Ashley bit into her baked salmon and let her eyes drift shut as warm butter filled her mouth. “Oh my goodness,” she said around the bite.

Across the table, Dean grinned. “That good, huh?”

They sat in a quiet corner of the bistro, which was decorated in a simple but tasteful style. Globe string lights crisscrossed the ceiling and bathed the white linen-covered tables in a soft glow. Here and there, large windows revealed the pale purple of early evening. In the corner, a stone fireplace popped. It was an understated, relaxing atmosphere—just one more thing that had turned her memories of Prattsville on their head.

Dean was another surprise. The brash jock from high school was an interesting, witty dinner companion. They’d talked about everything from her work on Bewitching University to her shock at arriving home and discovering her mother had married for the fifth time. He’d spoken candidly about his divorce, his daughter, and his thriving business in Prattsville.

She smiled. “You weren’t kidding about this place. The food is amazing.”

His grin broadened, and he gestured around the small restaurant with his fork. “The owner is an old college buddy of mine. He opened his first location in San Antonio. I convinced him to expand to Prattsville. The restaurant scene around here is starting to pick up. We can compete with just about everything in San Antonio.”

She sipped her wine. “You really do love this town.”

Ruddy color stained his cheeks, and he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I know I probably come off a little strong—”

“No, no. I didn’t mean it to sound like a bad thing.” She sat back in her chair, the wineglass stem pinched between her fingers. Warm air drifted over her bare shoulders. When she’d accepted Dean’s dinner offer two days ago, she hadn’t considered her limited wardrobe. Fortunately, her plain black tube top looked okay with jeans. A pair of black strappy heels and a chunky necklace dressed it up. She hadn’t packed a strapless bra, but the tube top had built-in cups that gave her enough support to feel comfortable.

He took a roll from the basket between them and tore off a chunk of bread. “How does it feel being home?”

“It’s…kind of nice, actually.” Even as she said it, shock skipped through her.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.” Her face tingled—always the first sign she’d had too much to drink. She set her glass down. “I admit I never felt much of a connection to Prattsville.”

“That could change, now that you’re back.”

“Maybe.” She should have left it at that, but it felt good to talk to someone. “To be honest, I never felt all that connected to L.A., either.”

He studied her a moment, then opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head a little.

“What is it?” she asked.

He gave her a small smile. “Forgive me for prying, but I checked the ownership records on your mom’s house. I’d heard rumors she was looking to sell, so I peeked. I couldn’t help seeing she sold to Smith Salvatierra in a private transaction.”

He’d looked up her house? How very stalker-like of you, Dean.

Something in her expression must have given away her discomfort because he held up his hands. “I didn’t mean to snoop. What can I say, I’m a real estate guy.” He huffed his raspy laugh. “It’s common knowledge the house is in bad condition. I’ve had my eye on a few homes in that area. They’re great investment properties. Of course, Salvatierra got to it first.” He toyed with his wineglass. “Are you renting from him?”

The little hairs on the back of her neck lifted. His tone had a studied casualness that sent a shiver zigzagging down her spine. Still, there was nothing outwardly inappropriate about his question. And he wasn’t lying about his real estate job. It made sense that her arrival might have prompted him to look into the house’s ownership—especially if he was telling the truth about being interested in the property. Of course, that didn’t mean he had a right to know the details of her arrangement with Smith. She folded her hands in her lap. “For now, yes.”

“How well do you know him?”

Where was he going with this? “He seems friendly enough. Do you know him?”

“Not personally. His reputation precedes him, though. Or I guess you could say his family’s reputation. He comes from money. His brother is some big shot lawyer in San Antonio, but rumor has it their roots are Mexican. I’ve heard the family business involves shady stuff. Drug money and things like that.”

Drug money? Smith the scout leader? She tilted her head. “You think Prattsville’s chief of police comes from a family of drug dealers?”

Dean leaned forward, and he dropped his voice to a hush. “He paid cash for his house, and for your mother’s. And you’ve seen the work he’s done on his place. You can’t do that on a police chief’s salary.” He nodded, as if to say there, case closed.

Was he joking? The wine had definitely gone to her head because an easy laugh burst from her chest before she could stop it. Immediately, indignation flashed in Dean’s gaze. She waved her hand. “I’m sorry. Alcohol always gives me the giggles.”

