Bethelda Grimshaw was a snot-nosed wench. She was an evil, mean-spirited, vindictive, horrible human being.

Paige should’ve known. She should’ve known the instant she’d walked into that office and sat down. Bethelda Grimshaw had a malevolent stench radiating off her, kind of like road kill in ninety-degree weather. The interview, if it could even be called that, had been a complete waste of time.

“She didn’t even read my résumé,” Paige said, slamming her hand against the steering wheel as she pulled out of the parking lot of the Mirabelle Information Center.

No, Bethelda had barely even looked at said résumé before she set it down on the desk and leaned back in her chair, appraising Paige over her cat’s-eye glasses.

“So you’re the infamous Paige Morrison,” Bethelda had said, raising a perfectly plucked, bright red eyebrow. “You’ve caused quite a stir since you came to town.”

Quite a stir?

Okay, so there had been that incident down at the Piggly Wiggly, but that hadn’t been Paige’s fault. Betty Whitehurst might seem like a sweet, little old lady but in reality she was as blind as a bat and as vicious as a shrew. Betty drove her shopping cart like she was racing in the Indy 500, which was an accomplishment as she barely cleared the handle. She’d slammed her cart into Paige, who in turn fell into a display of cans. Paige had been calm for all of about five seconds before Betty started screeching at her about watching where she was going.

Paige wasn’t one to take things lying down covered in cans of creamed corn, so she’d calmly explained to Betty that she had been watching where she was going. “Calmly” being that Paige had started yelling and the store manager had to get involved to quiet everyone down.

Yeah, Paige didn’t deal very well with certain types of people. Certain types being evil, mean-spirited, vindictive, horrible human beings. And Bethelda Grimshaw was quickly climbing to the top of that list.

“As it turns out,” Bethelda had said, pursing her lips in a patronizing pout, “we already filled the position. I’m afraid there was a mistake in having you come down here today.”

“When?”

“Excuse me?” Bethelda had asked, her eyes sparkling with glee.

“When did you fill the position?” Paige had repeated, trying to stay calm.

“Last week.”

Really? So the phone call Paige got that morning to confirm the time of the interview had been a mistake?

This was the eleventh job interview she’d gone on in the last two months. And it had most definitely been the worst. It hadn’t even been an interview. She’d been set up; she just didn’t understand why. But she hadn’t been about to ask that question out loud. So instead of flying off the handle and losing the last bit of restraint she had, Paige had calmly gotten up from the chair and left without making a scene. The whole thing was a freaking joke, which fit perfectly for the current theme of Paige’s life.

Six months ago, Paige had been living in Philadelphia. She had a good job in the art department of an advertising agency. She’d shared a tiny two-bedroom apartment above a coffee shop with her best friend, Abby Fields. And she’d had Dylan, a man who she’d been very much in love with.

And then the rug got pulled out from under her and she’d fallen flat on her ass.

First off, Abby got a job at an up-and-coming PR firm. Which was good news, and Paige had been very excited for her, except the job was in Washington, DC, which Paige was not excited about. Then, before Paige could find a new roommate, she lost her job. The advertising agency was bought out and she was in the first round of cuts. Without a job, she couldn’t renew her lease, and was therefore homeless. So she’d moved in with Dylan. It was always supposed to be a temporary thing, just until Paige could find another job and get on her feet again.

But it never happened.

Paige had tried for two months and found nothing, and then the real bomb hit. She was either blind or just distracted by everything else that was going on, but either way, she never saw it coming.

Paige had been with Dylan for about a year and she really thought he was the one. Okay, he tended to be a bit of a snob when it came to certain things. For example, wine. Oh, was he ever a wine snob, rather obnoxious about it really. He would always swirl it around in his glass, take a sip, sniff, and then take another loud sip, smacking his lips together.

He was also a snob about books. Paige enjoyed reading the classics, but she also liked romance, mystery, and fantasy. Whenever she curled up with one of her books, Dylan tended to give her a rather patronizing look and shake his head.

“Reading fluff again I see,” he would say.

Yeah, she didn’t miss that at all. Or the way he would roll his eyes when she and Abby quoted movies and TV shows to each other. Or how he’d never liked her music and flat-out refused to dance with her. Which had always been frustrating because Paige loved to dance. But despite all of that, she’d loved him. Loved the way he would run his fingers through his hair when he was distracted, loved his big goofy grin, and loved the way his glasses would slide down his nose.

But the thing was, he hadn’t loved her.

