It wasn’t five minutes after Logan left the store, tantalizing scent of woodsy cologne trailing behind, that Brooke poked her head through the shop door.

Turning her blond head, Brooke looked around as if to make sure the coast was clear. “So … what did you think of the new guy?” Brooke dropped into the old couch, bringing her legs up underneath her and settling in for a long talk. As much as Frankie appreciated the company, wasn’t anyone going to actually shop today?

“What? Have you been keeping an eye on Logan all day?” Frankie laughed. “You don’t have any clients or arrangements to make?”

Brooke’s flower shop sat across Main from Frank & Signs and was convenient for many things—accepting each others’ deliveries, meeting for lunch, and ridesharing—but one of the best perks was being able to leave a note on the door directing clients to the store across the street for assistance. That, at least, made them feel more comfortable in stealing a few minutes of human interaction if the day waxed too long.

“I’ve been working arrangements at the front table today.” Brooke waved her hand in the air. “I wanted a street view for some reason.”

“Like stalking the illustrious Dr. Wells?”

“No ducking the question.” Brooke gave Frankie a stern look. “What did you think, now that you’ve seen him up close, talked to him in person?”

“He’s exasperating.” And annoying, and so much like Marc when he called her work junk that she didn’t want to think about it. As soon as he’d said that, she’d put herself on guard. She wouldn’t settle for that kind of negativity in her life. She’d been just fine without a man, thank you very much, ever since she’d given Marc the boot back to Portland. And yet Logan had been witty and polite, even when he’d had reason to be upset. “Though I have to admit, he has a point.” That wasn’t what Brooke was asking, but it was Frankie’s gut reaction.

“And what, pray tell, does that mean, Franks? Exasperating how?” Brooke’s eyes sparkled with interest.

Frankie wished she knew if her friend’s interest was in getting to know Logan romantically or if it was the excitement over the idea of him: the new guy in town—the potential, the excitement, the promise of unlimited gossip sessions.

“I think that’s the first time someone caught the shop name without me having to explain it, and then I wasn’t sure if he was impressed or ridiculing me.”

The conversation with Logan had sent a shock of frustration through her. So she liked repairing clocks and refinishing furniture and then adding her own creative flair. The items she upcycled weren’t alive, so she wasn’t torturing anything. She would not let Doctor Wells guilt her into feeling bad about what she did.

Every orphaned piece of furniture had the right owner out there somewhere, and it was her job to match them. Sometimes that required a person who could uncover the potential of a piece she’d created. Frankie thrived on the carpentry, the painting, the creativity of taking something from what it was to what it could be. If it involved nail guns and miter saws, sanders or paint sprayers, so much the better.

“But he’s cute, yeah?”

Frankie mulled it over, reluctant to agree, but only because she was determined to remain neutral. No more than an objective female. The man easily fit into the good-looking category. Classically tall, dark, and handsome—characteristics that had attracted her since her first junior high crush—but there was more than that. The snapping spark of anger in his lake-blue eyes that slowly changed into playfulness. The smile that accented his strong jaw and revealed the first hints of crow’s feet around those eyes. Yes, the man was like hiking through the forest and chancing upon the first-changed aspen leaves in the fall: slightly unexpected in its gloriousness and something she could appreciate again and again. She couldn’t lie. “I guess so.”

The fact still didn’t change her aversion to dating, which was probably good. If Brooke was interested, Frankie wouldn’t have a chance. However, their brief conversation had been fun, intellectually stimulating, and emotionally charged like a sword fight. With his quick wit and easy manner, she was sure they could be great friends, or at least playful enemies.

“Uh, hello?” The squeak of a child’s voice was accompanied by the creak of the alley door.

Frankie turned to see a girl of nine or ten years old, with a head of shiny brunette hair, peeking through the barely open door. Cogsworth twisted his brassy body between the girl’s feet and around the doorframe like liquid metal rushing in.

“The cat wanted in. Is he yours?” the girl asked, her large eyes taking in every detail of the shop but showing no trace of caution or concern.

Was it late enough for school to be out already? The day had passed by quickly. Frankie opened the door wider and leaned against it so they both remained in the alley. “It’s complicated,” she admitted, and Brooke laughed behind her. Frankie ignored that and finished what she’d been about to say. “But you can let him in.”

“Cogsworth seems to have adopted Frankie here.” Brooke gestured toward Frankie, introducing her to the girl.

“He showed up a few months ago,” Frankie explained. “He comes around most days, but I have no idea where he goes all night.”

“Cogsworth? Like in Beauty and the Beast?” The girl followed the cat straight to his bowls of water and dry cat food—the first place he always went.

