Ahead of me, Annie was yakking away. Ian rubbed his neck with one hand, trying to answer Annie’s prying questions, such as…

“So, Ian, are you married?” My friend blinked up at him.

“I’m divorced,” he said, glancing back at me as if in a plea for help.

“How sad!” Annie sang. “How long has it been?”

“Two years.”

Annie turned and pulled a gruesome face meant to indicate joy and hope. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find a special some—”

“Look! A deer!” I barked. The deer fled, white tail flashing as it leaped neatly into the woods. I took the opportunity to trot up to Annie and pinch her. Hard. “Stop it,” I mouthed.

“What are you talking about?” she mouthed back, then said aloud, “Is this your place? It’s beautiful!”

Ah. We were here. I stopped in my tracks.

The woods thinned out to a backyard. The grass had recently been cut, the fresh, sweet scent filling the air. The house was a green two-story farmhouse with a beautiful gray slate roof…a classic New England design, but, if I wasn’t mistaken, recently overhauled. New windows, I thought. Fresh paint.

“This is very pretty, Ian,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Um…would you like to come in?” It was clear he didn’t know how to avoid asking us.

“Sure! I’d love some coffee,” Annie said, shooting me another joyful look.

We walked around the side yard, which had a bank of mature lilac trees along one side. I could only imagine the smell in the springtime. Then we came to the front, and once again, I stopped short.

We were on the edge of a large field thick with goldenrod and late-blooming black-eyed Susans. Dragonflies dipped and skimmed, and finches flew in and out of the long grass. A stone wall ran along one side…a real stone wall, the Robert Frost variety, uneven and sincere. The gravel driveway led out to the unseen road—it would be hell to plow come winter, but who cared? About two hundred yards off was a large stand of maples, already topped in red. Ian would be in for quite a show in a few more weeks.

“Come on in,” Ian said. Did I mention he was wearing faded Levis? I suppressed a lustful sigh and followed him onto the porch, then turned to take in the view (of the natural scenery, not his ass, though both were compelling). The wide porch wrapped around on the western side. Perfect for sunsets. No railing, just an unobscured view of the field. A person could spend all day sitting on a porch like this, listening to the birds and the wind in the grass, the smell of pines rich and sharp in the air…

“You coming, Callie?” Annie chirped.

“Sure,” I said distantly, tearing my eyes off the view.

“This place is gorgeous!” she hissed. “And he’s not so bad himself! Oh, my God, those eyes!”

“Can you keep it down, please?” I asked. Ian was already inside.

“I wish I wasn’t married,” she murmured. “I’m serious. I’m leaving Jack.”

“Super. I’ve always had a thing for him. Now’s my chance,” I said, stepping into the house.

The interior of the house was pretty damn impressive, too. Clearly, an architect had done this, because it had that sleek, perfect feeling…smooth, shiny hardwood floors, streamlined bookcases, funky steel light fixtures. The overall effect was very modern, and maybe a little stark. And beautiful, because it was that, too. Expensive-looking furniture was well placed throughout, reinforcing the slightly chilly tone—I didn’t see a place where slumping and flopping could be executed too well, a far cry from the sofa I’d brought to Noah’s, which was aging leather and deliciously broken-in, a piece that seemed to invite a running start. But the house was beautiful.

And it was clean. Immaculate, even. I was a fair housekeeper myself, but not like this.

Off the great room was the kitchen, which had more steel light fixtures and slate countertops. Ian was already there, measuring out coffee beans.

“How long have you lived here?” Annie asked, gesturing me to heel.

“Not that long,” he answered, not looking at her. “Four months.”

“How old is the house?” she asked. Honestly, I was surprised she didn’t whip out her phone and start taking pictures.

“It was built in 1932,” Ian answered. “My uncle bought it in the sixties, and after he died, I bought it from the bank. Had it redone when I bought the practice.”

Dropping her hand so that Ian couldn’t see (and making sure that I could), Annie rubbed her fingers against her thumb. Money. She nodded at me and smiled. I sighed.

Angie’s ears pricked up as a car slowly came down the driveway, the gravel crunching under the wheels.

“Oh, drat, Jack’s here,” Annie said. “Well, great meeting you! Have to run!”

“What about your coffee?” Ian asked, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “Your husband’s welco—”

“See you soon!” she said, then hurtled out the door and ran toward Jack’s car.

“I thought she wanted coffee,” Ian said, staring out the window as Jack turned the car around and headed back down the driveway.

“She has psychological problems. Sorry about that.” I looked around the room again. “This is a very nice place, Ian.”

“Thanks,” he said, opening a cupboard. Inside looked like a Pottery Barn display—rows of neatly arranged mugs, all the same color and style, unlike my own motley collection, which ranged from the thick and uneven mug Josephine made me in preschool to an antique porcelain cup my gran had used each day for tea. Nope, Ian had only a row of mugs, six in all, pale green, very pleasing. Glasses, all the same model, six of each size, three sizes in all, stood like obedient soldiers.

The same thought that had been niggling away at me all week popped into my brain. “I heard you and Fleur had coffee the other day,” I said.

He looked up. “Who’s Fleur?”

Say no more, Ian. Question answered. “Um…my coworker? Tony Blair’s mommy? The one who took you on the hike?”

“Right. I think I saw her in town.” He returned his attention to measuring the coffee.

“Can I look around a little?” I asked.

“Sure.” He may have sighed.

I wandered into the great room. On the walls were three large prints, all the same size, all matted in white and framed in black, a series of photographs of leaves…maple, fern, oak, close-up studies in sharp detail.

“Did you take these?” I asked. “They’re really nice.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he said in that formal way of his. It was starting to grow on me. The coffeepot gurgled.

So Ian McFarland had an artistic streak. That was kind of nice. Quite nice, really.

