A week passed by, and Clover could say she hadn’t thought about Dustin Colt, or his giant ego, in seven days.

She could say she hadn’t thought of several ways she could have gotten back at him for his prank at the club.

She could say she hadn’t come up with eleven zingers so quickly he wouldn’t see them coming.

And, she could say she hadn’t thought about his smooth cheeks, wavy hair, and darn nice backside.

But if she said any of those things, she’d be lying.

She didn’t like to lie, so she didn’t say anything at all. If Maddie brought up Dustin, Clover quickly changed the subject.

What disturbed her about the whole situation was how it pushed her from a companionable, sweet person to an individual with less-than-Christian thoughts toward another person. She’d worked hard to shed the outer shell she’d put on to survive growing up, and here she was throwing on armor and thinking things that Moses wouldn’t approve of. Not that she hated Dustin. Hate was such a fierce word, and she could overcome the sense of dislike if she never had to see him face-to-face again.

The most unsettling feelings she had were in line with Moses’ number ten sin of coveting people you shouldn’t covet. Dustin had this magnetism that pulled her thoughts in directions they shouldn’t travel. Pastor Paul wouldn’t commend her for her desires if he counted wondering what Dustin’s smooth cheek would feel like against her cheek lusting. Which she was pretty sure he didn’t. Or wouldn’t. If she ever told a pastor about those things. Thank heavens she wasn’t Catholic! Her face burned with embarrassment at the idea of telling Maddie where she spent most of her daydreams; confessing her longings to Pastor Paul was unthinkable.

The reason her un-Christian-like thoughts bothered her enough to disturb her sleep and distract her mind was that she firmly believed that what you put out into the world came back to you. Her mother had been a free spirit—Okay, she was a gypsy. Free spirit was less judgy, and her mom had been all about no judgment, but there was no denying the gypsy blood in her veins.

She’d carted Clover from one end of the country to the other, hitting the lower states in the winter because they often slept outside. School wasn’t an issue. Rainbow—yes, her mother’s name was Rainbow—taught Clover to read and write and do basic math. They didn’t have a lot of books, but they spent time in libraries because they were climate controlled and entertaining.

When Clover was eighteen, Rainbow had flapped her hands like wings and told her daughter it was her time to fly. The next morning, Rainbow Journey was gone, and Clover was on her own. If it hadn’t been for Pastor Paul and his wife who started the soup kitchen, Clover would be the one asking for a free meal instead of the one prepping for them.

The official name of the charity was The Pantry. Clover had wandered in, hungry and abandoned, and she’d received a meal and a word of encouragement. Over time, Pastor Paul and Jane Stana took her in and helped her get her GED.

She was the only part-time employee on staff. The Pantry survived on government subsidies and donations. Jane worked as the manager, allowing Paul time to shepherd a congregation. Jane often checked with the local elementary schools and invited children and their families on the free lunch program to the shelter on the weekends. That made Saturdays and Sundays extra busy, but no one seemed to mind.

Today was a Wednesday, one of the slower days of the week. Because it was slow, Clover liked to bring in a couple loaves of bread and some peanut butter and jelly and make sandwiches for the little ones to take with them. She hated the idea of a child going hungry, because she remembered well the raw ache and lethargy that had plagued her childhood. Thanks to Dustin’s stunt at the club, the feelings were fresh, and her heart was extra tender.

She juggled the grocery bags as she reached for the door, the bread bags poking out the top and blocking her view.

“Here, let me help you with that,” said a deep voice. The baritone triggered a womanly instinct, making her want to reply in a sultry Southern accent and bat her eyelashes.

She hid behind the grocery bags and said, “Thanks.”

The door whooshed open, the cool air sending goose bumps over her skin. Her rescuer took two bags out of her arms, allowing her to see clearly.

Her mouth fell open, and she snapped it shut. Dustin Colt stood there, looking like the cat who caught the canary. Had her hands been free, she would have yanked the grocery bags right out of his arms.

Dustin didn’t look at all upset to be face-to-face again. He should be—he should be quaking in his pristine running shoes after the way he’d treated her. Throwing money around like it was chalk dust and walking away before hearing her out was just plain rude.

Well, she was no songbird, and she wasn’t about to chirp a merry little tune for Mr. Big Shot. “Come for your free meal?” she nettled him. It wasn’t quite the jab she’d thought up the other night, but it would work. A sense of vindication filled her. She’d managed to keep her wits even though his glorious green eyes warmed her insides like fondue.

He beamed. “I’m not here to eat. I’m volunteering.”

She glided around him. “I’m happy to see the essentials bag worked in some way.”

His smile dropped. “I’m not here because of you.”

Pleased that she’d broken through his smugness, she smiled. “Good, because I don’t have time to hold your hand.”

“You wish you could hold my hand.” His cocky grin was back in place.

“Not even a little bit,” she shot right back.

Jane appeared, her short black hair doing a funky swoop up off her forehead. “Oh, good, you’re both here. Clover, meet Dustin Colt, shortstop for the Redrocks. Dustin, this is Clover.” Jane practically burst out of her skin with excitement.

Clover gave her a tight smile and a small nod to acknowledge the introduction.

“The Redrocks have organized a community outreach program, and Dustin specifically asked to work here.”

“I’ll bet he did.” Clover shot Dustin a smug look of her own. Didn’t come here because of her—ha! He was so busted.

