Pete Finnegan liked the woods, his English pointer, dark ale, and a meal that could be made with one pan. The simple life, his mother called it, and he agreed. But the life he’d left four months ago hadn’t been simple, and it certainly hadn’t involved woods, an ale, or a simple meal. Nope. That life had been all about glitz, glamour, and keeping his soon-to-be fiancée happy. If he’d taken a deep breath and looked around, he would have seen he didn’t belong in a city any longer, no less a city where people were directed and redirected like cattle. Forget names or faces and to hell with common courtesy. Above all, do not make eye contact. No idle chit-chat either. Who cared why the cashier wore a sling on his right arm or the young boy limped. And if the attendant who’s been parking the car for two months straight doesn’t show up for a week, don’t ask. Not. Your. Problem. And it sure as hell wasn’t your business.

But Pete had grown up in Magdalena, been surrounded by people who made it their business to know about busted arms, limps, and anything else that involved a town resident. If anybody had turned up missing—with Magdalena’s definition of missing, which was unavailable for longer than a two-hour stretch—there’d be a plan of action in place involving a search party headed by the police department and volunteers. Residents didn’t fool around, especially in the winter, when snow, ice, and frigid temperatures could threaten a person’s life.

He’d been gone from Magdalena fifteen years, but he’d never forgotten the closeness of the town, bordering on what he’d called nosy. At twenty, he’d wanted people to stay the hell out of his business. That included his parents, especially his father, but Jack Finnegan wasn’t about to sit by and watch his son cause embarrassment to the Finnegan household. Okay, so maybe underage drinking at “Dave’s Happy Hour” in Renova hadn’t been a good move, and maybe Pete’s temper had gotten the best of him, but he’d been twenty friggin’ years old. A kid. Did his old man really have to force his hand? You want to be one of them free spirits, on your own with not a single soul to answer to, huh? You think that’s life? You think that’s what will happen when you head to California? Huh? Go on, pack up your bag and go, Mr. Unconventional. Go save a tree and grow a ponytail. See where that gets you.

Pete’s mother hadn’t wanted him to leave, had told him years later a piece of her heart broke off the day he drove the old jeep out of Magdalena, but he’d been determined to prove his father wrong.

And he had.

Seems he had a talent for spotting run down real estate that could be turned into lucrative property with a little work and a lot of vision. There’d been big payouts. Huge, in fact. By twenty-six, Pete had enough cash to travel the country in a private plane, trade out the jeans for custom suits, buy a place with an ocean-front view, and accumulate more friends than a football stadium. The women came along, too, blonds, brunettes, redheads.

It was a wild time.

It was fun and dangerous, and as the years rolled by, Pete’s obsession to be the best consumed him. That was the beginning of his downfall. One gigantic, risk-heavy deal, that was more about winning than strategy, failed and stole everything. Gone were the houses, the cars, the vacation spots. The friends. The woman he planned to marry. Heather. She’d trailed her slender hand along his jaw, placed the softest kiss on his mouth, and told him she wasn’t equipped to live a life of want and worry, one without money. And then she was gone.

Everybody and everything he’d identified with evaporated in the span of forty-six days. There were no more deals to be made, no boardroom handshakes or late-night drinks. Pete’s arrogance and belief that he could not fail proved his greatest failure.

He’d just turned thirty-five. For the next four months, he traveled to places like Oregon, Utah, Colorado, stopping long enough to earn a little cash to keep the old truck he’d picked up running. What he’d once earned in minutes with the click of a button would now take him days, and involved mucking stalls, carrying wood, building and staining fences. But he did it; he did it all because the work was honest, the sweat was real, and when he closed his eyes at night, he was too damn tired to think about regrets.

He’d landed in Magdalena last month, driving in the same as he’d driven out…angry, broke, and determined to find a way out of the mess he’d created. Yeah, he’d sure made a name for himself, but one look at the townsfolk told him they thought the stories about his great success out west were more fiction than fact. Who could blame them? When a thirty-five-year-old limps home in an old truck and moves into the room where he grew up, that doesn’t spell success.