One night, he came home to his apartment and sat Paige down on the couch. Looking back on it, she’d been an idiot, because there was a small part of her that thought he was actually about to propose.

“Paige,” he’d said, sitting down on the coffee table and grabbing her hands. “I know that this was supposed to be a temporary thing, but weeks have turned into months. Living with you has brought a lot of things to light.”

It was wrong, everything about that moment was all wrong. She could tell by the look in his eyes, by the tone of his voice, by the way he said Paige and light. In that moment she’d known exactly where he was going, and it wasn’t anywhere with her. He wasn’t proposing. He was breaking up with her.

She’d pulled her hands out of his and shrank back into the couch.

“This,” he’d said, gesturing between the two of them, “was never going to go further than where we are right now.”

And that was the part where her ears had started ringing.

“At one point I thought I might love you, but I’ve realized I’m not in love with you,” he’d said, shaking his head. “I feel like you’ve thought this was going to go further, but the truth is I’m never going to marry you. Paige, you’re not the one. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of putting in the effort for a relationship that isn’t going anywhere else. It’s not worth it to me.”

“You mean I’m not worth it,” she’d said, shocked.

“Paige, you deserve to be with someone who wants to make the effort, and I deserve to be with someone who I’m willing to make the effort for. It’s better that we end this now, instead of delaying the inevitable.”

He’d made it sound like he was doing her a favor, like he had her best interests at heart.

But all she’d heard was You’re not worth it and I’m not in love with you. And those were the words that kept repeating in her head, over and over again.

Dylan had told her he was going to go stay with one of his friends for the week. She told him she’d be out before the end of the next day. She spent the entire night packing up her stuff. Well, packing and crying and drinking two entire bottles of the prick’s wine.

Paige didn’t have a lot of stuff. Most of the furniture from her and Abby’s apartment had been Abby’s. Everything Paige owned had fit into the back of her Jeep and the U-Haul trailer she’d rented the first thing the following morning. She loaded up and was out of there before four o’clock in the afternoon.

She’d stayed the night in a hotel room just outside of Philadelphia, where she promptly passed out. She’d been exhausted after her marathon packing, which was good because it was harder for a person to feel beyond pathetic in her sleep. No, that was what the following eighteen-hour drive had been reserved for.

Jobless, homeless, and brokenhearted, Paige had nowhere else to go but home to her parents. The problem was, there was no home anymore. The house in Philadelphia that Paige had grown up in was no longer her parents’. They’d sold it and retired to a little town in the South.

Mirabelle, Florida: population five thousand.

There was roughly the same amount of people in the six hundred square miles of Mirabelle as there was in half a square mile of Philadelphia. Well, unless the mosquitoes were counted as residents.

People who thought that Florida was all sunshine and sand were sorely mistaken. It did have its fair share of beautiful beaches. The entire southeast side of Mirabelle was the Gulf of Mexico. But about half of the town was made up of water. And all of that water, combined with the humidity that plagued the area, created the perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes. Otherwise known as tiny, bloodsucking villains that loved to bite the crap out of Paige’s legs.

Paige had visited her parents a couple of times over the last two years, but she’d never been in love with Mirabelle like her parents were. And she still wasn’t. She’d spent a month moping around her parents’ house. Again, she was pathetic enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, Dylan would call her and tell her that he’d been wrong. That he missed her. That he loved her.

He never called, and Paige realized he was never going to. That was when Paige resigned herself to the fact that she had to move on with her life. So she’d started looking for a job.

Which had proved to be highly unsuccessful.

Paige had been living in Mirabelle for three months now. Three long miserable months where nothing had gone right. Not one single thing.

And as that delightful thought crossed her mind, she noticed that her engine was smoking. Great white plumes of steam escaped from the hood of her Jeep Cherokee.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said as she pulled off to the side of the road and turned the engine off. “Fan-freaking-tastic.”

Paige grabbed her purse and started digging around in the infinite abyss, searching for her cell phone. She sifted through old receipts, a paperback book, her wallet, lip gloss, a nail file, gum…ah, cell phone. She pressed speed dial for her father. She held the phone against her ear while she leaned over and searched for her shoes that she’d thrown on the floor of the passenger side. As her hand closed over one of her black wedges, the phone beeped in her ear and disconnected. She sat up and held her phone out, staring at the display screen in disbelief.

No service.