The bookcase held mostly science-related tomes…here was a page-turner—Flynn’s Parasites of Laboratory Animals. Blick! Small Animal Medical Differential Diagnosis. Along with the textbooks were scattered a few manly novels… Call of the Wild, The Old Man and the Sea. And aw! He had All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot, the charming story of the English vet.

“I loved this book when I was little!” I exclaimed, taking it out.

He looked up and almost smiled. “Me, too.”

I replaced the book and continued my perusal, coming to a picture of Ian, an older woman…attractive, lean, very blue eyes…and a gorgeous man. Hello! Might this be Alejandro? Lord, I got a little turned-on just thinking his name. “Your family?” I asked, picking up the photo.

“Yes.”

“Is your brother married?”

“Yes.”

Figured. There was another picture of his mother…with a face I quite recognized. “Is this Bono?” I yelped, snatching the photo off the shelf.

“Yes,” Ian said, smiling. “They met at a fundraiser in Africa… Nigeria, I think.”

“Wow. I always thought we’d end up together, Bono and I.”

“He’s also married,” Ian said.

“Rub it in,” I said. A few of the books were not in English. “So you speak Spanish?” I asked, wandering back over to the kitchen area.

Ian reached into another cabinet, which showed the same ruthless organization as the first. He took out a small pitcher in the same shade as the mugs, as well as a matching sugar bowl.

“Yes,” he answered. “I moved to Latin America when I was eight, spent a few years there, a couple in Chile, three in Africa. I speak passable French, too. I knew a little Swahili, but I’ve forgotten most of it.”

“That is so cool!” I exclaimed. He didn’t answer. “Or not,” I added. He gave a grudging smile, then got out some spoons. I was beginning to feel like I was at a Japanese tea ceremony…everything so precise. I had some cute pitchers and sugar bowls, too, though they were of the “high on a shelf, covered in dust” variety. My own formalities usually ended at sniffing the half-and-half to make sure it wasn’t sour. Ian opened the fridge—Good Lord, it was as anal retentive as the rest of the house, neatly wrapped foil packages lined up in a row. “Do you like to cook, Ian?” I asked.

“I don’t really have the time,” he answered. “I get most of my meals from Kitty’s Catering.”

“I’m having you over for a home-cooked meal, then. One of these days.”

He made a noncommittal sound, glancing up at me, almost meeting my eyes.

“So did you like moving around, living in so many parts of the world?” I asked.

The coffeepot beeped, and Ian seemed glad to have something to do while he answered. “I appreciate it now,” he said carefully. “It was a little hard back then.” He handed me a mug and took a sip of his own coffee. I noted that he took his coffee black. All that cream and sugar prep, just for me. It was rather flattering.

“Thanks, Ian. Sorry about intruding like this.”

“It’s fine. It’s nice to have company,” he replied.

“I think you’re lying.” I smiled as I said it.

“Only a little,” he answered, and my smile grew. Ian McFarland, making a joke! Angie seemed to approve, because she chuffed softly next to him. “Have a seat,” he said, and we moved to the living room area. Ian sat in a sleek white chair (white? With an Irish setter? Clearly she wasn’t the leg-humping, lap-sitting variety of dog, like my own beloved fur ball). I chose the couch, which was pale green, taking care not to slosh any coffee.

Outside, a chickadee sang repeatedly. Angie lay down next to Ian’s chair and put her head on his foot.

“You should have a party here,” I observed. “Have you had your staff over?”

“No,” Ian answered.

“You should. Dr. Kumar used to. And your staff is so great. I’ve known Earl and Carmella for ages.” No comment from my host. “My own boss has us over every now and again. It would be part of your warm and fuzzy campaign.” I smiled and took a sip of the joe, which was dark and nutty. Maybe his mom sent it from Colombia or something.

Ian set his cup down. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Callie,” he said slowly, not looking at me, “but I’m not exactly warm and fuzzy.” He straightened the coaster so it was exactly aligned with the edge of the coffee table.

“Well, sure, I’ve noticed, Ian,” I answered. “You’re kind of…formal. But that’s okay. We’re not trying to lie. Just make people like you more.”

“I don’t really care if people like me more, Callie. I just want to maintain my customer base.” His jaw was getting a little clenched.

“Which you can do by being a little warmer and fuzzier,” I said, smiling to show this would not be at all painful.

“You’re good at that, aren’t you?” he said after a beat.

“Good at what?”

“Working people over.”

I blinked. “Ouch, Ian!”

“What?” He gazed at me impassively, unaware that he’d just stuck a knife in my heart.

My mouth opened and closed before I could actually form words. “Well, if you mean I’m good at talking to people in a polite and interested way, Ian, then yes, I am good at it. Perhaps you can learn by my example. And thank you for the compliment.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” he said. “It’s an observation.”

“Why are you being mean to me?”

“I’m not being mean, Callie. I’m just…being honest. You try very hard to make everyone like you, and not everyone needs that kind of…affirmation. I don’t.”

“No, of course not. You’re perfect in every way.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Well, what are you saying?” My voice was getting a little loud, and my face felt hot.

“Just…you seem to try very hard at something that maybe you shouldn’t.”

“And how would you know anything about me?” I asked tightly.

He shrugged. “I’ve seen you in action. That older woman in line in the Department of Motor Vehicles. The guy who made things out of hair. All those people at Elements. The older man on the hike that day. You work people.”

I slapped my cup down on the coffee table, getting a gratifying twitch from my host as the coffee sloshed nearly over the rim of my cup. “I do not work people, Ian. I’m nice. I’m cheerful. I’m smart and I’m cute. People like me because those are likable qualities. Much more so than, oh, I don’t know, frosty and anal retentive, wouldn’t you say?”