His mouth was tight. “It’s fine. I just hope you know who you’re dealing with in Smith Salvatierra. Some of the folks in town think he’s just a little too quiet to be trusted.”

Something about his words triggered a protective instinct in her gut. Smith might be taciturn—even downright unfriendly—but he’d let her stay in his house rent-free. She was a stranger. He owed her nothing, yet he’d helped her with no expectation of receiving anything in return. Dean’s insinuation was at odds with every encounter she’d had with Smith so far. “Thanks for the heads up. He’s been nothing but kind to me, though.”

Some of the stiffness left Dean’s shoulders. “Glad to hear it. Just keep in mind you never really know a person’s secrets.”

“Don’t you think it’s possible he’s just good at saving money? He said he did a lot of the interior work on his house himself.”

“It’s possible, I guess. But I have a lot of contacts in San Antonio, and I know what I heard.”

Oh dear. She recognized wounded male pride when she heard it. Time to steer the conversation to something less controversial. She cleared her throat. “I appreciate the warning. I’ll keep an eye out for anything”—she groped for the right word—“suspicious.”

In a blink, Dean’s demeanor changed. The offended, slightly haughty expression faded. Once again, he was a handsome, clean-cut football captain in a sports jacket and starched white shirt. “Prattsville is a small town. I admit we’re not that friendly to outsiders. But we protect our own. I wouldn’t feel right if you got tangled up in something bad just when you’ve come back to us.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say she planned on leaving Prattsville as soon as possible, but she bit back the words. She’d felt comfortable talking to him until now, but his inexplicable accusations about Smith made her eager to wrap up their dinner. Or maybe she just didn’t want her childhood nemesis knowing the reality of her career and finances. Better to let him think she’d made it in Hollywood and just needed a change of pace.

The waiter’s arrival saved her from having to respond. He placed a slim, black folder on the table and stood back. “Can I get you anything else?”

Dean slid the folder to his side of the table, opened it, and stuck a credit card inside. “No, thanks, Alex. Here, you can take this.”

As the waiter walked away, Dean gave her a conspiratorial smile. “So, I’ve been thinking. You know Mr. Murray’s old hardware store?”

“Yes, I remember it.”

“Well, I own the building, remember? I can’t help but think it would make a great antique shop. You know, for your projects. What do you think?”

It was like someone had dumped cold water over her. Apparently, she’d read him all wrong that day at the house. No wonder he’d shown up with a bag of refinishing supplies. He didn’t want to date her. He wanted to sell her property! Pia is going to love this. She looked down so he wouldn’t see the shock in her eyes. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but I’m not really looking for a storefront or anything.”

“I understand,” he said with the same ease he’d displayed when she’d been tongue-tied over his invitation to dinner. At last, she understood what she was hearing. This wasn’t Dean the romantic. It was Dean the salesman. He knew his role, and he played it to perfection.

After the waiter returned with the receipt, Dean helped her up and escorted her to the entrance with a hand at the small of her back. He called a greeting to the owner before ushering her outside and into the car.

Ashley belted herself in and settled back in her seat. Her arms and legs felt heavy, which meant she was due for a monster hangover in the morning. Through the windshield, white stars twinkled in the darkened sky. Five more minutes. Just five minutes to the house, and she could crawl into bed and never think about this humiliating moment in her life again. So much for her ability to read people. Maybe Rowen had been right to drop her.

Dean slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. He glanced at her as he backed out of their parking space. “Speaking of Mr. Murray’s place, I actually need to drop some flyers off. Mind if we swing by?”

“Not at all,” she lied.

“Excellent.” He put on his blinker and merged into traffic.

The old Murray place was just a few blocks from the restaurant, but the drive seemed to take forever. Ashley sat stiffly in her seat. The car was low to the ground, and the thrum of the engine seemed to shake her bones.

Desperate for a distraction, she glanced at Dean. “Is this a new car?”

His smile was a little sheepish. “Yeah. It was my divorce present to myself. Jess would have never let me buy something like this.” He smoothed his hand over the braided leather steering wheel. “It’s a Mercedes, but I had the dealer put Corvette tires on it. They really grip the road, you know?”

She didn’t, but she nodded. “It’s nice.”

Finally, he pulled into the Prattsville Market complex and parked in one of the empty spots in front of the hardware store. He reached in the back seat and withdrew a stack of papers. “Hey, why don’t you come in and look around. I promise you’ll love the place.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think—”

“Come on.” He leaned over and pressed the release on her seat belt. “Oops, look what I’ve done. Now you have to come in.”