“This has to be some sick, twisted joke,” she said, banging her head down on the steering wheel. No service on her cell phone shouldn’t have been that surprising; there were plenty of dead zones around Mirabelle. Apparently there was a lack of cell phone towers in this little piece of purgatory.

Paige resigned herself to the fact that she was going to have to walk to find civilization, or at least a bar of service on her cell phone. She went in search of her other wedge, locating it under the passenger seat.

The air conditioner had been off for less than two minutes, and it was already starting to warm up inside the Jeep. It was going to be a long, hot walk. Paige grabbed a hair tie from the gearshift, put her long brown hair up into a messy bun, and opened the door to the sweltering heat.

I hate this godforsaken place.

Paige missed Philadelphia. She missed her friends, her apartment with its rafters and squeaky floors. She missed having a job, missed having a paycheck, missed buying shoes. And even though she hated the fact, she still missed Dylan. Missed his dark shaggy hair, and the way he would nibble on her lower lip when they kissed. She even missed his humming when he cooked.

She shook her head and snapped back to the present. She might as well focus on the task at hand and stop thinking about what was no longer her life.

Paige walked for twenty minutes down the road to nowhere, not a single car passing her. By the time Paige got to Skeeter’s Bait, Tackle, Guns, and Gas, she was sweating like nobody’s business, her dress was sticking to her everywhere, and her feet were killing her. She had a nice blister on the back of her left heel.

She pushed the door open and was greeted with the smell of fish mixed with bleach, making her stomach turn. At least the air conditioner was cranked to full blast. There was a huge stuffed turkey sitting on the counter. The fleshy red thing on its neck looked like the stuff nightmares were made of, and the wall behind the register was covered in mounted fish. She really didn’t get the whole “dead animal as a trophy” motif that the South had going on.

A display shelf on the counter held tiny little bottles that looked like energy drinks.

New and improved scent. Great for attracting the perfect game.

She picked up one of the tiny bottles and looked at it. It was doe urine.

She took a closer look at the display. They apparently also had the buck urine variety. She looked at the bottle in her hand, trying to grasp why people would cover themselves in this stuff. Was hunting really worth smelling like an animal’s pee?

“Can I help you?”

The voice startled Paige and she looked up into the face of a very large balding man, his apron covered in God only knew what. She dropped the tiny bottle she had in her hand. It fell to the ground. The cap smashed on the tile floor and liquid poured out everywhere.

It took a total of three seconds for the smell to punch her in the nose, the most fowl scent she’d ever inhaled.

Oh crap. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

She was just stellar at first impressions these days.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, trying not to gag. She took a step back from the offending puddle and looked up at the man.

His arms were folded across his chest and he frowned at her, saying nothing.

“Do you, uh, have something I can clean this up with?” she asked nervously.

“You’re not from around here,” he said, looking at her with his deadpan stare. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, one that she got whenever she met someone new. One that she was so sick and tired of she could scream. Yeah, all the remorse she’d felt over spilling that bottle drained from her.

In Philadelphia, Paige’s bohemian style was normal, but in Mirabelle her big earrings, multiple rings, and loud clothing tended to get her noticed. Her parents’ neighbor, Mrs. Forns, thought that Paige was trouble, which she complained about on an almost daily basis.

“You know that marijuana is still illegal,” Mrs. Forns had said the other night, standing on her parents’ porch and lecturing Paige’s mother. “And I won’t hesitate to call the authorities if I see your hippie daughter growing anything suspicious or doing any other illegal activities.”

Denise Morrison, ever the queen of politeness, had just smiled. “You have nothing to be concerned about.”

“But she’s doing something in that shed of yours in the backyard.”

The something that Paige did in the shed was paint. She’d converted it into her art studio, complete with ceiling fan.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Forns,” Paige had said, sticking her head over her mother’s shoulder. “I’ll wait to have my orgies on your bingo nights. Is that on Tuesdays or Wednesdays?”

“Paige!” Denise had said as she shoved Paige back into the house and closed the door in her face.

Five minutes later, Denise had come into the kitchen shaking her head.

“Really, Paige? You had to tell her that you’re having orgies in the backyard?”

Paige’s father, Trevor Morrison, chuckled as he went through the mail at his desk.

“You need to control your temper and that smart mouth of yours,” Denise had said.

“You know what you should start doing?” Trevor said, looking up with a big grin. “You should grow oregano in pots on the windowsill and then throw little dime bags into her yard.”

“Trevor, don’t encourage her harassing that woman. Paige, she’s a little bit older, very set in her ways, and a tad bit nosey.”

