Page 7

I deserved that.

“Where?”

“The Copper Kettle, in town. Four o’clock. Oliver will join you remotely to review the provisional terms.”

I looked down at my cardigan, which had acquired a small spot of soup near the cuff.

Wonderful.

I’d finally encountered a man who looked like a romance-cover model, and our first actual conversation would involve me apologizing for a breach of privacy.

At least there was no possibility of making a good first impression. I’d already taken care of that.

The drive into town gave me far too much time to rehearse what I wanted to say.

By the time I parked near Maple Lane, I’d worked through four different apologies, discarded three of them for sounding like speeches delivered in court, and settled on the radical idea of simply telling the truth.

I shouldn’t have recorded him. I was sorry. It wouldn’t happen again.

Simple.

I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror.

My straight, dark-brown bob was still neatly clipped to one side, and my glasses sat more or less where they belonged. I’d changed into a fresh cream blouse beneath my cardigan and brushed a little color onto my very fair cheeks.

At twenty-eight, I’d long since accepted that I wasn’t going to wake up one morning looking like my older sister. Chelsea could walk into a room and make strangers forget what they’d been discussing. I tended to blend into the furniture until somebody handed me a microphone.

But I liked my vintage clothes, and I wasn’t about to trade them for an outfit that made me uncomfortable just because I was meeting a ridiculously handsome man.

Even one with that voice.

The Copper Kettle occupied a cheerful brick building with large front windows overlooking the town square. Orange chrysanthemums filled wooden planters outside, and a painted sign advertised autumn specials beneath a garland of tiny decorative gourds.

Inside, the diner smelled of fresh coffee, toasted bread, and cinnamon. A few customers occupied booths along the windows, while an older couple shared a slice of pie at the counter.

I chose a quiet booth near the back and ordered a pumpkin-spice latte, mostly because I needed something to do with my hands.

My tablet sat propped against the napkin holder, ready for Oliver’s video call.

At four minutes past four, the front door opened.

And there he was.

Hudson Hewitt stepped inside wearing dark work trousers, heavy boots, and a blue-and-black flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Without the reflective vest, he looked even more unfairly attractive.

His shoulders nearly filled the doorway as he paused to scan the room.

I noticed the sandy hair first, slightly mussed as though he’d removed a hat in the truck. Then the stubble, the strong lines of his face, and the startling green eyes that found me almost immediately.

Oh, dear.

I’d thought he was handsome from across the road.

Up close, he was a public menace.

He approached the booth, his gaze moving from my face to the tablet on the table.

Then those green eyes narrowed slightly.