That evening, I watch Quinn as he wanders around the charred guts of Milton’s kitchen, his dark head down as he reads the insurance report. His hair is ruffled, just like it was this afternoon, and I suspect it’s that way because he was under a hardhat most of the day. But, wherever his hair used to be, it looks so thick and appealing right now that I keep thinking of what it’d be like to run my fingers through it.

Stupid, right? What’s worse, though, is that there’s something else that’s making me confused about him: he’s been … hell, I guess a good way to put it is “standoffish.” Yeah, that’s it. It’s like he decided out of nowhere to back away from me, like a truck going beep-beep-beep before the driver puts on the brakes and then sits there behind the wheel, rethinking how much he actually does want to take me to wine. Back at the Climax site, Quinn was giving me grief about welshing on him for the wine tasting thing one minute and then the next he was all Hey, if you don’t want to go, I’m not going to cry myself to sleep about it …

God, he flummoxes me, and what makes me even angrier is that I can’t stop dwelling on how flummoxed I am.

After he finishes his inspection, I snap to attention, showing no sign that I’ve been thinking about him. He saunters over, then nonchalantly hands the insurance report back to me. “Good news. This’ll be a pretty straightforward job, and it’s definitely going to get done in a reasonable amount of time.”

Yes, thank you dear Lord Jesus! Then I go back to being Gwen Who Trusts No One. “Is there also bad news?”

He sends me that ridiculously alluring smile of his. “Well, it looks like you’re gonna have to tolerate my presence for a while outside of a wine tasting.”

“That’s … not as bad as it could be.” I relax and give him a truly grateful smile. “Thanks so much for this. Really. You don’t know how relieved I am.” But surely he’s eventually going to want more than a simple wine tasting session in return, right?

A little thrill spins through my veins. My tummy gets warm. My thoughts get a bit crazy as I imagine what it’d be like to feel the calloused skin of his hand again — and to have it doing something to me that’s way naughtier than a handshake …

I blink myself back to reality.

He isn’t paying attention to my utter bewilderment. No, instead, he’s ambling out of the kitchen as if he’s perfectly at home in the diner. As I follow him, I try not to notice how his jeans fit so wonderfully over his tight butt. And how the muscles of his back under that t-shirt bunch and strain whenever he moves.

I blow a breath out of the corner of my mouth, chasing away the stray hair that keeps fluttering over my face. You’re not interested, Gwen. This is gonna pass.

As we move into the dining area, Quinn stops at the counter, bracing his hands on it as he peers around at all the backwoods kitsch decorating the walls. His arms are a thing of beauty, especially with those tattoos decorating his tanned skin.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “this would be a great opportunity to update Milton’s.”

Remember the gratitude I was feeling? It takes a long, arching dive, then belly flops to the floor. “Are we going to talk about this again?”

“If you’re ever going to do it, you might as well get it done while the place is closed for some fixing.”

I’m seeing dollar bills flying away in the wind. I’m seeing bank accounts fading into obscurity. I’m seeing myself finally breaking down into exhausted tears.

Quinn looks at me a few seconds too long, as if sensing my money worries, and he glances around again. “Don’t get me wrong — this place is great already. And the updates would be minor. I can also arrange it so we could do more with the insurance money than other contractors would. In fact, I’ll draw something up to show you that making slight upgrades wouldn’t cost you a thing.”

“It … wouldn’t cost anything?” I laugh. “I call bullshit on that.”

“No bullshit.” He fixes his gray eyes on me. “You, Gwen Milton, just need to learn to trust someone besides yourself.”

“I trust my family and friends.”

“Come on. Am I not a friend?”

Yeah — a friend who seemed to want benefits before he suddenly seemed to be all Either you want to have wine with me or not. No skin off my back either way.

“Look,” he says, gesturing toward the ancient antler and horn lighting fixtures. “I can see using some industrial Edison bulb wrought-iron chandeliers to keep this place rustic but make it more contemporary at the same time. It wouldn’t be a jarring change. Neither would expanding the kitchen window to open up the view. People these days love to see how their food is prepared.”