“She needs to learn to keep her nose on her side of the fence,” Paige had said.

“Don’t let her bother you.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

“Well then, maybe you should practice holding your tongue.”

“Yes, Mother, I’ll get right on that.”

So, as Paige stared at the massive man in front of her, whom she assumed to be Skeeter, she pursed her lips and held back the smart-ass retort that was on the tip of her tongue.

Be polite, she heard her mother’s voice in her head say. You just spilled animal pee all over his store. And you need to use his phone.

“No,” Paige said, pushing her big sunglasses up her nose and into her hair. “My car broke down and I don’t have any cell phone service. I was wondering if I could use your phone to call a tow truck.”

“I’d call King’s if I were you. They’re the best,” he said as he ripped a piece of receipt paper off the cash register and grabbed a pen with a broken plastic spoon taped to the top. He wrote something down and pushed the paper across the counter.

“Thank you. I can clean that up first,” she said, pointing to the floor.

“I got it. I’d hate for you to get those hands of yours dirty,” he said, moving the phone to her side of the counter.

She just couldn’t win.

Brendan King leaned against the front bumper of Mr. Thame’s minivan. He was switching out the old belt and replacing it with a new one when his grandfather stuck his head out of the office.

“Brendan,” Oliver King said. “A car broke down on Buckland Road. It’s Paige Morrison, Trevor and Denise Morrison’s daughter. She said the engine was smoking. She had to walk to Skeeter’s to use the phone. I told her you’d pick her up so she didn’t have to walk back.”

Oliver King didn’t look his seventy years. His salt-and-pepper hair was still thick and growing only on the top of his head, and not out of his ears. He had a bit of a belly, but he’d had that for the last twenty years and it wasn’t going anywhere. He’d opened King’s Auto forty-three years ago, when he was twenty-seven. Now, he mainly worked behind the front counter, due to the arthritis in his hands and back. But it was a good thing because King’s Auto was one of only a handful of auto shops in the county. They were always busy, so they needed a constant presence running things out of the shop.

Including Brendan and his grandfather, four full-time mechanics and two part-time kids still in high school worked in the garage. Part of the service that King’s provided was towing, and Brendan was the man on duty on Mondays. And oh was he ever so happy he was on duty today.

Paige Morrison was the new girl in town. Her parents had moved down from Pennsylvania when they retired about two years ago, and Paige had moved in with them three months ago. Brendan had yet to meet her but he’d most definitely seen her. You couldn’t really miss her as she jogged around town, with her very long legs, in a wide variety of the brightest and shortest shorts he’d ever seen in his life. His favorite pair had by far been the hot-pink pair, but the zebra-print ones came in a very close second.

He’d also heard about her. People had a lot to say about her more-than-interesting style. It was rumored that she had a bit of a temper and a pretty mouth that said whatever it wanted. Not that Brendan took a lot of stock in gossip. He’d wait to reserve his own judgment.

“Got it,” Brendan said, pulling his gloves off and sticking them in his back pocket. “Tell Randall this still needs new spark plugs.” He pointed to the minivan as he walked into the office.

“I will.” Oliver nodded and handed Brendan the keys to the tow truck.

Brendan grabbed two waters from the mini-fridge and his sunglasses from the desk and headed off into the scorching heat. It was a hot one, ninety-eight degrees, but the humidity made it feel like one hundred and three. He flipped his baseball cap so that the bill would actually give him some cover from the August sun, and when he got into the tow truck he cranked the air as high as it would go.

It took him about fifteen minutes to get to Skeeter’s, and when he pulled into the gravel parking lot, the door to the little shop opened and Brendan couldn’t help smiling.

Paige Morrison’s mile-long legs were shooting out of the sexiest shoes he’d ever seen. She was also wearing a flowing yellow dress that didn’t really cover her amazing legs but did hug her chest and waist, and besides the two skinny straps at her shoulders, her arms were completely bare. Massive sunglasses covered her eyes and her dark brown hair was piled on top of her head.

There was no doubt about it; she was beautiful all right.

Brendan put the truck in park and hopped out.

“Ms. Morrison?” he asked even though he already knew who she was.

“Paige,” she corrected, stopping in front of him. She was probably five-foot-ten or so, but her shoes added about three inches, making her just as tall as him. If he weren’t wearing his work boots she would’ve been taller than him.

