“I need to run,” the first man said regretfully, tilting his head toward the door. “Got a truck to return and a plane to catch. My wife will have my head if I don’t make it home in time for dinner.”

He left the group and walked toward me, my hands stalling in their reach into the dishwasher. I set down the glass in my hand and shook the hand he offered. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Summer,” I managed. “Summer Jenkins. Can I fix you a tea for the road?”

He chuckled. “No, but thank you. I appreciate the offer.”

Wife. That was what he’d said. His wife would be upset if he didn’t make it home. Not much of a surprise, all the good ones were taken. And he’d had manners too. I left the kitchen and opened the front door for him, waving goodbye, my smile dropping when I shut the door behind him and noticed the dust on the door’s window. Great. Disasters at every turn. I suddenly thought of Mama, and I glanced at the oven clock. Four PM. Still an hour and a half until she got home from work. Plenty of time to get Cole and Ben out of here and clean up, get a casserole in the oven. Maybe one of those Stouffer ones. Carla at the IGA promised me they tasted homemade, but we’d be able to tell. You couldn’t fake authenticity, not in these parts.

I returned to the kitchen, Ben’s phone to his ear, Cole Masten looking dubiously at my couch like he wasn’t sure it was fit to sit on. I cracked the ice in its tray and plucked out a few cubes, dropping them in his glass. Ben could fend for himself, his Tervis still sitting half-full somewhere in this wreck of a house. “Tea?” I called out.

The man turned away from my couch and eyed me. “Sparkling water, please.”

That right there was the second strike. I smiled, the expression born more of spite than of sweet. But in the South, our smiles are our weapons and only a native knows a snarl from sincerity. “I’m afraid I don’t have sparkling water.” You are not a man, I thought. A man doesn’t drink sparkling water; he chugs tap water from a hose after changing his oil.

“Still is fine.” He turned away from me and took a careful seat on the couch. I turned back to the sink, my eye roll hidden. Still is fine. Oh, it’d be still. Still in my tap, the same place it was this morning. I twisted the faucet’s knob and filled the glass. Turned it off and carried the glass over, moving a coaster and setting it down. I raised my eyebrows at Ben who was still on the phone, his hand making some sort of justaminute motion so I sat down on the recliner. Glancing over, I saw Cole Masten study the glass before taking a sip.

“How was your flight in?” I asked.

The man looked at me when I asked the question, his eyes traveling over my legs as he swallowed the first sip of water, then took a larger one. It was a shame, really, to have that much beauty. God could have divided up his thick eyelashes, strong features, hazel eyes, and delicious mouth among three men, therefore giving more women a chance at happiness. Instead, Cole Masten hit the jackpot. A jackpot that was tipping back his glass, taking his time with his answer, his delicious neck exposed, his mouth cupping the glass, a hint of his tongue…

God. I shifted in my seat and pulled at the neck of my shirt, looking away. Suddenly wished, more than anything, he and Ben would hurry up and leave. Let me have my house back, let me have a half hour or two of peace and quiet before my mother arrived home. It was a desire that made absolutely no sense. Every red-blooded American woman would claw my eyes out to be that close to HIM. Maybe it was the small town country in me—the same stupidity that had me saying ‘no thanks’ to college applications and to finding a ‘real job.’ Maybe it was the fact that I was raised to believe that ‘real men’ had manners, and weren’t picky, and didn’t wear aftershave that attracted mosquitoes.

Ben hung up the phone and, in the next minute, Cole Masten got his third strike.

CHAPTER 28

This might just be the worst two weeks of Cole Masten’s life.

Losing Nadia. The Fortune Bottle at risk. Justin’s accident. Going with Brad DeLuca to Quincy. A horrible decision. What was he thinking? It would have been okay if Justin had been here, getting him settled, arranging his schedule, keeping Cole the right balance of busy and relaxed. Justin would have been dealing with this scout, keeping Cole’s hands clean, keeping him from sitting on some stranger’s couch and sipping her water. What had she asked? Oh, right. About his flight.

He took a sip of water to avoid answering the question. Such an innocent question, pointless small talk. God, when had he last made small talk? Or polite chit-chat? Or anything that didn’t involve “Yes, Mr. Masten” or “Of course, Mr. Masten” or “Absolutely, whatever you want, Mr. Masten.” Small talk was for a different breed of people—people with time to burn and relationships to build. He hadn’t needed to build relationships, not for a very long time. He’d had Nadia and Justin. He’d had an agent, manager, and publicist. All requirements covered, nothing further needed.

He swallowed the water and wondered how many of those relationships, given recent events, were in jeopardy. Nadia had been the queen of small talk, of relationship building. She’d been the one who sent liquor on birthdays or steaks on anniversaries. She’d been the one to write thank yous after dinner parties, who remembered things like kids’ names and health issues. Maybe if he hadn’t had Nadia, he’d have made more of an effort. But he hadn’t needed to; she was that arm of the unit that was them, she was…