yesterday and offered his services as caretaker. Tuck O'Rourke. Do you know him?"
"Sure, I know Tuck." She scooped up her basket of strawberries, snatched up a fat one and twisted off its green top, popping it into her mouth. He watched her swallow. "He's a good guy. Solid, hardworking, not a whole lot of imagination."
"Honest?"
"So far as I know. You want him just to mow and stuff like that or really do some work on the place?"
"I'm considering having some landscaping and other work done."
She frowned. "Landscaping? Like what?"
Her matter-of-fact curiosity took on a proprietary tone. Clate cursed himself for asking her opinion. He'd operated on gut instinct from the time he could walk. He could have decided about Tuck O'Rourke on his own. "I'm not sure yet. The place needs a lot of work."
She flipped the strawberry cap into the dirt. "Well, if you're going to start digging stuff up, I hope you'll let me know before you throw anything out. Some of the Fryes' flower varieties are really old. I'd hate to see them land in a compost heap."
Not that she wouldn't help herself if he neglected to include her in his plans. Clate didn't wonder that the locals were speculating about her aunt resorting to magic to lure a man to Frye's Cove for her niece. Even if the rumor were wholly untrue, he could see that the local male population wouldn't have an easy time of it romancing Piper Macintosh. She was direct, determined, insistent upon seeing people as they were, not simply as they wished her to see them. A man would have to have a good opinion of himself to stand up to her scrutiny—not to mention that of her father and two brothers.
A rough lot, the Macintoshes.
But Clate was unintimidated. He considered asking Piper about O'Rourke's tales of witches, ghosts, devils, and romance. He'd like to see her squirm her way out of that one, whether fact or mere gossip. He decided against it, only because he didn't want to get Tuck O'Rourke in hot water with a woman who knew her way around poison herbs. The poor bastard could never hold his own with Piper Macintosh.
"About Tuck O'Rourke," he said curtly, putting aside speculation about his neighbor's love life. "Any hesitations?"
"No, he'll do a good job. When are you leaving?"
He thought of Irma in her rocking chair on her front porch, needlework and a book always at hand. "Immediately."
He could see the spark of curiosity in Piper's eyes, watched her force it back. "I'll keep an eye on Tuck and make sure he does right by your lawn and gardens."
"I wouldn't ask you—"
"Of course you wouldn't." She grinned, the distress he'd seen when he first arrived completely gone now. "Afraid I'm going to become a pest, Mr. Jackson? Not to worry. I've plenty to do without interfering in your affairs."
He sighed. The woman saw too much, and yet not nearly enough. He'd wager she had no idea he found her attractive. "I just don't want to put you out."
"You're not." She scooped up a handful of berries, let them fall one by one through her splayed fingers, a gesture Clate found impossibly erotic. "Have a good trip."
"Thank you."
"Oh, and if your place starts smoking or something or you remember you left the coffeepot on, I still have the key my aunt gave me. Unless you've changed your locks."
"I haven't," he said, "but perhaps I should."
She gave him a mystified look, as if she couldn't imagine what he'd find wrong in her having a key to his house. "Do you practice getting on people's nerves or is it just a gift?"
"I say what's on my mind."
"Well, that's something we have in common. If it makes you feel any better, there's probably a key to my house tucked away in your kitchen somewhere. Frye's Cove is a small town. Neighbors rely on each other, and it's just you and me out here."
He gave her a slow smile, just deliberately sexy enough to knock her off her high horse. "So it is."
She popped a strawberry into her mouth, stem and all. "How long will you be gone?"
He was unaccustomed to
"Sure, I know Tuck." She scooped up her basket of strawberries, snatched up a fat one and twisted off its green top, popping it into her mouth. He watched her swallow. "He's a good guy. Solid, hardworking, not a whole lot of imagination."
"Honest?"
"So far as I know. You want him just to mow and stuff like that or really do some work on the place?"
"I'm considering having some landscaping and other work done."
She frowned. "Landscaping? Like what?"
Her matter-of-fact curiosity took on a proprietary tone. Clate cursed himself for asking her opinion. He'd operated on gut instinct from the time he could walk. He could have decided about Tuck O'Rourke on his own. "I'm not sure yet. The place needs a lot of work."
She flipped the strawberry cap into the dirt. "Well, if you're going to start digging stuff up, I hope you'll let me know before you throw anything out. Some of the Fryes' flower varieties are really old. I'd hate to see them land in a compost heap."
Not that she wouldn't help herself if he neglected to include her in his plans. Clate didn't wonder that the locals were speculating about her aunt resorting to magic to lure a man to Frye's Cove for her niece. Even if the rumor were wholly untrue, he could see that the local male population wouldn't have an easy time of it romancing Piper Macintosh. She was direct, determined, insistent upon seeing people as they were, not simply as they wished her to see them. A man would have to have a good opinion of himself to stand up to her scrutiny—not to mention that of her father and two brothers.
A rough lot, the Macintoshes.
But Clate was unintimidated. He considered asking Piper about O'Rourke's tales of witches, ghosts, devils, and romance. He'd like to see her squirm her way out of that one, whether fact or mere gossip. He decided against it, only because he didn't want to get Tuck O'Rourke in hot water with a woman who knew her way around poison herbs. The poor bastard could never hold his own with Piper Macintosh.
"About Tuck O'Rourke," he said curtly, putting aside speculation about his neighbor's love life. "Any hesitations?"
"No, he'll do a good job. When are you leaving?"
He thought of Irma in her rocking chair on her front porch, needlework and a book always at hand. "Immediately."
He could see the spark of curiosity in Piper's eyes, watched her force it back. "I'll keep an eye on Tuck and make sure he does right by your lawn and gardens."
"I wouldn't ask you—"
"Of course you wouldn't." She grinned, the distress he'd seen when he first arrived completely gone now. "Afraid I'm going to become a pest, Mr. Jackson? Not to worry. I've plenty to do without interfering in your affairs."
He sighed. The woman saw too much, and yet not nearly enough. He'd wager she had no idea he found her attractive. "I just don't want to put you out."
"You're not." She scooped up a handful of berries, let them fall one by one through her splayed fingers, a gesture Clate found impossibly erotic. "Have a good trip."
"Thank you."
"Oh, and if your place starts smoking or something or you remember you left the coffeepot on, I still have the key my aunt gave me. Unless you've changed your locks."
"I haven't," he said, "but perhaps I should."
She gave him a mystified look, as if she couldn't imagine what he'd find wrong in her having a key to his house. "Do you practice getting on people's nerves or is it just a gift?"
"I say what's on my mind."
"Well, that's something we have in common. If it makes you feel any better, there's probably a key to my house tucked away in your kitchen somewhere. Frye's Cove is a small town. Neighbors rely on each other, and it's just you and me out here."
He gave her a slow smile, just deliberately sexy enough to knock her off her high horse. "So it is."
She popped a strawberry into her mouth, stem and all. "How long will you be gone?"
He was unaccustomed to
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