“I’m Brendan King,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake hers. Her hand was soft and warm. He liked how it felt in his. He also liked the freckles that were sprinkled across her high cheekbones and straight, pert nose.

“I’m about a mile up the road,” she said, letting go of his hand and pointing in the opposite direction that he’d come.

“Not the most sensible walking shoes,” he said, eyeing her feet. The toes that peeked out of her shoes were bright red, and a thin band of silver wrapped around the second toe on her right foot. He looked back up to see her arched eyebrows come together for a second before she took a deep breath.

“Thanks for the observation,” she said, walking past him and heading for the passenger door.

Well, this was going to be fun.

Stupid Jerk.

Not the most sensible walking shoes, Paige repeated in her head.

Well, no shit, Sherlock.

Paige sat in the cab of Brendan’s tow truck, trying to keep her temper in check. Her feet were killing her, and she really wanted to kick off her shoes. But she couldn’t do that in front of him because then he would know that her feet were killing her.

“I’m guessing the orange Jeep is yours?” Brendan asked as it came into view.

“Another outstanding observation,” she mumbled under her breath.

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes, it’s mine,” she said, trying to hide her sarcasm.

“Well, at least the engine isn’t smoking anymore,” he said as he pulled in behind it and jumped out of the truck. Paige grabbed her keys from her purse and followed, closing the door behind her.

He stopped behind the back of her Jeep for a moment, studying the half a dozen stickers that covered her bumper and part of her back window.

She had one that said Make Art Not War in big blue letters, another said Love with a peace sign in the O. There was also a sea turtle, an owl with reading glasses, the Cat in the Hat, and her favorite that said I Love Big BOOKS and I Cannot Lie.

He shook his head and laughed, walking to the front of the Jeep.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, catching up to his long stride and standing next to him.

“Keys?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She put them in his palm but didn’t let go.

“What’s so funny?” she repeated.

“Just that you’re clearly not from around here.” He smiled, closing his hand over hers.

Brendan had a southern accent, not nearly as thick as some of the other people’s in town, and a wide cocky smile that she really hated, but only because she kind of liked it. She also kind of liked the five o’clock shadow that covered his square jaw. She couldn’t see anything above his chiseled nose, as half of his face was covered by his sunglasses and the shadow from his grease-stained baseball cap, but she could tell his smile reached all the way up to his eyes.

He was most definitely physically fit, filling out his shirt and pants with wide biceps and thighs. His navy blue button-up shirt had short sleeves, showing off his tanned arms that were covered in tiny blond hairs.

God, he was attractive. But he was also pissing her off.

“I am so sick of everyone saying that,” she said, ripping her hand out of his. “Is it such a bad thing to not be from around here?”

“No,” he said, his mouth quirking. “It’s just very obvious that you’re not.”

“Would I fit in more if I had a bumper sticker that said My other car is a tractor or one that said If you’re not conservative you just aren’t worth it, or what about Who needs literacy when you can shoot things? What if I had a gun rack mounted on the back window or if I used buck piss as perfume to attract a husband? Would those things make me fit in?” she finished, folding her arms across her chest.

“No, I’d say you could start with not being so judgmental though,” he said with a sarcastic smirk.

“Excuse me?”

“Ma’am, you just called everyone around here gun-toting, illiterate rednecks who like to participate in bestiality. Insulting people really isn’t a way to fit in,” he said, shaking his head. “I would also refrain from spreading your liberal views to the masses, as politics are a bit of a hot-button topic around here. And if you want to attract a husband, you should stick with wearing doe urine, because that attracts only males. The buck urine attracts both males and females.” He stopped and looked her up and down with a slow smile. “But maybe you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, well, everyone in this town thinks that I’m an amoral, promiscuous pothead. And you,” she said, shoving her finger into his chest, “aren’t any better. People make snap judgments about me before I even open my mouth. And just so you know, I’m not even a liberal,” she screamed as she jabbed her finger into his chest a couple of times. She took a deep breath and stepped back, composing herself. “So maybe I would be nice if people would be just a little bit nice to me.”

“I’m quite capable of being nice to people who deserve it. Can I look at your car now, or would you like to yell at me some more?”

“Be my guest,” she said, glaring at him as she moved out of his way.

He unlocked the Jeep and popped the hood. As he moved to the front he pulled off his baseball cap and wiped the top of his head with his hand. Paige glimpsed his short, dirty-blond hair before he put the hat on backward. As he moved around in her engine his shirt pulled tight across his back and shoulders. He twisted off the cap to something and stuck it in his pocket. Then he walked back to his truck and grabbed a jug from a metal box on the side. He came back and poured the liquid into something in the engine and after a few seconds it gushed out of the bottom.

