Stretching, I descended the stairs, bare feet padding on the worn wood. By now, I knew every knot and creak in them, which was handy when I wanted to go up or down in a hurry. You could hear people going up and down the old stairs from the other side of the bar, but I knew exactly where to step to avoid making a noise. The overnight rain was clearing, steadily, and I looked out the big picture-windows toward the coast.

Across the road, the low tussock stretched away for about a quarter-mile, then gave way to sand dunes; on a clear day, I could see whitecaps on the breakers rolling in from the deep ocean.

What a gorgeous place. I’m so lucky to be here.

As I busied myself about the bar, setting up for the day, this morning’s meeting with Ryan kept trying to replay itself in my head, and I kept stopping it.

What the hell am I going to do? If he decides those damn fossils are important, I’m going to lose the whole bar.

What infuriated me most about his attitude—even more than the assumption that I wasn’t the owner because I was a woman—was that I would be happy to see the place demolished. I might have money, but if I lost my bar, then I’d be rootless, again, just like I was before I turned up here and saw the place.

Even if this is running away, it’s my place. It’s my running away, and I’m not going to just pack up and disappear.

Sighing, I turned myself to the other, more immediate problem; the oven. Where was I going to get money to fix it? The bar was breaking even, but I exhausted all my savings buying inventory, and I wasn’t going to have more for some time. Somehow, the chance of Beatrice Macfarlane giving me an easy-payment option seemed pretty remote.

I could ask my parents for the money. It’s not as if they can’t spare it.

I remembered the look on my mother’s face when I arrived at their house to tell them I was leaving Boston, the day before my flight.

“But don’t you think you should stop and think about this, Catherine?” My mother fiddled with the strap of her Cartier watch as she paced about their entrance hall. “I mean, what about Kirk? What about your career?”

Bag in one hand, I tried to explain again. “I told you that Kirk and I have split up, Mom. In truth, we’ve been emotionally separated for a long time now. It’s just taken a while for the rest of us to catch up.”

“But your career—”

“Mom, I’m tired of it. I’ve been dreading going to work every day for six months, and I can’t stand the idea of doing that for the rest of my life. I have to break out somehow, or I’ll go crazy.”

“Let her go.” My father descended the stairs, carrying his briefcase. “Catherine, I can’t say I agree with this…silliness…but if you have to get it out of your system, then better it happens now than later when you have a family of your own to consider, and responsibilities.” He turned to my mother. “She’ll be back soon enough when her money runs out, or when she learns whatever lesson she’s trying to learn.”

Gee, thanks, Dad. Way to support your only daughter who’s always done everything you said she ought to do. The first time her life she makes a decision for herself, you call it ‘silliness’.

Since then, my contact with my parents had consisted mostly of my mother’s weekly emails asking when I was coming back, and if I’d been in contact with Kirk. I was seriously thinking of setting up a form response saying ‘I don’t know, and no, I haven’t, and he’s engaged to The Dermatologist with Lovely Skin, remember?’.

The idea of asking them at this point for a loan to rebuild a derelict commercial oven in an old bar on the far side of the planet was about the least appealing thing I could imagine. I thought of the self-assured tone in my father’s voice.

“She’ll be back soon enough when her money runs out.”

Like hell I will, Dad.

I sighed again, got down on my hands and knees and started scraping the wax off the floor near the old floor candelabra. The heavy piece of ironwork did great things for the ambience of the bar, but it required daily cleaning, and I had regular nightmares about a drunk farmer crashing into it, or someone’s hair catching ablaze.

I should increase my fire insurance coverage; file that under ‘things to do when you have an unlimited amount of money’.

Engrossed in scraping at the hardened wax, I didn’t hear the knock at the door, and a deep voice from behind me made me jump.

“Hey.” Still on all fours, I twisted around. Oh, great. Him already.

Ryan was in the doorway, arms folded. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” I replied with a touch of sarcasm, “I spend most mornings on my hands and knees like this for fun. How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. I was…distracted. Again.”

With a start, I realized the doorway was directly opposite the floor candelabra, and Ryan had been admiring my rear. My old pajamas were threadbare, and definitely didn’t leave very much room for modesty. Getting to my feet, I tried my best to scowl at him, and tried to ignore the part inside me that secretly enjoyed the look of appreciation on his face.