“Have you met my mom? She won’t want anyone staring at her while she’s cooking.” But there’s something about his ideas that’s new and different and … well, kind of exciting. God, I hate admitting that.

He smiles and gestures toward the planked walls. “You might also consider a new color of paint to lighten things up. Again, nothing too shocking, just a fresh look.”

I glance around, hearing my mom’s and my sister’s complaints echo in my mind about how boring Milton’s has gotten over the years. “It wouldn’t cost us more?” I ask softly.

“I guarantee it won’t.”

The way he says it, with his voice all low and sort of scratchy, makes me shiver deep in my belly. He looks over at me as if he could guarantee me all kinds of things, and my pulse is just starting to thumpity-thump-thump in a way it never has when he goes cool again, glancing away.

“Yup,” he says, scanning the room, “you could really have something here if you gave it a try, Gwen.”

I swallow hard. Then I hook my thumbs into my belt loops. I’m not exactly crossing my arms over my chest, but I’m not welcoming him and his ideas all the way in either. “So if we were to try something …” I gulp again, hoping he doesn’t notice. “I would have to approve all the changes.”

“Understandably.”

“And I would have to run every idea past my family.”

“Got it.”

“Because they care more about that kind of stuff than I do.”

Light fixtures, kitchen windows, paint jobs … dating. I’ve never cared much about any of it, and as Quinn wanders out from behind the counter onto the floor, my heart squeezes as if there’s a fist trying to pump a reaction out of the lazy thing. And when he turns toward me and I look away, my heart finally pops and starts beating really fast.

You could really have something here if you gave it a try …

When he speaks, his voice is still low enough to feel like fingertips running over my skin. “You just let me know when you’re ready to move forward. I won’t do a thing until then.”

My head snaps up just in time to catch his grin before he coolly turns toward the door.

“Wait.” I want to know if he was talking about moving forward with an upgrade for the diner or … something else. Could he have been?

Hell, why do I even need to know? I’m all about business, and as I go to him, I’m only intent on getting another handshake just to really make sure that he’s not giving me a bunch of lines about the upgrades. “We need to shake on this.”

“We shook earlier.”

“That was before we went over the specifics. I want to make sure that what you’re saying isn’t too good to be true.”

He raises his hands — have it your way — then accepts my hand in his. Heat twirls through me, and I’m almost on the edge of admitting that maybe I just wanted to feel his skin against mine again. It could be that I want to imagine, even for only a moment, that his hands are slipping under my henley, sliding over my bare waist while his thumbs brush my belly …

I yank my hand out of his, killing the fantasy. I don’t know what the everlovin’ hell that was all about, but I’m not giving him any more encouragement. Why did I think it was a good idea to touch him again, anyway? Jeez.

I’m not sure he wants any encouragement, because he gives me the same impassive smile I saw earlier when he decided that I was either going to go to wine with him or I wasn’t. Then he heads for the exit.

“Wait,” I say again.

He glances over his broad shoulder. “I’m beginning to think you’re not going to let me out the door, Gwen.”

“Of course I will.” Duh. “It’s just that I want to get this wine thing over with.” I laugh lamely. “I’m pretty much a woman of leisure these days, so you should just let me know when you want to do it.”

“Do it?” He suddenly looks very interested. “I thought you made it clear that there’d be no funny business.”

He’s messing with me, isn’t he? Well, ha-ha.

I blow out another long, hair-stirring sigh.

“All right,” he says with a shrug. “How about Friday night? I’m free then.”

“Great!” Wow, that sounded excited. “I mean, yeah, sure. I’m free, too. I’ll meet you there.”

“Six o’clock then.”

He lifts a carefree hand as he walks out the door, and I watch him through the window glass: Quinn Maxwell, hot and cold, cocky and neighborly.

An enigma that I’m spending way too much time trying to figure out.