“Frankie’s a huge fan,” Brooke offered.

Frankie shrugged, trying not to feel embarrassment over her romantic, childish proclivities. “That, and I like clocks.”

Which was a bit of an understatement. The whole side wall of the store was covered in shiplap and wall clocks, many of which Frankie had crafted from bicycle wheels, vinyl records, and even a steering wheel from an old John Deere tractor. There were clocks made out of dishes and lawnmowers and CDs. Her favorite was an antique door plate with a skeleton key hanging down like a pendulum, the doorknob replaced with a crystal clock.

Cogsworth ate a few bites, more out of reassurance that his bowl of food was still there than to satiate any hunger, and then jumped onto the worktable—oblivious to the gears and screws he scattered—until he found a place to curl up in the sunshine.

“Can I pet him?” The girl had kept to a safe distance, but at Frankie’s approval, she climbed up onto a stool and stroked his marmalade stripes. Cogsworth’s purrs filled the room.

After only a few moments, the miniature brunette beauty forgot about the cat and focused her attentions on the clock-and-lamp project strewn across the workbench. Frankie had barely begun to make headway in her work with all of the interruptions.

“What’s this?” In the girl’s curiosity, she moved a few of the gears and screws around with her index finger, swirling them into a circle.

“I’m not quite sure yet. I know I want to incorporate this clock into this lamp, make it into a free-standing clock of some sort, but I haven’t exactly decided what all needs to go into it.” Frankie had some ideas, but she was curious what this young girl might come up with.

“Ooh!” The girl’s eyes darted from the pieces in front of them to the lampstand, and then bounced around the room to a few other items pushed back on the worktable. Frankie could almost see the gears moving double-speed in the girl’s brain. “You need something more …”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Again, Frankie pulled back, waiting for the girl to think it through.

“What about a mirror?” The girl climbed down and ran a few steps to a shelf. She picked up an oval mirror, the back speckled and peeling, giving it the perfect aged feel. It was nearly useless as a conventional mirror, but with its ornate, gilded frame, Frankie hadn’t been able to part with it, knowing there was a project in there somehow. “Or this?”

Frankie rushed forward to take the mirror from the girl, worried she might drop the heavy piece. It was genius. “Do you mean that this should be the clock face? Like behind the clock hands?”

The girl nodded. She bit her lower lip as if trying not to smile too big, but her eyes sparkled with pleasure. Those eyes. They looked so familiar to Frankie, though she couldn’t place them.

“I love it!” And she did. It would be elegant, perfect. Frankie laid the mirror on the worktable and motioned for the girl to help her arrange the clock hands, checking out the scale. It would certainly work.

The bell in the front dinged again, and Frankie looked up to see Logan looking in.

“I’ll get it,” Brooke said softly so only Frankie—and the girl, if she was paying any attention—could hear. She quickly headed to Logan, who stood blinking, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimmer interior lighting, thrown off by the summer sunshine outside.

“Harper?” Logan looked past Brooke to Frankie and the girl. He crossed to the workshop, relief softening his face. “I’ve been looking for you, sweetie.” He held out his arms, and the girl ran into them for a brief second.

Frankie realized too late that she should have been wondering where this girl’s parents were. She supposed elementary-aged children—even older elementary kids—didn’t go wandering into stores by themselves.

“She’s yours?” Feeling disappointed for some reason, Frankie watched Harper return to their project. The eyes. That’s where she’d seen them before. Yes, there was no question this girl was Logan’s.

“Dad, you’ve got to come see this.” Harper waved him over with both hands churning in front of her. He stumbled along as if she were pulling him. They were adorable. “Frankie and I are making this cool clock-lamp thingie. It was my idea to use the mirror. She thinks my idea is great, Dad. Can I help her, please?”

Wow! That escalated fast. Frankie hadn’t been expecting a new helper, yet Harper was so endearing, Frankie was inclined to say yes. Seeing as how the idea had actually been the girl’s, inviting her help would be the nice thing to do.

Harper turned her big, sapphire eyes from her father to Frankie and back again. “Please?”

Logan quirked an eyebrow at Frankie, an unspoken question.

“If you aren’t afraid I’m going to turn Harper into some kind of monster …” She couldn’t help but tease him.

“That depends. Would she be Frankenstein or Sid?” The hint of a half smile crossed his face, but he turned before Frankie could fully appreciate it.

Interesting how quickly he changed his mind when it made his daughter happy. “Shouldn’t that be obvious?” Frankie asked.

Logan didn’t miss a beat. He turned to Harper. “You’re definitely Sid.” He tapped his daughter’s freckled nose with his fingertip and then turned to face Frankie. “So that makes you Frankenstein.”