Stop it, Cat. He’s a smug jerk.

“Dr Sanders—”

“Please, call me Ryan.”

“Very well. Ryan. I’d appreciate it if you’d knock louder next time, instead of skulking and…looking at me.”

He stepped inside. “Sorry. But, okay.” Holding out his palms, he assumed a contrite expression. “I actually came to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor of me?” I dropped the scrubbing brush on the bar and stared at him. “What kind of favor? If you’re wanting to get into the basement right away, then I can’t—”

Ryan shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I’m happy to fit around your schedule, and I don’t want to get in your way. I understand that you have a bar to run.”

Yeah, despite the possibility of you deciding to demolish it. Deep down, I knew this was a little unfair of me—the guy was just doing his job—but I couldn’t help it; the bar represented the only source of constancy in my life, and was about the only thing I could call a ‘success’ since I left Boston.

“Okay, so what?”

“Well,” Ryan was obviously choosing his words carefully, “I need somewhere to stay. My room at the guest house has developed a leak. A serious one. Directly above my bed. I’ve called everywhere within twenty miles, and there are no spare rooms at all. Not one.”

He leaned against the bar, with that half-amused smile I was quickly coming to find a fifty-fifty mixture of very attractive and intensely irritating. “Then, I remembered the other night, you said that you had some rooms here, and I thought maybe—”

“Oh no.” I shook my head emphatically. “No way, buster. I may have to let you into my basement so you can decide whether or not you’re going to knock down my bar, but if you think I’m going to let you live here, you’ve been inhaling too much mummy dust, or whatever it is that you do.”

Ryan looked pained. “I’m not really an Egyptologist, so that doesn’t really—look, never mind. I can afford to pay.”

My lips were clamped together in a thin line. “Still no. It’s not about the money. Besides, you couldn’t afford it.”

“Try me. I’ve got an expense account for business trips. You can charge me whatever you want, no questions asked.” He exhaled heavily, and looked genuinely downcast; for a minute, I almost felt sorry for him. “Look, Cat, I’m kind of desperate here. I need somewhere to stay to do this investigation, and you’re the only person in town who has a spare room.”

I was about to refuse again, when I paused. This was how I could get the money to fix the oven. If I said no, he’d find somewhere to stay sooner or later, and then I’d be in the same situation, except without the money. I couldn’t stop him from carrying out his damn investigation, and whatever he found, I was determined to keep the bar going for as long as I could.

The two old bedrooms upstairs were dusty and only used for storage, but if I could put him in one of them for a week and get enough money to fix the oven, it wasn’t going to cost me anything.

Except his company.

The idea of having Ryan around all the time left me feeling distinctly unsettled, and as I turned it over in my mind, I looked up. He was looking straight at me, with a worried expression on his face, and for a moment I realized how tired he looked.

I drew in a breath. “Okay. You can stay here. But it won’t be cheap.”

“Fine.” Ryan smiled broadly, evidently glad to have found a way out of his predicament. “I’ll pay whatever I need to.”

“The room won’t be very salubrious. I’ve been using it for storing bar supplies.”

“No problem. Handy in case I need some swizzle sticks or cocktail umbrellas during the night.”

“And you need to stay out of my way. I’ve got a business to run.”

He held both hands up again. “Again, fine. I’ll be in the basement mostly.”

“Good.” I tried to sound as severe as possible. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get on with my cleaning.”

Ryan clapped his hands together. “Great. I’ll be back in a couple of hours with my gear. Just write me an invoice for the first few days, and I’ll get you the money right away.” He turned and made for the door as I watched him.

What have I done? This guy’s going to be in my bar for the next week. But I really need that money.

As Ryan reached the door, he turned back, and looked at me. “Thanks, Cat; you’ve made the right decision. I’ll stay out of your way, and you’ll be well-compensated for any inconvenience.”

“Good.” I closed the doors firmly in his face, and heard him descend the steps. From the window, I watched him walk to the road, trying not to look at the lean definition of his shoulders, and the curve of his ass under his jeans. When he reached the road, he stopped and turned back to look at the bar. Quickly, I drew back behind the door so he wouldn’t see me staring.