Logan was tempted to kick the wobbly looking legs of the fancy ironing board flower-planter as he walked around the clutter on the sidewalk. Instead, he kicked himself for being so stinking idealistic. He should have known better. He should have driven his lazy self up to Cobble Creek to check out Doc Morgan’s practice with his own eyes instead of relying on Skype, real estate agents and inspectors, financial summaries, and word of mouth before he’d made the decision to up and move. He’d heard “Cobble Creek” and “sustainable optometry clinic” and jumped at the chance without knowing the horrors that existed next door. A junk shop. It hardly even seemed legit. The best he could hope was that the shop wasn’t infested with rats.

A bell over the scarred wooden door jingled as Logan stalked in. How quaint. He was poised to allow his sarcastic thoughts to spew through the room, but in that one moment the sickeningly sweet sound, so quintessentially small-town, reminded him he’d better check his frustration at the door. A civil conversation with his new neighbor would do more to solve the problem than harsh words.

“Welcome! Feel free to browse, and I’ll be right with you,” a woman’s voice called from another room. “Or if you have something you need fixed, bring it on back.”

The voice was younger than his thirty-four years but certainly not a teenager’s. Logan followed the sound as it led him through a maze of furniture groupings, arranged as if they were a series of small sitting rooms rather than what it actually was—a grandiose garage sale. At least the presentation in here was better than it was outside.

The first thing he noticed about the woman who raised her head from a project was that she had three pairs of glasses on. Sunglasses tugged at her V-neck shirt, and protective goggles were tucked into her shining chestnut hair, holding it from falling into her eyes. The third set of glasses were cheap drugstore cheaters perched on her nose that she was at least fifteen years too young for. If she needed them at thirty, he needed to take a look at her eyes. He’d have Lucy make an appointment for her.

“How can I help?”

“I have a matter that needs fixing,” he said, referring to her comment about bringing things that needed fixed back to her. Not that this was what she was thinking when she made the offer, but his statement was true. “May I speak to the owner? Is Frank here?” He looked around the shop, but she was alone.

“I’m the owner, Frankie. Is there something I can help you with?” Her magnified brown-green hazel eyes blinked behind the plastic lenses.

Oops. She was going to think he was some kind of sexist pig, but in his own defense, the store sign clearly read Frank & Signs, emphasis on the Frank.

He stuck out his hand. “Hi, Frankie. I’m Logan.” He nodded his head to the left. “I’m your new neighbor. I took over Doc Morgan’s practice.”

She shrugged, completely unimpressed—not that he expected her to be, but he had expected something … interest, perhaps? “I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?” His mind scrambled with possibilities, and Lucy was the most likely culprit.

“The Cobble Creek Chamber of Commerce catalogs everyone that comes into town.” There wasn’t even a twitch of a smile.

She was so completely serious, Logan found himself considering the possibility that she was telling the truth, and then realized how ridiculous it was. “A case of the small-towns, is it?”

A corner of her lips lifted, and a sparkle lit her eye. While she was pretty before, this change, combined with her sense of humor, made her even more so.

“Yes. Process of elimination.” She set her small screwdriver next to some gears, and lifted her hand to meet his. “Though I have to admit I didn’t know your first name.” Her hand was warm in his and softer than he expected, considering her occupation. “Well, Dr. Logan, what can I do for you?”

“You need to get your junk …” Frankie stiffened, and Logan stopped mid-sentence, but he couldn’t suppress the heavy sigh that escaped.

She pulled her hand back as if he’d burned her. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t refer to my creations as junk.”

Logan was impressed with her calm tone, despite his obvious attack on something special to her. “All in the eye of the beholder,” he countered.

“Yes, it is.”

Frustration gnawed at his insides. “Perhaps you don’t realize the liability you have on our sidewalk.”

He waited for a reaction, an understanding of some sort, but a confused look crinkled her forehead. Was she that naïve?

“Mrs. Erickson tripped over your”—he stopped himself from saying anything derogatory again—“display on her way to her car. We’re lucky she wasn’t seriously injured. Lucy saw it happen and hurried out to smooth things over.” At least he hoped Lucy had been able to smooth things over. Wouldn’t that be an epic first week—to have a lawsuit slapped on him before he even changed his driver’s license over to his new state?

“Is she okay?” Despite her words, Frankie didn’t look that worried.

“Yes, but …”

Frankie picked up her screwdriver and began tinkering.

Blown away by her dismissive attitude, Logan stepped forward to see what she found more pressing than averting future litigious consequences. “I just think we need to make sure everything is out of the way of foot traffic in the future.” When she still didn’t respond, he looked closer. “Are those clock parts?” He hardly registered her nod. “And a lamp?” An odd combination.

“Only a wild-hair idea at this point. I’m not sure where it’s going yet.”

Brushing off his concern in such a way was staggeringly maddening. “You’re like that guy on Toy Story …” He was pleased with the accusation in his tone. “What was his name?”

“You can’t mean Sid?” Frankie quit dabbling and stared at him for a second before she scoffed. “That’s not very nice, you know.” She shook her head but smiled so big a dimple in her left cheek popped in her mirth.

“I guess it wasn’t.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his own smile emerging. A light bulb went off in his head. “And that’s why the name of the store—Frank & Signs. Like Frankenstein’s. Basically, you’re admitting you are just like Sid—and Dr. Frankenstein.” He’d noticed all the cutesy vinyl sayings on reclaimed wood and windows decorating the walls of the store and figured that’s where the “Signs” part came from, but this was way better.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, defiance hardening her face. “My dad has held this corner for forty years as Frank & Sons Welding, but when he gave it to me, I convinced him to expand to include both our interests. We went from fixing large farm equipment to fixing just about everything. Then, after a while, I needed a place to sell my creations, so we bought out the shop between Frank’s Welding and Doc Morgan’s and added the antique store part.” She shrugged with a false modesty.

He found this confidence and pride in her accomplishments attractive. Not bragging, but competent.

As much as he enjoyed meeting his new neighbor, it was the middle of the workday. “I should go; I have a few more appointments.” He’d been sidetracked long enough. “Can I use your alley door?” He wanted to slip back into his office with none of the waiting patients the wiser of his absence.

She shrugged that she didn’t care, and he started in that direction. Had she not even listened to his concerns? “If you don’t mind, straighten up the sidewalk so neither of us gets sued. That ironing board alone is an ER visit waiting to happen.”

“Also, you owe me one question.”

He didn’t owe her anything, and he didn’t know her well enough to know if she was teasing or being serious. “And what is that?” He turned around, wary to hear what she would ask.

“Did you dilate Mrs. Erickson’s eyes?”

He stopped in his tracks. She was smart. “That … that has nothing to do with anything.”

“Doesn’t it, now?” And there was that dimple again, like a wink.

Smug, Frankie went back to her tinkering, her graceful neck arched over her work.

He looked up to the ceiling and shook his head. Leaving, he closed the door softly behind him. Neighboring this Frankenstein woman would only lead to trouble.