam-clouded bathroom mirror, searching for signs of advancing age. “At least you’re not paying rent. Except for the phone bill, the power bill and property taxes, you don’t owe a penny to anyone.”

      On the other hand, her split ends were in desperate need of a trim and the sweater she was wearing dated back to her junior year in college. Even if she could’ve afforded to update her hairstyle and her wardrobe, she lacked the interest, and that—the lack of interest—was the scariest of all. She was sliding downhill toward the big four-oh, which meant that any day now, the guarantees on various body parts would start running out. Oh sure, her teeth were still sound, and she could still get by with drugstore reading glasses, but she plucked an average of three gray hairs a day; she was collecting a few of what were euphemistically called “laugh lines” and lately her back had been giving her trouble.

      Of course, moving a ton and a half of books and bookshelves single-handedly might have had something to do with that.

      Bottom line, she wasn’t getting any younger. Her income was zilch minus inflation, her savings account had earned the lofty sum of a buck eighty-seven in interest last month, and with the least bit of encouragement she could become seriously depressed. She read all those magazine articles designed to scare women and sell pharmaceutical products. The trouble was, scare tactics worked.

      Frowning down at her Timex, Marty decided she’d give him ten more minutes. Traffic jams happened, even in Muddy Landing, population just shy of a thousand. She’d forgotten to ask where he was staying, when he’d called late yesterday to see if she still needed a builder. If he was coming from Elizabeth City and happened to get behind a tractor or a school bus, all bets were off.

      Squeezing the moisture from her thick chestnut-colored hair, she tried to hedge against disappointment by telling herself that he probably wouldn’t show at all, and even if he did, he probably wouldn’t be able to fit her into his schedule anytime soon. If he did manage to fit her in, she probably couldn’t afford him. But the biggie was her deadline. If he couldn’t meet that, then there’d be no point in even starting.

      “Well, shoot,” she whispered. When it came to looking on the bright side, she was her own worst enemy. So what else was new?

      The first time the idea had occurred to her, she’d thought it was brilliant, but the longer it was taking to put her plan into action, the more doubts were seeping in.

      Was that a car door slamming?

      She gave her hair a last hurried squeeze with the towel and then felt in the top drawer with one hand for a pair of socks. Having long since gotten out of the habit of matching her socks and rolling them together, she came up with a short and a long in two different colors. Tossing them back, she raced for the stairway, bare feet thudding on the hardwood floors.

      At least she no longer reeked of polyurethane. If the cinnamon had done the trick, neither would her house.

      The phone rang just as she hit the third step down from the top. Swearing under her breath, she wheeled and raced back to catch it in case it was her carpenter asking for instructions on how to find her address.

      “Hello! Where are you?”

      “Is

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