Nate Desantro had hired him to fix up a cabin and that meant time alone without questions or judgments. Nothing but woods and solitude. Pete spotted the cabin, pulled the truck off the road onto the gravel driveway. Why was there a car with Illinois license plates parked near the front door? Illinois? What the hell? He pushed aside thoughts of his sorry-ass life and hopped out of the truck. If somebody was poking around inside, maybe taking up squatter’s rights on property that didn’t belong to him, well, Pete was not going to sit by and let it happen. Nate wanted him to get the place ready to sell and that’s what he planned to do. After all, he’d given his word and while it might not stand for much out west, in this part of the country, it still meant something.

He made his way to the compact car, peeked inside. Nice and neat, no food wrappers, napkins, scraps of paper…no socks, hats, tennis shoes…nothing but a string of red and gray beads dangling from the rearview mirror. If he had a guess, he’d say the car belonged to a woman and the woman was a neat freak. Pete glanced at the driveway and the grass surrounding the cabin. If the snow were still on the ground, there’d be a better chance of tracking the intruder’s comings and goings. But spring had come early and the rains hadn’t kicked in like he remembered they used to after a long winter. He tried to open the car door, but it was locked, a sign that the intruder was not only neat, but careful.

Pete reached in his jeans pocket, dug out the key to the cabin, and headed toward the steps. Some people might call the cops if they suspected someone had moved into their vacant place, but not him. He’d rather figure out the lay of the land before he made any quick judgments or took action. It could be a young kid, hitchhiking and down on his luck, or a couple playing house, or an old man who had no place to go and no family. He fit the key in the lock, eased the door open with a creak.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. Not musty air or staleness as he’d anticipated, but blueberries and butter. The next thing he noticed was the orange and green bag on the end of the couch with knitting needles and a skein of yarn poking out. Candles on the coffee table…a pack of matches…

Who the hell was staying here and why? Paperbacks lay stacked on the other end of the couch. He counted seven. A notebook with a rose glued on the cover sat beside them. No television. Imagine that? He guessed life did exist without televisions and remote controls. Pete followed the blueberry-butter smell to the next room, which must serve as a dining area where a single place setting with a knife, two types of forks, and a spoon rested on a wooden table. A bouquet of greenery had been plunked in a water glass and tied with a pink ribbon.

This was definitely a woman’s handiwork, which meant the intruder was either a woman on her own, or part of a couple. When Pete reached the kitchen, he found the source of the blueberry-butter scent. Twelve blueberry muffins with sugar-cinnamon crumble tops lined the cooling racks. The dishes were washed and drying on a towel. He moved to the stove, lifted the lid on the large pot, sniffed. How long had it been since he’d eaten a bowl of vegetable soup? Ten years? Longer? He guessed the last time was when he left Magdalena, fifteen years ago. Pete grabbed a spoon from the utensils on the drying towel, dipped it in the soup, and tasted. Just like his mother used to make…

“What are you doing?”

He swung around, spoon in hand, and came face to face with the intruder. A woman. She had chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and lots of curves. A beautiful woman. The most dangerous kind.

“What are you doing?” she repeated, her voice clipped, eyes narrowing on the spoon in his hand.

Pete set the spoon on the counter, rubbed his jaw. “Good job on the soup. You know, I’m wondering the same thing myself. What are you doing?”

She yanked out her cell phone, held it up, and spat out, “I’m going to call the police and report you for trespassing.”

That was a good one. She was going to report him. Pete crossed his arms over his chest and stared her down. “Go ahead. I’m supposed to be here.” He gave her the look he’d perfected years ago, the one that made people nervous. Not this one. She kept that hazel gaze trained on him and lied.

“You’re trespassing on my property.”

Great. A beautiful woman and a liar. “You sure about that? I saw the Illinois license plates on the car…” Let her weasel out of that one.

“Is it against the law to have a vacation spot in another state?” She let out the tiniest huff, clutched her phone, and snarled, “You need to leave or I swear, I will call the police.”

“Uh-huh.” Pete scratched his chin, debated his next words. The woman was lying, but why? She appeared to be alone. Was she on the run from someone or something? Did he care? He’d been sent to do a job and all he wanted was a little peace and quiet while he tried to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. A thirty-five-year-old shouldn’t have to crawl home and ask for his old room back, but that’s what had happened, and it wasn’t pleasant. In fact, it sucked, and it was all on him. His old man hadn’t said a word, just eyed him up and down, nodded, and tossed a house key his way, reminding him to lock the door when he came and went.

