LITMIR.BIZ

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could it hurt, she thought, to participate in a little harmless middle of the night conversation? After considering possible safe topics, she said, “Bourbon or Merlot?”

      “Bourbon, hands down.”

      She was surprised. She’d have pegged him as the kind of man who had an extensive wine collection.

      “Hard rock or Rap?” he asked when it was his turn. “First, what are you doing?” He pointed at the sink she was filling with sudsy water.

      “The dishwasher’s broken, and there won’t be money in the budget to have it repaired until July,” she explained. “Hard rock and Rap are both okay on occasion, but my favorite musician of all time is Leonard Cohen.”

      As two iridescent bubbles floated on the rising steam, he said, “So you’re a romantic at heart.”

      Had he moved closer? Or had she? Putting a little space between them again, she scoured a saucepan.

      Kyle said, “I’d offer to fix your dishwasher, but I’m afraid my brother Braden is the mechanical genius in the family. I’m good with my hands in other ways.”

      “I’m sure you’ll be very happy with yourself.”

      His laugh was a deep rumble, the kind that invited everyone to smile along. They were standing close again, her shoulder nearly touching his arm. This time he was the one who moved slightly. Picking up a towel, he began to dry. “I believe it’s your turn.”

      Hmm, she thought as she washed measuring cups and spoons. “Baseball or football?”

      “Football, but I like races the best. European Auto Racing is my favorite, probably because my youngest brother is trying to break records and hopefully not his neck. Chicken or fish?”

      “I’m more of a pasta girl. Dogs or cats?”

      “Dogs,” he said. “Friends or family?”

      Rinsing her wine glass and carefully handing it to him by the stem, she said, “I don’t have much family.”

      “Then it wasn’t a family connection that brought you to Orchard Hill?”

      Keeping her wits about her, she said, “Madeline likes to say Orchard Hill found me. The elderly couple that used to own The Orchard Inn had been looking for someone to take it over. I applied, and the rest is history.”

      “So you work for this old couple?” he asked.

      “I bought the inn from them with the money my grandmother left me. She’d been very ill and died right after I moved here.” Summer’s grandmother had been the only one who knew where she went, and the estate attorney had promised to keep her location confidential.

      “The grandmother you and your sister spent summers with on Mackinaw Island?” he asked.

      She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised he’d been listening when she’d mentioned that. Keeping her eyes on the dish she was washing, she said, “I wasn’t kidding when I told you I don’t have much family.”

      “If you’d like, you can borrow some of mine. Other than Riley and Braden, most of our relatives are female. One mother, two stepmothers and too many grandmothers, aunts and family pets to count. Action-adventure or horror?”

      She laughed at the awkward segue. “I live alone in a hundred-and-twenty-year-old inn. Definitely not horror.” It was her turn to ask a question. She took her time deciding which one. “Crime dramas or reality TV?”

      “Could I get another choice here?”

      “You don’t watch much television?” she asked.

      He made a sound universal to men through his pursed lips. “Three hundred channels and there’s still nothing on half the time.”

      She looked up at him and smiled, for she’d often thought the same thing.

      “See what I mean?” he said, his voice a low croon befitting the dark night. “We have a lot in common. We’re practically soul mates.”

      She wished she could blame the warm swirl in the pit of her stomach on the lateness of the hour or the wine. “Out of all these questions,” she said, “we’ve found only one thing we have in common. I don’t believe in soul mates.”

      His gaze went from her eyes, to her lips, to the base of her neck where a little vein was pulsing. He folded the towel over the edge of the sink and got caught looking at her lips again. He didn’t pretend he didn’t want to kiss her. And yet he waited. A man who had enough self-confidence to want a woman to be sure wasn’t an easy man to resist.

      A gentle breeze stirred the air. Somewhere a night bird warbled. Moments later an answering call sounded from across the river. Summer didn’t recognize the bird-song, but she understood the language of courtship. It seemed to her that birds had a straightforward approach to life. They built a nest in the spring, raised a brood and, as if guided by some magical internal alarm clock, they gathered in flocks and flew south to a tropical paradise for the winter, only to return and start all over again in the spring.

      Summer had started over once. She never wanted to do that again, which brought her right back to where she and Kyle had started. Whatever this was, be it a date interview or simply a pleasant interlude, it was ending. It had to.

      Taking a deliberate step back, she said, “Good night, Kyle.”

      He handled the mild rejection with a degree of watchfulness and his usual charm. She wasn’t expecting the light kiss. Little more than a brush of air, it was over by the time she’d closed her eyes. The dreamy intimacy lingered as he walked to the door.

      “Thank you for the midnight snack,” he said quietly, “and for having a sunset personality.”

      She smiled. And he was gone.

      It was a few minutes before Summer’s heart settled into its normal rhythm. Occasionally Madeline used to join her in the kitchen late at night. Kyle was the only man who ever had. Strangely, his presence hadn’t been an intrusion. Without even trying, he’d made her feel understood. Kyle Merrick would make a good friend.

      He would have been a good lover, too. Of that, she had no doubt. All things considered, his middle of the night visit had gone well. He seemed to have accepted the limits she’d set. It was a relief, and yet, with every swish of the drawstring at her waist and every rustle of the fabric at her midriff, she was reminded of what she was missing.

      She stuck her hands on her hips and huffed. She supposed there was always the next best thing.

      On the counter sat the uncorked bottle of wine and the bowl containing the remaining crème brulee. She pushed the wine out of the way and reached for a spoon.

      Friday morning dawned cloudy and gray. The temperature had dropped overnight and the barometric pressure had been on the rise ever since. Spring had returned to Orchard Hill.

      Seven of Summer’s eight guests had shuffled to the breakfast table groggy or grumpy or both, adversely affected by the atmospheric change. Kyle was the last to amble downstairs. Looking surprisingly rested and amiable, he took a seat at the long dining room table as she was clearing away the place settings of five men who’d already left for their day’s work restoring the train depot.

      “Good morning,” she said, as she did to each guest every day.

      “Morning,” he answered. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

      The last two remaining carpenters looked askance at him. When thunder rumbled an exclamation point disguised as weather, Kyle had the grace to counter his sunny outlook with, “Easy for me to say. I’m not being forced to work in it today.”

      With a few grumbles, he was forgiven.

      “Coffee and juice are on the sideboard,” she said. “I’ll be right back with your breakfast.”

      Kyle was alone at the table

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