LITMIR.BIZ

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and interior decor are not sissy stuff. Having you mind the shop will put them at ease—once they get used to the idea,” she tacked on, then took another peek at his application.

      “Thirty-five years old. Last permanent address in Oklahoma City. Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Got tired of the hustle and bustle, did you? I presume you like to hunt, fish, and get in touch with nature. You’ll like it here in Fox Hollow. I also expect the eligible females hereabout will be on your trail once they’ve spotted you.”

      Daniel—or rather, Joe Gray—glanced over his shoulder to see Mattie grinning impishly. “You think I’m a babe magnet? Me? In my faded polo shirt that’s been through too many spin cycles in the washing machine, and these old jeans?”

      She rolled her eyes at him. “Clothes don’t make the man. It’s what’s inside, but yeah, I’d have to place you in the babe magnet category, Joe. You’re tall, handsome, and those amber eyes of yours are gorgeous. They remind me of sunrise and sunset all rolled into one. But not to worry, you won’t get the slightest pressure from me. I’m your employer, and we’ll be friends who share mutual interests.”

      He was disappointed to hear that, he really was.

      “If you need background information on prospective dates, I’ll be happy to fill you in, since I’ve lived here most of my life.”

      They were going to be just pals? Damn, his suddenly rowdy male body didn’t like the sound of that one little bit. After a long dormancy, his masculine engine was revving up, only to be shut down by this spunky, spirited little pixie who had captured his interest without trying. Maybe that was what he deserved for being lukewarm toward those cover-model types who fluttered around him because of his wealth and reasonably good looks.

      Having completed his application—falsified though it was, and his conscience was nipping at him for that—Joe handed her the paper. He watched as she perched a shapely hip on the edge of her desk to scan the information.

      “You left your current residence blank,” she noted. “Where do you plan to live, Joe?”

      He shrugged. “I noticed that Hush-a-Bye Inn on the outskirts of town rents rooms by the week. I can store my stuff there while I’m looking for something else.”

      “Or you could move into the furnished garage apartment where I used to live,” she suggested. “Now that my grandfather has moved into Paradise Valley Convalescent Home I’ve taken over his house. At Pops’s insistence, I might add. He wouldn’t be in the nursing home if his arthritis and diabetes hadn’t flared up on him.”

      “Judging by the sound of your voice, I presume Pops isn’t enthused about the assisted living center.”

      “Hardly.” Mattie bounded to her feet and paced the narrow confines of her office.

      He noticed that standing or sitting in one place wasn’t Mattie’s thing. She had so much energy that she needed to be in constant motion.

      “Pops is a lot like me, I’m afraid,” she confided. “He has to be doing something constantly, and inactivity has never agreed with him. Lately, he’s been giving me fits because he keeps escaping from the home at odd hours, putting the doctors and nurses into one tizzy after another, because his ability to escape reflects on their reputations. They don’t like to keep losing him, and he delights in sneaking off.”

      Joe chuckled in amusement. Pops reminded him of his own grandfather. One year ago, J. D. Grayson announced he was leaving the company to take life easy. Since then, J.D. had taken an Alaskan and Caribbean cruise, offered his supervisory services for two Habitat for Humanity projects, and volunteered as director of activities for the nearby senior citizen center.

      “Mattie!”

      Mattie gestured for Joe to follow her. “You might as well take a tour of the work area while I wrap it up with Alice Dawson. Part of your job involves handling tools for special projects.”

      Curious, Joe followed in Mattie’s wake, his gaze still magnetically drawn to the hypnotic sway of shapely hips wrapped in denim that molded to her fanny like gloves. Damn, there was such an intriguing aura about this woman, he marveled. An hour ago, he’d felt tense and frustrated. Then, poof! It was as if he’d been transported into another dimension in time with this delightful pixie as his tour guide.

      Joe skidded to a halt the instant he entered the workroom. His eyes popped as he panned the area that reminded him so much of the workshop where he and J.D. had designed crafts almost two decades earlier. It was where Joe had spent his spare time, working with his hands, dealing with the frustration of his parents’ abandonment, then the loss of his grandmother. Together he and J.D. had poured their grief and disappointment into creative projects that somehow turned into an enormously lucrative business.

      “Does all this equipment belong to you?” Joe croaked. It had to, because he knew perfectly well that the work space at Hobby Hut Enterprises did not come equipped with state-of-the-art power tools like these!

      Mattie glanced up from her consultation with Alice Dawson, then nodded. “Most of the tools are mine. Some of them were donated by my grandfather. He used to help me until his arthritis hampered him.”

      Amazed, Joe surveyed the various and sundry of saws, drills, sanders and clamps that Mattie had at her disposal. A woman who shared his love of working with his hands? A woman who felt as at home in a workshop as he did? This woman was every woodcrafter’s dream come true. Joe couldn’t believe his luck. Working here would be the therapy he needed.

      An amused smile pursed Mattie’s lips as she watched him inspect one tool after another. “You look surprised, Joe. But then, it’s not the first time I’ve gotten that reaction from men. Although I have a degree in art, my minor is woodcrafting and carpentry.”

      “I really do get to play with your tools?” he asked, delighted.

      She nodded, causing her shiny raven ponytail to shimmer in the florescent light. “Although Hobby Hut sells generic wood furniture and crafts, I customize and personalize projects for customers. Like this project, for instance.”

      When Mattie motioned him forward, Joe strode over to study the framed original painting and shelves she had designed for Alice Dawson. His jaw dropped to his chest as he studied the artwork that featured what he presumed to be the old Dawson homestead, done in earth-tone colors. The shelves that were to be placed on either side of the painting—made of barn wood that probably came from the Dawson barn—boasted country antiques, small decorative frames, and portraits of Alice’s children and grandchildren.

      “Doesn’t Mattie do fabulous work?” Alice said, smiling proudly at the display. “She came out to my place to gather up odds and ends so they could be included on the shelves. When I saw Josie Foreman’s homestead painting and antique display last month at our home extension club meeting, I knew I had to have one of my own.”

      “Impressive,” Joe complimented.

      “Now that you’re employed here, Joe, I can run over to Alice’s place during my lunch hour to hang the painting and shelves without worrying about being back a minute too late.” Mattie glanced at him hopefully. “You are willing to start work immediately, aren’t you?”

      He grinned. “No problem, boss.”

      Alice clapped her hands together in delight. “You can decorate my wall this afternoon? Wonderful!”

      When Alice scuttled away, beaming like a fog light, Mattie chuckled. “I hope you’re getting the impression that working at Hobby Hut isn’t just a job for me. Making customers happy, rather than tallying dollars and cents, is the name of my game.”

      Yes, he could see that. Mattie Roland was the epitome of Joe’s, and his grandfather’s, vision for their company. She kept what had become commercialized on a personal level by making specialized projects for her customers.

      A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through Joe’s body. Oh yes, this hiatus in Fox Hollow was exactly what the doctor ordered. This was the cure for the affliction

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