“Doctor Frankenstein to you.” Frankie smirked. If the guy was going to accuse her of anything, the least he could do was get his literature references correct. “And I presume, with your about-face on the subject, I should call you Dr. Jekyll.”

Frankie realized her conversation with Logan was largely excluding Brooke and Harper, so she decided to change the subject. “I would love the help! I’m thinking this is the perfect piece to sell at the Cobble Creek Art Festival next month. What do you think?”

Harper ran a fingernail along one of the grooves in the mirror’s frame, considering. “We’ll have to see how it turns out first.” She had inherited Logan’s penchant for dry humor.

Frankie nodded. The girl had a point. “You’re right.” She paused for emphasis. “After we finish it, we’ll have to see what else we come up with before we make our final selections.” She had a few other projects on the back burner.

Frankie’s mind started spinning with the logistics of it all. While Harper wouldn’t have the first idea how to do any of what this project required, it wasn’t like she was too young to learn. She was interested, had a good attention span, and intelligent enough ideas. It might be fun, but offering to do more than one project might have been foolhardy. She mentally crossed her fingers that things would go well.

During the negotiation between Frankie and Harper, Logan wandered around her workshop, making Frankie uncomfortable as he turned a critical eye from one item to another. She could feel him judging each, and she cringed. When he approached an antique secretary, his expression changed. Lifting the hinged cover, Logan opened the desk and pulled out each of the small drawers. He trailed his fingers over the scuffed surface, his expression wistful.

Wanting the happy Logan to emerge again—for Harper’s sake, at least—Frankie drew his attention back to her. “If it’s okay with you, she could spend some time with me after school while you’re finishing up your day.”

Logan looked up as if surprised. “Umm … sure.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Okay, well, Harper, we need to head back …”

Frankie walked them to the alley door. “See you tomorrow?” She was answered with a smile that could rival a winner on America’s Got Talent. “We’ll get to work then.”

“And Cogsworth will be here?” There was the child side of her personality again.

“Now that I can’t guarantee.” Frankie leaned down to scoop him up and made him wave at the girl. She leaned close to Harper and whispered, “I think this cat has more than one house.”

The door closed behind Logan and Harper, leaving dust motes swirling in the air current.

“And you say you aren’t good with kids.” Brooke put her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry to tell you, my friend, but you were great.”

“This one isn’t my responsibility.”

Frankie’s creative mind was a tumult of ideas. She couldn’t very well go back to the lamp-clock-mirror project, though she desperately wanted to now that the idea was gelling in her mind. Since she’d promised to allow Harper to help, she had to find another project to occupy her time.

“Sounds to me like she just became your responsibility.” Brooke leaned forward to peer out the window, presumably to check up on her flower shop. She had been away a while—which went to show how invested she was in all of this Dr. Wells stuff.

“Not really. A helper for a project that won’t last but a day or two.”

Frankie hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d mentioned the number of projects she had available. While some had been around a long time, and others, like Logan’s castoffs, were relatively new to her, Frankie chose her projects by the one that persisted. If the idea kept coming back to her again and again, it ended up next.

And despite Logan’s reaction to it—or maybe because of his reaction—Frankie’s next project was refinishing the old desk.

“Harper is sweet, isn’t she?” Brooke gushed. “And you didn’t tell me exactly how cute Dr. Wells is.” Brooke drew out the and, and Frankie almost laughed at her segue. “I can’t believe you were downplaying him. He’s … stunning.”

Frankie scoffed. “That’s an adjective best reserved for a sunset or a Broadway play or even a diamond necklace, but not for a ruggedly handsome, good-looking man with broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and playful eyes.” With each descriptor, she gauged Brooke’s reaction; she didn’t object to the assessment. “And you might as well call him Logan.”

“So you are interested in him.” Brooke edged toward the door, despite her obvious reluctance to finish the conversation. “I knew it.”

“No, I’m not.” Frankie couldn’t have said it more emphatically, and she meant it. She wasn’t interested in dating, pure and simple.

“Are you going to go out with him?” Brooke persisted.

“Just because I agree he’s good-looking, doesn’t mean I want to date him.” What it meant was that she didn’t want to be the cliché—attracted to the new guy in town.

“If not you, then someone will.”

Of course. “Then it should be you.” Frankie was sure of it. “I’ll arrange it.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t turn him down if he asked me out, but the girl likes you, which means her dad will, too.”

Now that she’d seen the better side to her grumpy, sky-is-falling Main Street neighbor, she was sure he’d make someone a really great boyfriend—why not her best friend?