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Nothing happened.

I waited long enough to be polite and knocked again.

Still nothing.

A lesser woman might have interpreted this as a message.

I had spent two years pushing for a promotion and five years in a relationship that had ended because neither of us had ever pushed the other toward anything more. Six months ago, I had finally decided I was done waiting for life to volunteer.

I knocked a third time.

Movement sounded somewhere inside.

Progress.

I shifted the muffin plate to my left hand and knocked again, this time with enough confidence that nobody could mistake me for someone who had lost her way.

The door opened.

For one absurd second, every carefully prepared sentence disappeared.

Duncan Rusk was enormous.

He had to be around six-four, with the broad shoulders and heavy muscular build of a man who actually used his body for something besides occupying gym equipment. A dark charcoal henley stretched across his chest and upper arms, and tattoos disappeared beneath one sleeve before reappearing over the back of a large, rough-looking hand.

His hair was short and dark brown. His beard was full without being wild, framing a mouth that did not look especially pleased to see me. A dark plug sat in one ear.

His blue eyes were surprisingly light against his dark hair and beard.

The cold air suddenly felt considerably less effective.

Attraction hit low and warm through my abdomen, startling in its immediacy. My nipples tightened beneath my sweater, and I became acutely aware that my careful adjustment in the cottage mirror might not have been careful enough.

I lifted my gaze back to his face.

Professional. I could be professional.

His eyes dropped to the covered plate in my hands.

“If you’re selling something, I’m not interested.”

“I’m not. I’m Marigold Graham, although everyone calls me Goldie. I work for Lakefront Event Group, and I’m handling the Factory of Screams turnaround for Fall Fest. Lisa told me she already came out here, so I know you’ve said no. I’m not here to pretend you haven’t.”

That earned a brief pause.

Duncan kept one hand against the edge of the door. “Then we can skip the part where I tell you Lisa explained the job clearly and offered me more than enough money. I meant what I told her. I’m not going back to Factory of Screams.”

At least he had saved me from wasting time on the wrong argument.

“I believe you. But the job I’m asking you to consider is smaller than the one Lisa brought you. I spent the afternoon cutting the redesign down to what the existing crew can realistically finish. They can handle the construction, scenic work, lighting, dressing, and performers. What they can’t handle are the old specialty mechanisms. I need somebody who can look at a handful of them, tell me which are worth repairing, fix the pieces that matter most, and keep everyone else from wasting time on machinery they aren’t qualified to rebuild.”

Duncan did not answer immediately. He stayed braced against the door while the wind moved through the trees behind the house.

“That’s a reasonable request,” he finally said. “If this were only about the size of the job, I might tell you to leave the list and let me look at it. But it isn’t. I stopped doing that work, and I’m not interested in starting again because the Factory is in trouble.”

I had expected resistance. The calm certainty was harder to work around.

“Is there any version of the job you would consider? One assessment, a few hours of your time, or even walking someone else through what they’re doing wrong?”