“Mister, do you hear me? This is my place and you have to leave.”

Maybe he should tell her the truth, but that seemed too easy. He’d rather let her dig herself deeper before he blew the lies apart. Besides, he was hungry and vegetable soup and a blueberry muffin or two made his stomach rumble. “A man hired me to fix up the place and get it ready to sell.”

Those hazel eyes widened. “A man?”

“Yup.” He opened a few cupboards, located two bowls, and set them on the counter. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

* * *

His name was Pete, no last name given. Elissa thought of making up a name for herself, but decided on the truth. Well, the truth with her name. The other stories she told him were contrived and the look he gave her throughout most of their meal said he knew it. She told him she’d known one of the owners, which was true, and had always wanted to visit, but life had gotten in the way. Again, sort of true. When Mrs. Blacksworth talked about the cabin, Elissa had grown very curious, though not curious enough to ask to visit. But cheating fiancés had a way of driving a person out of town, making her seek safe haven, and a place to think. The cabin in the Catskills was the perfect spot and since she had a key and as far as she’d known, the place was empty, she’d figured why not? What could a few weeks in the woods do but help her gain perspective? She’d been here three days and was just getting comfortable with the night sounds and the creaking floorboards when Pete with no last name showed up.

Did he know Christine and Nate Desantro? Oh, she hoped not. They would not be happy to hear Elissa had invaded their cabin, especially if they found out she’d been the one delivering the letters as per Mrs. Blacksworth’s last wishes. And she had another one to deliver, this one headed to Nate Desantro, and it had to do with his long-time employee, Jack Finnegan. She wished she hadn’t agreed to deliver the letters, but she’d promised and she couldn’t go back on her word to a friend, especially when that friend was dead.

“So, you’re not afraid to stay out here all alone?” His gaze narrowed on her. “I took you for a city girl, but…am I wrong?”

What could it hurt to dole out this bit of truth? She nodded, tried not to notice the man’s strong jaw, the cleft in his chin, or the blueness of his eyes. Way too handsome. Elissa shifted in her chair. “Chicago born and bred.”

“Ah, Chicago. A city girl, for sure.”

She shrugged. “I might be a city girl but my parents took us camping every year. Mountains. Fresh water. Hiking trails. Lots of animals…” The memories crept over her, made her smile. “Those were good times.”

“Sounds like it.” His voice softened for just an instant. “Nothing gives you perspective faster than fresh air and walking trails. It’s a one-way trip to peace.”

There was a sadness in his voice, filled with what might be regret. She knew the sound of regret, had heard it enough times in her own voice. What was this man’s story? He had one, no doubt about it, and she guessed it centered on a wrong choice. A woman? Of course, there would be a woman. Nobody looked like this man and didn’t have a woman, or women. Elissa tried not to notice the long, leanness of his body, the muscles, the jeans that hugged his thighs. And that mouth: full lips, perfect for smiling and…kissing. But when he turned his attention on her, those blue eyes zeroing in, his body leaning toward her as though she were the only woman in his world, well, she could see where there could be trouble or fireworks…probably both.

“So.” Pete cleared his throat, toyed with his knife. “We’ve shared a meal and small talk. Guess it’s time to own up to what you’re doing here because we both know this isn’t your place.” He waited for her to attempt an objection and when she didn’t, he continued, “I know that because the real owners hired me to fix up the place.” More throat clearing. “To sell.”

Elissa darted a glance at him, wished she hadn’t. Those eyes were homing in on her in a hunt for answers. Dang it all, she’d never been good at lies or pretending. When people told her something, she believed them. Why wouldn’t she? And if someone asked a question, she answered with honesty. Again, why wouldn’t she? It was how she’d been raised, how she wanted to live her life.

And that’s why it had been so easy for her ex-fiancé to create a separate life. All he had to do was conjure up a few tales and she’d believed him—even if his answers didn’t quite add up. She’d never investigated or questioned because that would have meant doubting the man and doubting their commitment to one another. Once a person did that, there was no going back to a point where you didn’t doubt, where you believed with your whole heart.