He lifted one eyebrow in response, like a smolder. She’d known few men who could pull off an effective smolder—most of them looked like they’d stepped in doggie doo doo. Not Dustin. He was all bedroom eyes and scrumptiousness.

Jane sighed like a schoolgirl.

Clover ripped her eyes off of him. They resisted, but she insisted.

“Will you give him a tour while I sign for the deliveries?” asked Jane.

Clover would rather run her hand down a cheese grater, but this was Jane asking. Jane was the best. “Sure.”

“Great! I’ll see you both in the kitchen in a few minutes.” Jane hurried to open the door for the delivery guy.

“Well, looks like I’m stuck with you.” Clover headed to the kitchen to unload her arms. She didn’t bother to check if Dustin followed her. He did. She could feel him right on her heels. Personal space. Sheesh. Shoving the swinging door open with her hip, she asked, “Can you make a PB&J?”

Dustin set his bags on the stainless steel prep area. “I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re a baller.”

He lowered his eyebrows. “So?”

She prepared herself to deliver one of the zingers she’d come up with after leaving the club. “So everyone knows professional ballplayers are little boys who don’t want to grow up.” Boom!

He stared at her, a loaf of bread in his hands and his eyes full of hurt. The pain was so easy to read in his green pools of deliciousness that Clover immediately empathized—feeling the barb of her own insult. Her lack of kindness ate at her like a gremlin in her belly.

Jane burst through the door. “How’s it going in here?”

“Wonderful,” Clover muttered at the same time Dustin cursed, “Brilliant.”

“O-kay.”

“Not much time for a tour.” But enough time to say something stupid. Clover unpacked as quickly as she could. If she was going to have sandwiches put together and bagged, she’d have to hurry.

“Well, this is the kitchen, and you saw the shelves out front where we have canned and boxed goods for our patrons. There’s a limit on what each person can take a day to ensure each person who comes in gets something. We eat on the tables to the left of the shelves.” Dustin nodded while Jane spoke.

Clover snuck a peek at him out of the corner of her eye. All traces of hurt were gone and Dustin was Mr. Business. Mr. Hot Guacamole Business. He shouldn’t look that good in the middle of the day. Didn’t ballplayers have to practice or something?

Jane pointed to the swinging door. “Your photographer is out there getting some shots of the place. She wants to start at the front of the store and then maybe get some action shots in the kitchen.”

“Whatever works,” Dustin said.

So his volunteer time wasn’t so much hands-on as it was say cheese. “Figures,” Clover said under her breath.

Jane ushered Dustin to the door, and Clover sucked in air like she hadn’t breathed the whole time he was here. Jane must have heard her Hoover-ing the oxygen, because she paused, her hand holding the door open. “You go on ahead. I’ll be right there.” She smiled as she let the door swing shut behind Dustin before rounding on Clover. “What is the deal?” she hissed to keep her voice down.

Clover threw her hand out to the side, pointing. “He’s a total fake. He doesn’t care about what we do here. He’s only here for, I don’t know, his image or something.”

Jane pointed to her chest. “I. Don’t. Care,” she whispered loudly.

“What?” Clover shook her head like it was one of those games that come in a kid’s meal with the BB that could only find home base if the player tipped the plastic board. “He’s not doing us any good. In fact, I’m behind.” She threw her arms over the prep table to indicate the lack of sandwiches.

“He’s doing us a world of good by being here. Our budget is always too small, and the kind of free publicity Dustin Colt can give us is exactly what we need right now. We can’t wait for Christmas donations, Clover. People need to eat 365 days a year.”

Clover pressed her cool palm to her warm forehead. “You’re right.”

“Can you please play nice with him while he’s here?” Jane’s earnestness tugged at Clover’s conscience. No matter what his contribution, Dustin was contributing. She should have been more gracious. And she would have been, had he not been a complete jerk the other night. Still, his misbehavior did not excuse her lack of grace.

“Yes. Of course.” She could do anything for an hour or two—especially for The Pantry.

“Thank you!” Jane blew her a kiss as she pushed her way into the guest area.

Clover shook her head at herself. She was usually so zen and love your neighbor and do unto others. Dustin Colt brought out the worst in her. She could admit her part in their disagreements. There were always going to be certain personalities that didn’t mix, and hers and Dustin’s were like vinegar and oil. She sighed, looking at the sandwich fixings before hurrying to get the ground beef out of the fridge. They were serving spaghetti tonight, and she needed to get the meat browning.

The ovens were behind a wall covered in metal sheets, and by the time she had the meat under way and rushed back to make sandwiches, Dustin and his photographer had moved into her territory. She huffed as Dustin made sandwich after sandwich while the photographer said inane things like, “This lighting is great for your skin tone,” and “The ladies love a man who is good in the kitchen.”

Dustin glanced up to see Clover watching, and winked. The effect was a total dry-out of Clover’s mouth. For the tiniest second, she agreed with the photographer—a man, especially one put together like Dustin, was hot in the kitchen.

The sizzle of ground beef yanked her out of her hormone-induced stupor, and she ran back to the stove where she did her best to ignore Mr. Baseball and his photo op until he finally left and she could relax. Being near him had her on edge.

She fanned her overheated face, thanking the heavens that encounter was over and hoping she’d never have to see him again.