When was the last time Dean had gone on a regular job interview? Had he ever? He’d taken his time prepping, wanting to give a great first impression. Now he was marching into town with the address that Atillio had scribbled down for him.

“You’re in luck!” Atillio had said, when Stella had brought up the question of carpentry work. “We just had a woman come in to the commune (the Italian name for the town hall) today asking for help. She said they were looking for an English speaking carpenter to work with the English speaking project manager. It’s like fate.”

His eyes twinkled across the room at Stella, who blushed. Dean wondered if there was something between them. That would explain his constant presence at the kitchen table, other than the obvious magnet of Stella’s fantastic food, of course. Atillio had scribbled down the address, then phoned back that evening and told him the next morning at 9:00 would be appropriate. The project manager would be waiting.

Dean took a left turn as per his written instructions and found himself on Via Bellinzona. The address scribbled on the paper was 1290 Via Bellinzona. Wait… this couldn’t be the right street. He checked again and then realized which house these instructions would lead him to. He slowed his steps while he checked the paper a third time. He glanced back toward the townhouse and saw Stella and Sara, baby in her arms, watching him from the driveway. They must have caught his backward glance because they smiled and waved at him happily.

“Traitors,” he muttered. He considered not going, but the thought of the hassle he would get from the Del Nevo women set his feet to marching down the hill. Two houses later and he was at the gate. It was still padlocked, but he knew where to go. He headed around the back and tiptoed up the stone steps, peeking through the dusty window of the back door.

There she was. All buttoned up, as usual, fussing around the table, arranging paperwork, and adjusting the placement of biscotti on a fancy plate. There was a more relaxed woman under there somewhere, but she wasn’t showing that side of herself today. She was all business. There wasn’t a hair out of place in the shiny bun that sat atop an impeccably made-up face. She was wearing a hip-hugging pencil skirt with a matching jacket over a cream colored, translucent blouse. He could just make out the lacy edge of her camisole above the top button of her blouse, and an unwitting shiver ran from his hips down to his toes. All he could think about was unbuttoning that jacket. He wanted to tease her until she giggled like she had at the Quara. Darn! He stepped back down into the grass. This was a bad idea, a terrible idea. There was no way he could take this job.

“What are you doing here?” He hadn’t even heard the back door open. She was glowering at him from the top step. The smell of coffee was wafting from the kitchen.

“You don’t want me here?” he teased, giving her his best movie star grin.

“Oh puhlease…,” Hazel said. “Like that smile would work on me. Save it for the teenyboppers, Mr. Action Hero.”

“Yeah, I think I will. I don’t see anyone young enough for me around here, anyway.”

“So, I've heard.” She stepped back to close the door.

I don’t think so, lady. He took the two steps in a single bound and grabbed the edge of the door before she could swing it closed. Was she completely disinterested or was she faking it? He intended to find out. “You’ve heard, have you? Surely you know that you can’t trust Hollywood rumors.”

“I know I can’t trust Hollywood anything!”

“Ouch,” he said, grabbing a handful of shirt over his heart and squeezing. “That hurts.” He stepped away, still keeping his hand firmly on the door.

“And so will your arm when I close this door on it. Did you just come to practice your fake charm on a challenging subject, or do you want something?”

He looked directly into her brown eyes. He could get lost in there. “I want something,” he said and was gratified when she blushed.

The few seconds of silence that followed lasted years, and during that time Dean had them married off with babies and living in his little cottage by the sea. She would love that cottage. Stop! What was he doing? This could not, would not, happen. He had a girlfriend, and a career, both of which were on the fritz. The last thing he needed was another complication.

“Yeah well, maybe you haven’t heard, given that you’re a movie star and all, but you can’t always get what you want.” Hazel pushed hard against his grip on the door frame, but he didn’t let go. He didn't want to leave, and he didn't think she wanted him to leave either. Something was happening between them.

“Listen, truce. Okay? All joking aside, I am here for a reason. Atillio told me that you’re looking for a carpenter.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. God, she was beautiful. “Yes? And?”

“And I’m here for the job.”

Her lip twitched. He watched her struggling, then, to his great pleasure, she lost and started to giggle. He should have been insulted but hearing that giggle drove all other thoughts from his head. “You’re not a carpenter!”

He waited for her to stop laughing. It took a while. “And how would you know that I’m not a carpenter?”

“I know you’re not a carpenter because this whole smitten town has spent the last few days fawning all over you! I don’t think carpenters normally get that kind of attention.”

“Well for your information I spent my early adulthood as a carpenter.” He pushed past her and through the door. If he was going to have to put up with this kind of treatment, he was going to have a biscotti. “Homemade?” he inquired, as he took a bite of the crisp, buttery goodness, crumbs cascading onto the white tablecloths.

“Hey, they’re for the carpenter!” Hazel crossed the room quickly and reached out to grab the biscotti from his hand. His other hand shot up, and he wrapped his fingers around her slender wrist. Her eyes widened. She felt it too. Her pulse quickened under his fingers as he struggled to slow his own quickening breath. He let go and lowered his hand to his side but his fingers still burned from the current that had jolted between the two of them.

“I am the carpenter.” He took a single step back. He couldn’t be that close to her.

When he’d dropped her wrist she’d pulled it behind her back and was trying to rub it surreptitiously against her jacket, but he caught the movement, and she blushed. “Well, you’re not my carpenter.” She walked across the kitchen and left the room.

Well, that went well. She was putty in his hands (not). Now he was walking out without a job but with a serious crush. Somewhere under that china doll exterior was more of the Hazel that he couldn’t get out of his mind. The one who giggled with a free and open release of perfect joy, as well as the one who concealed her passion and an electric touch. This was complicated. He knew he should avoid her, but he wanted to find out more. Who was Hazel Blakemore?