“Elissa?”

She let out a sigh, planted her hands on the table, and forced herself to look at him. What was the point of faking it? There was no way to erase the past or wish her ex-fiancé had made a different choice. What was done was indeed done. “I came to get away and sort things out.” He lifted a brow, waited for her to say more. “I found out my ex-fiancé had another girlfriend, another fiancée, actually…and a baby. Of course, I didn’t know about either until I surprised him at his place. I’d always wondered why he didn’t want me going there without his okay. No drop-ins or surprises.” Her voice dipped. “He said it had to do with needing quiet time to think and create for the tech company he owned, but that was all a lie.”

The man across the table rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, I call bullshit on that one. You never suspected he had a woman on the side? Or a baby?”

“No.” Why was he looking at her like that? “What? How should I have known?”

“You were planning to marry the guy. How could you not know?”

“People lie and some lie very well.” She didn’t like the look he’d given her, as though it were a deficiency to trust someone. “Do you think you’d be able to tell when a woman’s lying, especially one you trust?”

“I’d know.”

“Humph. Lucky you. I must be the only fool in the world because I had no idea. If I hadn’t decided to go against his wishes and surprise him a week before our engagement party, we’d be working on the wedding invitation list and picking out china patterns.”

Pete shook his head. “The guy was a jerk. Did you at least keep the ring?”

“Of course not. I didn’t want any reminders of my horrible error in judgment.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You trusted the guy; nobody can fault you for that.”

“Live and learn, right?”

His lips curved into an almost smile. “And don’t be so trusting next time.”

“Exactly.” Elissa raised her wine glass, saluted the air. “Ex-act-ly.” She finished her wine, set the glass on the table with a dull thud. “But now here I am, almost thirty years old, with a detailed list that includes a husband, two children, and a dog by thirty-four, and I’m back to square one.”

“Ah…” He nodded his dark head, the almost smile slipping to a real one. “You’re one of those list people: make a plan, follow the plan, and don’t deviate, not even for a jerk-cheating fiancé.”

She frowned, rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know how I missed the signs.” A sigh, followed by a bigger sigh. “I learned a lot. Never again.”

“Never again what? Never again trust a guy or never again miss the signs that he’s a jerk?”

Elissa poured more wine into their glasses. “Both, I think.” The realization that she might never trust a man again was sad, but in some ways, comforting. At least, she’d go into future relationships with her eyes wide open: no expectations, no dreams, no hopes of happily-ever-after.

“Trusting the wrong person is a real bitch.”

That statement made her perk up. “So, you’ve got your own battle stories.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Was it a woman? Did she cheat?” On second thought, maybe it wasn’t the woman at all. Her voice dipped. “Did you?”

“It wasn’t me.”

She shouldn’t have asked that last question because the look he gave her said he didn’t appreciate the accusations or the prodding. “Sorry, it’s not my business.”

“How about we get the dishes cleaned up and then we’ll continue with the twenty-five questions.” Before she could answer, he stood and began clearing the bowls and silverware.

Elissa studied him as he carried the dishes to the counter, filled up the sink with sudsy water. This man had a lot of secrets; she could tell by the way his expression changed when they hit on subjects like lying and fiancés. Maybe he’d had a woman who’d cheated and broken his heart, though why anyone would cheat on a man like this was difficult to imagine. Still, it happened, and the why made her curious. Telling a stranger about Zachary wasn’t like confessing the sordid truth to her parents, which she’d done the other night through two boxes of tissues. This was like pretending the stranger cared that she’d been hurt, that the dips in his voice wanted to soothe her sadness, and those eyes saw into her soul. So what if it weren’t real? She’d thought she had real with Zachary and he’d been the grandest pretender of all. Why couldn’t she and this man pretend for a little while? They could share their stories and maybe find peace through the telling and a way to get past the pain?

Yes, that was exactly what she wanted to do, and with a bit of coaxing and another glass of wine or two, she might convince the man with the compelling blue eyes that pretending with a stranger was better than pretending with someone you loved.