“Your radiator is cracked,” he said, grabbing the cap out of his pocket and screwing it back on. “I’m going to have to tow this back to the shop to replace it.”

“How much?”

“For everything? We’re looking at four maybe five hundred.”

“Just perfect,” she mumbled.

“Would you like a ride? Or were you planning on showing those shoes more of the countryside?”

“I’ll take the ride.”

Paige was quiet the whole time Brendan loaded her Jeep onto the truck. Her arms were folded under her perfect breasts and she stared at him with her full lips bunched in a scowl. Even pissed off she was stunning, and God, that mouth of hers. He really wanted to see it with an actual smile on it. He was pretty sure it would knock him on his ass.

Speaking of asses, seeing her smile probably wasn’t likely at the moment. True, he had purposefully egged her on, but he couldn’t resist going off on her when she’d let loose her colorful interpretations of the people from the area. A lot of them were true, but there was a difference between making fun of your own people and having an outsider make fun of them. But still, according to her, the people around here hadn’t exactly been nice to her.

Twenty minutes later, with Paige’s Jeep on the back of the tow truck, they were on their way to the shop. Brendan glanced over at her as he drove. She was looking out the window with her back to him. Her shoulders were stiff and she looked like she’d probably had enough stress before her car had decided to die on her.

Brendan looked back at the road and cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry about what I said back there.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shift in her seat, and he could feel her eyes on him.

“Thank you. I should have kept my mouth shut, too. I just haven’t had the best day.”

“Why?” he asked, glancing over at her again.

Her body was angled toward him, but her arms were still folded across her chest like a shield. He couldn’t help glancing down and see that her dress was slowly riding up her thighs. She had nice thighs, soft but strong. They would be good for…well, a lot of things.

He quickly looked back at the road, thankful he was wearing sunglasses.

“I’ve been trying to get a job. Today I had an interview, except it wasn’t much of an interview.”

“What was it?” he asked.

“A setup.”

“A setup for what?”

“That is the question,” she said bitterly.

“Huh?” he asked, looking at her again.

“I’m assuming you know who Bethelda Grimshaw is?”

Brendan’s blood pressure had a tendency to rise at the mere mention of that name. Knowing that Bethelda had a part in Paige’s current mood had Brendan’s temper flaring instantly.

“What did she do?” he asked darkly.

Paige’s eyebrows raised a fraction at his tone. She stared at him for a second before she answered. “There was a job opening at the Mirabelle Information Center to take pictures for the brochures and the local businesses for their Web site. They filled the position last week, something that Mrs. Grimshaw failed to mention when she called this morning to confirm my interview.”

“She’s looking for her next story.”

“What?”

“Bethelda Grimshaw is Mirabelle’s resident gossip,” Brendan said harshly as he looked back to the road. “She got fired from the newspaper a couple of years ago because of the trash she wrote. Now she has a blog to spread her crap around.”

“And she wants to write about me? Why?”

“I can think of a few reasons.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her voice going up an octave or two.

“Your ability to fly off the handle. Did you give her something to write about?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he spared a glance at her.

“No,” she said, bunching her full lips together. “I saved my freak-out for you.”

“I deserved it. I wasn’t exactly nice to you,” Brendan said, shifting his hands down the steering wheel.

“You were a jerk.”

Brendan came to a stop sign, then turned completely in his seat to face Paige. Her eyebrows rose high over her sunglasses and she held her breath.

“I was, and I’m sorry,” he said, putting every ounce of sincerity into his words.

“It’s…I forgive you,” she said softly, and nodded her head.

Brendan turned back to the intersection and made a right. Paige was silent for a few moments, but he could feel her gaze on him as if she wanted to say something.

“What?”

“Why does buck urine attract males and females?”

Brendan couldn’t help smiling.

“Bucks like to fight each other,” he said, looking at her.

“Oh.” She nodded and leaned back in her seat staring out the front window.

“You thirsty?” Brendan asked as he grabbed one of the waters in the cup holder and held it out to her.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, grabbing it and downing half of the bottle.

“Who were the other interviews with?” Brendan asked, grabbing the other bottle for himself. He twisted the cap off and threw it into the cup holder.

“Landingham Printing and Design. Mrs. Landingham said I wouldn’t be a good fit. Which is completely false because the program they use is one that I’ve used before.”

