At Oliver’s question, I knew the inevitability of the situation. It was like watching fate at work. After Cassie’s pleading, he had to give in. I got the call while I was at the Portnoys’, cleaning up from painting their fence before heading over to the Roberts house to take care of her garage roof, where her son had somehow put a croquet ball through the roof.

Of course Oliver had his misgivings, he told me. He still made it clear that it was a risky investment, but he’d do it for her if she got it at the right price. And since I’m the handyman he trusts, he wants me to at least give her a heads-up on what all this place needs. So here I am, driving to meet her at her childhood home.

Normally, I’d be calling it a day and heading home by this point, two fat checks and a nice wad of cash in my pocket and nothing on my mind but grabbing a shower. Instead, I’m driving all the way into the next county to meet Cassie and the homeowner to do a quick walkthrough.

Pulling up, I can see the sun setting behind the house and it does look nice. Of course, that’s probably because it’s mostly in shadow and you can’t see the porch hanging on by a thread that was readily obvious in the pictures this morning. Cassie’s memories are seriously giving her rose-tinted goggles on this, I suspect, but I’ll do my best to help her out.

I pull around back to the dooryard and see a backyard that’s half jungle, half fire ant hill, and I cringe some more. The pecan trees are nice, though. I can see Cassie and an older man standing inside. Parking my truck, I walk to the door, carefully stepping over the suspicious-looking steps on the way up. It looks like more than the front porch will have to be replaced.

Opening the screen, I step inside. Cassie stops mid-sentence and stares at me, her mouth half hanging open in surprise. I realize that I might be a little unsightly after a day of work. I’m sure my hair is messy from running my fingers through it, my shirt has been wet then dried multiple times today—and it probably smells like a locker room—and my hands are still dirty from the roofing patch. Figuring I’d better start off on the right foot since she’s with the owner, I hold my smartass comment about rendering her speechless and put an embarrassed smile on my face. Besides, he knows why I’m here. I don’t need to be freshly shaven and wearing a suit.

“Hey, Cassie, sorry I’m late. Just finished up for the day and got here as fast as I could.” To the man, who doesn’t look that put-out at all, I give a respectful nod. “I’d offer my hand, sir, but you probably don’t want it. I’m Caleb Strong. I contract with Steele Solutions.”

Cassie still hasn’t said a word, and I wonder for an instant if I’ve somehow offended her by showing up not smelling like Head & Shoulders. The man notices it, too, and breaks the silence. “Hello, I’m Frank Wannamaker. And don’t worry, I’ve heard about you. I have a church friend who’s mentioned you—Rebecca Miller?”

“Mrs. Miller?” I say, then smile. She’s one of my favorite clients, friendly and professional with no funny business. The four days I was repairing her wall, I got lunch and ice cold tea almost every hour. “I hope her wall’s doing well. Laying stone is an interesting challenge compared to brick.”

Finally, after an awkward moment, Cassie shakes her head and returns to her speech. She’s apparently discussing comp values and the sales price he’s asking. I can quickly tell that Mr. Wannamaker is slightly overwhelmed but charmed at the same time. “Miss White, let’s sit down,” he finally says. “This wasn’t really my house, but my brother’s. When he decided to move down to Costa Rica to join some retirement community, I bought it off him to make sure he was taken care of. So I just want to get my money out of it.”

Reassured that Cassie’s got Frank well under control, I raise my voice. “Excuse me, Cassie. Do you mind if I look around a bit while y’all talk? Let me get an idea of what needs done?”

When she nods, I wander off, walking through to the kitchen. I can still hear Cassie talking and laugh to myself. She’s gonna get this house at a great price and he’s not gonna know what hit him. She’s in full-blown Cassie Charmer mode. Yeah, that’s what she calls it when she’s in the zone. She’s mixing in giggles, little jokes, and business talk in this casual, overwhelming mix of hilarity that leaves people thinking she’s an airhead. I saw her do the same thing when I helped her out when she first moved to town and took her car shopping. She ended up driving off the lot in a car that left the salesman looking slightly stunned, and I’m sure, upset later over how much he’d let Cassie get away with.

Somehow, though, she never makes people too mad at her about her charm. She’s just too bubbly, nice, and supposedly airheaded to ever catch blame for it. I’ve teased her about it . . . multiple times, but damn if she’s not good. She could sell ice to an Eskimo and he’d walk away feeling like he won. As I check out one of the smaller bedrooms, she walks in smiling from ear to ear. “Cass, I pulled up some of the carpet, and you’re right, the floors can be refinished, but—”

“DONE!” Cassie says before starting to twirl and sing off-key. She’s cute as hell, but she can’t sing to save her life. “Cass gon’ give it to ya—”

“What?” I interrupt her, throwing up my hands in a futile attempt at stopping her. “You already agreed on a price? Don’t you want to know what the reno will cost or run it by Oliver first?”

Cassie doesn’t stop her dancing, shaking her ass in a way that has me looking at her hips, but she stops singing at least. “Nope, doesn’t matter. It’s low enough that there’s no way he’ll turn it down. I told him I grew up here with my mama and I wanted to fix it up right. Showed him the corner of the fireplace where I chipped my front tooth and the faint little lines on the doorway to the kitchen where my height is marked. He said that was ‘right nice’ and agreed to my low-ball starting offer! Already gave me the keys and said we can finish the paperwork tomorrow, but he was good with a handshake offer!”

She continues her little celebration, grabbing my hands to try to make me dance. I’m not much of a dancer, at least not without having music, but I try my best, figuring if I don’t, she’s going to start singing again. And I can’t have that. “Watch it, I’m still dirty from working all day. I’ll get you dirty.”

Cassie laughs, undeterred. “I don’t care. Celebrate with me!”

“Figures you’d like to get a little dirty, wouldn’t you? Just how dirty do you like it?” I reply with a raised eyebrow and a deep voice. But it’s a joke, it’s always a joke. This is what we’ve done from the first time we met. We make crude comments, double entendres, and tease each other mercilessly. It’s been the cornerstone of our relationship. I don’t think we’ve ever really said anything serious to each other, and when we have, I’m not sure if we’re telling the truth or just joking again.

Cassie stops, her eyes gleaming in the dim overhead light, a seductive smile on her lips that has me feeling shaky. Maybe we’ve always joked, but right this minute, with that sultry look in her eyes, I wonder if I’ve been going about this all wrong. “You don’t know the half of it. And my toys will never tell,” she says cheekily. “They’re sooo good to me.”

The sudden image of Cassie playing with a sex toy sends another tingle through my body, and when I reply, my voice is huskier, deeper, more demanding. This time, though, I’m not joking, even if she is. “Toys? Oh, hell, you’ll have to tell me those stories . . . slowly and in detail. Come on, I’ll even buy you a celebratory dinner.”