Irritation sparked in her chest as her seat belt caught on her shoulder. Dean tossed his head toward the store. “Gimme two minutes,” he said in his easy salesman’s voice. “It’s the least you can do since I took you to dinner.”

The irritation flared again. So he was playing that card, was he? She wanted to snap something about not realizing his dinner offer came with a price tag, but he left the car and hunched down so his head was level with hers. He gave her a playful smile. “Come on, Ash.”

Clearly, he wasn’t going to give up until she toured the property. She untangled the belt from her arm and opened her door. “All right. I’ll look at it.”

He led her up the sidewalk and under the canopy that shielded the entrance. He tucked the flyers in a holder next to the door, then dug in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “You’re going to love this place,” he said as he unlocked the door and held it for her.

The smell of paint and sawdust filled her lungs. She crossed the threshold and gazed around the deserted store. Behind her, Dean flicked the light switch. Soft yellow light spilled over the old hardware shop. The wine fog lifted as she took in the old-fashioned store. It was like stepping back in time—or into a fairy tale. The thick wooden counter was still in place, its surface scarred by a thousand paint cans and power tools. An ancient brass cash register occupied one full corner of the counter. Behind it, chunky wooden shelves marched in a neat row. The floor was made of long, thick planks as wide as her waist. She scuffed the toe of her shoe against the wood. “Wow, you don’t see floors like this anymore.”

Dean looked at the ground. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She walked forward a few paces, then leaned over and pointed to a prominent gouge mark. “See there? These were scraped and planed by hand. It would cost a fortune to install something like this now.”

He stepped close and put a hand on her bare shoulder, his big body a looming presence behind her. “I see what you mean. It’s really beautiful.”

The skin under his palm tingled. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, a faint beat of discomfort pulsed like a single drop of water on a smooth lake. She straightened, and his hand fell away. “Well, thank you for showing me—”

“You’ve got to see the workroom.” His voice was excited as he brushed past her and walked a short distance to an open doorway obscured by a beaded curtain. “It’s original to the building, which went up in the twenties. Old Man Murray didn’t change a thing. It would be perfect for the kind of project you were doing the other day.”

Her feet felt rooted to the floor. The discomfort pulsed again, its waves rippling across her mind. She looked over her shoulder. Outside, a car pulled into the market’s parking lot. Headlights swept across her vision, then blinked out.

“Ashley?”

She faced Dean, who stood by the doorway, an expectant look on his face. He pulled the curtain aside. The beads clicked gently. His smile was the same one from his business card—cool and professional.

You’re being silly. He’d seen her working on the nightstand. They’d just spent over an hour discussing her love of antiques. He thought she was a movie star taking a break from the big city. Who could blame him for seizing an opportunity to make a sale? He’d gone out of his way to make her feel welcome in Prattsville. It would be rude to turn around and walk out.

She’d also had three glasses of wine. No wonder she felt off.

He raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Of course.” Her heels clicked as she walked across the floor and ducked under his arm. A stray strand of beads caught at her hair as she passed under the doorway.

He entered behind her and let the remaining beads drop. “The first thing I suggest is getting rid of this curtain,” he said.

She turned, then had to stifle a giggle as he fought to disentangle himself from the swaying strands. “They’re pretty bad.”

He pushed the last strands off his shoulders and shot her a grin. “Yeah. But look at this.” He flipped the light switch, then spread his arms like a game show hostess displaying a prize.

Ashley gasped. Three of the four walls were covered with old carpenter’s tools. Set in hooks and hung from pegs, they stretched from the floor to the ceiling. An old-fashioned library ladder on wheels leaned against a track that ran along the room’s perimeter.

A wooden-handled chisel caught her eye, and she moved closer to the wall where it hung. The metal shaft was solid iron and sharpened to a wicked edge. Someone had looked after it with loving attention. “Mr. Murray left all this?”

Dean moved just behind her. “Yes. Amazing, isn’t it? His kids included everything in the price of the building. I had an appraiser in here who said it’s probably worth thousands.”

“More like tens of thousands.” She brushed her fingers over the chisel as she tried to calculate how much the tools were worth. Each piece was a work of art. It was the kind of equipment restoration experts coveted. Modern tools worked well enough, but some of the items that lined the walls had been made during a time when all furniture had been assembled by hand.