Now he couldn’t help laughing.

“Uh, Paige, I can tell you right now why you didn’t get that job. Mrs. Landingham didn’t want you around Mr. Landingham.”

“What?” she said, sitting up in her seat again. “What did she think I was going to do, steal her husband? I don’t make plays on married men. Or men in their forties for that matter.”

“Did you wear something like what you’re wearing now to the interview?” he asked, looking at her and taking another eyeful of those long legs.

“I wore a black blazer with this. It’s just so hot outside that I took it off.”

“Maybe you should try wearing pants next time, and flats,” he said before he took a sip of water.

“What’s wrong with this dress?” she asked, looking down at herself. “It isn’t that short.”

“Sweetheart, with those legs, anything looks short.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart. And it isn’t my fault I’m tall.”

“No, it isn’t, but people think the way they think.”

“So Southern hospitality only goes so far when people think you’re a whore.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that. I was just saying that your legs are long without those shoes that you’re currently wearing. With them, you’re pretty damn intimidating.”

“Let’s stop talking about my legs.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, looking back to the road. “But it is a rather visually stimulating conversation.”

“Oh, no. You are not allowed to flirt with me.”

“Why not?”

“You were mean to me. I do not flirt with mean men.”

“I can be nice,” he said, turning to her and giving her a big smile.

“Stop it,” she said, raising her eyebrows above her glasses in warning. “I mean it.”

“So what about some of the other interviews? Who were they with?”

“Lindy’s Frame Shop, that art gallery over on the beach—”

“Avenue Ocean?”

“Yeah, that one. And I also went to Picture Perfect. They all said I wasn’t a good fit for one reason or another.”

“Look, I’m really not one to get involved in town gossip. I’ve been on the receiving end my fair share of times and it isn’t fun. But this is a small town, and everybody knows one another’s business. Since you’re new, you have no idea. Cynthia Bowers at Picture Perfect would’ve never hired you. Her husband has monogamy issues. The owner of Avenue Ocean, Mindy Trist, doesn’t like anyone that’s competition.”

“Competition?”

Mindy Trist was a man-eater. Brendan knew this to be a fact because Mindy had been trying to get into his bed for years. He wasn’t even remotely interested.

“You’re prettier than she is.”

Understatement of the year.

Paige was suddenly silent on her side of the truck.

“And as for Hurst and Marlene Lindy,” Brendan continued, “they, uh, tend to be a little more conservative.”

“Look,” she said, snapping out of her silence.

Brendan couldn’t help himself, her sudden burst of vehemence made him look at her again. If he kept this up he was going to drive into a ditch.

“I know I might appear to be some free-spirited hippie, but I’m really not. I’m moderate when it comes to politics,” she said, holding up one finger. “I eat meat like it’s nobody’s business.” Two fingers. “And I’ve never done drugs in my life.” Three fingers.

“You don’t have to convince me,” he said, shaking his head. “So I’m sensing a pattern here with all of these jobs. Are you a photographer?”

“Yes, but I do graphic design and I paint.”

“So a woman of many talents.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, shaking her head.

“Oh, I’m sure you have a lot of talent. It’s probably proportional to the length of your legs.”

“What did I tell you about flirting?” she asked seriously, but betrayed herself when the corner of her mouth quirked up.

“Look, Paige, don’t let it get to you. Not everyone is all bad.”

“So I’ve just been fortunate enough to meet everyone who’s mean.”

“You’ve met me.”

“Yeah, well, the jury’s still out on you.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to prove myself.”

“I guess so,” she said, leaning back in her seat. Her arms now rested in her lap, her shield coming down a little.

“I have a question,” Brendan said, slowing down at another stop sign. “If you eat meat, why do you have such a problem with hunting?”

“It just seems a little barbaric. Hiding out in the woods to shoot Bambi and then mounting his head on a wall.”

“Let me give you two scenarios.”

“Okay.”

“In scenario one, we have Bessie the cow. Bessie was born in a stall, taken away from her mother shortly after birth where she was moved to a pasture for a couple of years, all the while being injected with hormones and then shoved into a semi-truck where she was shipped off to be slaughtered. And I don’t think that you even want me to get started on that process.

“In scenario two, we have Bambi. Bambi was born in the wilderness and wasn’t taken away from his mother. He then found a mate, had babies, and one day was killed. He never saw it coming. Not only is Bambi’s meat hormone free, but he also lived a happy life in the wild, with no fences.