Something brushed the bare skin of her upper back. She whirled and bumped into Dean, who stood much too close. Alarm shot down her spine at the feel of her breasts making contact with his chest. She stumbled back. Sharp tools poked her shoulder blades. She had nowhere to go. “What are you doing?” Her voice came out in a high-pitched squeal that was almost as jarring as Dean’s proximity.

He grasped her shoulders. “Hey…hey. It’s all right.” Warm, garlic-scented breath wafted over her face as he leaned down, his gaze on her mouth.

Holy shit. He was going to kiss her! She jerked her head to the side.

He shifted sideways and ducked his head, bringing his face into her field of vision.

Instinct made her try to step backward again. A dozen hard points pricked her back. Tools rattled in her ear.

Dean cupped his palms over her shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart. No need to play games.” His tone was cajoling, like she was a wary animal he wanted to coax from a hiding place.

“I’m not playing games. Let me go, Dean.”

Surprise flared in his gaze, quickly followed by what looked like disbelief. His eyebrows pulled low in a frown, and an angry edge entered his voice. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’ve been throwing signals all night.”

Her heart pounded so hard she could hear blood rushing in her ears. Sweat broke out in the small of her back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now please move.”

Still grasping her shoulders, he leaned back, his expression mocking. “You don’t? Oh, I get it. Maybe you were just acting.”

His broad shoulders blocked her. The tools at her back were like a bed of nails. Panic clawed a path from her gut to her throat. She’d never liked being in tight spaces. She brought her hands up and pushed against his chest.

He grunted and captured her wrists. The tools behind her clattered like the warning rasp of a rattlesnake. His pale eyes flashed. “Calm down, Ashley.”

“I said move.” She lurched sideways. Fire streaked across her shoulder. The chisel… Something hot trickled down her back.

He tightened his grip on her wrists. “And I said to calm down. Jesus, is this how women in L.A. act when a man tries to be nice?”

Nice? He thought he was being nice? She tried to inject calm into her voice. “Dean, you’re hurting me. I don’t know what you think you saw at the restaurant, but I didn’t give you any signals. We’re friends—”

His harsh laugh echoed around the small room. “Give me a break. You called me, remember?” He raked his gaze down her front. “Then you showed up with your tits falling out of your top.”

Heat bathed her cheeks. If she could have freed her wrists, she would have slapped the smug look off his face. She tugged against his grip. The wine she’d drunk sloshed in her stomach, and for a second she worried she might throw up. “I don’t feel well. Let me go.”

“Just listen to me.” He pulled her forward, and her hips bumped his. Hardness brushed her thigh.

Her stomach lurched. Enough of this shit. One way or another, she was getting the hell out of the store. She lifted her foot and kicked him in the shin with the pointed toe of her high heel. “Let me go!”

He gasped and released her wrists.

She tried to slide sideways, but he threw up an arm. Before she could feint to the other side, he blocked her there, too. She was pinned against the wall of tools. Fury pounded through her. “Get the fuck out of my way!” She brought her knee up.

He jerked his hips to the side. Her knee glanced off his thigh.

She tensed, expecting a blow, but he went still. Malice transformed his features into an ugly mask. Somehow, it was more terrifying than violence. He said his next words in a low, measured voice that dripped like poison. “You fucking bitch. You may have left Prattsville, but you’re a cock tease just like your whore of a mother.” His mouth twisted in a cruel smile. “No matter how many stupid TV shows you do, you’ll always be Trashley.”

The name crashed over her like a frigid wave. For a second, shock held her immobile.

He smiled. Then, with casual precision, he shoved her into the wall. Her head snapped back and struck something blunt and hard. Pain exploded in the back of her skull, and a cry burst from her lungs. She stumbled forward and clutched the back of her head with one hand. Dizziness swamped her. Her mouth filled with saliva.

Can’t fight him now. Can’t fight him. The thought galloped through her head. She thrust out her free hand to ward him off.

But he didn’t touch her.

Dimly, she registered that he’d stepped back and stood watching her with a curious light in his eyes—like she was an insect he was contemplating crushing under his shoe.

She darted a look at the curtained doorway. “Please…” She stopped when she heard the whimper in her voice. No way was she going to beg this man.

He swept his gaze down her body. “You know what? I don’t want you anyway. Find your own ride home.” He left, the curtain beads clicking together in his wake.