“Now you tell me, which scenario sounds better: being raised to be slaughtered, or living free where you might or might not be killed.”

She was silent for a few moments before she sighed. “Fine, you win. The second sounds better.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Brendan said as he pulled into the parking lot of King’s Auto. “How are you getting home?” he asked as he put the truck into park.

“I called my dad after I called you. He’s here actually,” she said, pointing to a black Chevy Impala.

They both got out of the truck and headed toward the auto shop. Brendan held the door open for Paige, shoving his sunglasses into his shirt pocket. His grandfather and a man who Brendan recognized as Paige’s father stood up from their chairs as Brendan and Paige walked in.

Trevor Morrison was a tall man, maybe six feet four or six feet five. He had light reddish-brown wispy hair on his head and large glasses perched on his nose. And like his daughter, his face and arms were covered in freckles.

“Hi, Daddy,” Paige said, pushing her glasses up her nose and into her hair.

Brendan immediately noticed the change in her voice. Her cautious demeanor vanished and her shoulders relaxed. He’d caught a glimpse of this in the truck, but not to this extent.

“Mr. Morrison,” Brendan said, taking a step forward and sticking his hand out.

Trevor grabbed Brendan’s hand firmly. “Brendan,” he said, giving him a warm smile and nodding his head. Trevor let go of Brendan’s hand and turned to his daughter. “Paige, this is Oliver King,” he said, gesturing to Brendan’s grandfather, who was standing behind his desk. “Oliver, this is my daughter, Paige.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Oliver said, moving out from behind his desk and sticking out his hand.

Paige moved forward past Brendan, her arm brushing his as she passed.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” she said, grabbing Oliver’s hand.

Oliver nodded as he let go of Paige’s hand and looked up at Brendan. “So what happened?”

Paige turned to look at Brendan, too. It was the first time he’d gotten a full look at her face without her sunglasses on. She had long dark eyelashes that framed her large gray irises. It took him a second to remember how to speak. He cleared his throat and looked past her to the other two men.

“It’s the radiator. I’m going to have to order a new one, so it’s going to take a few days.”

“That’s fine,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s not like I have anywhere to go.”

Trevor’s face fell. “The interview didn’t go well?”

“Nope,” Paige said, shaking her head. The tension in her shoulders came back, but she tried to mask it by pasting a smile on her face. He desperately wanted to see a genuine, full-on smile from her.

“Things haven’t exactly gone Paige’s way since she moved here,” Trevor said.

“Oh, I think my bad luck started long before I moved here,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. Every time she did that, it pushed her breasts up and it took everything in Brendan not to stare.

“I don’t think it was Paige’s fault,” Brendan said, and everyone turned to look at him. “It was with Bethelda Grimshaw,” he said to Oliver.

“Oh,” Oliver said, shaking his head ruefully. “Don’t let anything she says get to you. She’s a horrible hag.”

Paige laughed and the sound of it did funny things to Brendan’s stomach.

“Told you,” Brendan said, looking at her. Paige turned to him, a small smile lingering on her lips and in her eyes.

God, she was beautiful.

“Things will turn around,” Oliver said. “We’ll call you with an estimate before we do anything to your car.”

They said their good-byes and as Paige walked out with her father she gave Brendan one last look, her lips quirking up slightly before she shook her head and walked out the door.

“I don’t believe any of that nonsense people are saying about her,” Oliver said as they both watched Paige and her dad walk out. “She’s lovely.”

Lovely? Yeah, that wasn’t exactly the word Brendan would have used to describe her.

Hot? Yes. Fiery? Absolutely.

“Yeah, she’s something all right.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you aren’t a fan of hers. Son, you barely took your eyes off her.”

“I’m not denying she’s beautiful.” How could he? “I bet she’s a handful though and she’s got a temper on her, along with a smart mouth.” But he sure did like that smart mouth.

“That’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black,” Oliver said, raising one bushy eyebrow. “If all of her experiences in this town have been similar to what Bethelda dishes out, I’m not surprised she’s turned on the defense. You know what it’s like to be the center of less than unsavory gossip in this town. To have a lot of the people turn their backs on you and turn you into a pariah,” Oliver said, giving Brendan a knowing look.

“I know,” Brendan conceded. “She deserves a break.”

“You should help her find a job.”

“With who?”

“You’ll think of something,” Oliver said, patting Brendan on the shoulder before going back to his desk. “You always do.”