Haley's Mountain Man. Tracy Madison

much difficulty.”

      “Nope.” He didn’t know a lot about entertaining, but he knew a guest shouldn’t do the cooking. “You’re a guest. Sit down. I’ll cook.”

      “I don’t sit well for very long,” she countered. “You’ll have to give me a job, or—” she paused and a glimmer of light appeared in the depths of her eyes “—actually, that’s a fine idea. I can sit back and relax, ask you questions while you cook. I have a ton of them.”

      And then, she actually winked at him. Winked!

      “No!” he damn near yelled. Whatever questions Miss Haley Foster might find appropriate to ask, he wasn’t prepared to hear—or answer. He didn’t know her well, but he’d seen enough of her personality to have zero doubts on this front. She’d go for the personal, and he didn’t do personal. With anyone. “I, uh, a job, huh?”

      “Yes, please,” she said sweetly, with a bat of her eyelashes.

      “I guess you could set the table. Toast the bread, too, if you’d like.” She grinned, wide and … saucy. Since when he had started using terms like saucy to describe a woman’s smile? Glancing away, he said, “Will that be enough to keep you from sitting still for too long?”

      “Works for me,” she agreed in the same sweet way. “I’ll just save my questions until we’re eating. It’ll be more fun talking then, anyway. And you’ll be able to pay more attention.”

      He rubbed his hands over his face, resisted the urge to yank at his beard. If he wasn’t absolutely positive he stood on solid ground, he’d have sworn the floor shook and swayed. “You do that,” he said, gruffer than he’d intended. “Don’t set your hopes too high, though. I’m not what is known as a chatty guy.”

      “Again, this proves how well we’ll get along. I am very chatty.”

      “There’s a shocker,” he said.

      “And another one-liner!” Her lips quirked again, and he readied himself for whatever she was going to throw at him next. “I bet that you’re far more sociable than you think you are.”

      “You’d lose that bet.”

      “Hmm. I’m a decent judge of character.”

      “Decent isn’t perfect, and I’d bet I know myself better than you.”

      “Maybe.” A flyaway strand of hair fell into her eyes. She pursed her lips, puffed, and the strand of hair blew to the side. “Maybe not.”

      If she were his to touch, he’d walk over, pull that contraption from her hair, and— Stop, he ordered his brain, right now. Damn good advice, that, so he tossed the words, the image, as far away as possible and searched for balance. Peace. And found none.

      She stared at him, her eyes filled with curiosity, and he was positive that she did have the ability to see right into his head, to read every last thought he had. Coughing to break the moment, the intensity of her gaze, he pointed toward the cupboard on the other side of the stove. “Dishes are there. You’ll find silverware in the drawer below. I don’t have fancy stuff.”

      Now, why’d he have to go and say something like that?

      “I’m not a fancy girl.” With a smart-alecky salute and a sashay of her hips, she walked to where he’d pointed. “Napkins?”

      “Nope. I use paper towels.”

      She nodded, but didn’t say anything else. Saving it up, he was sure. Should he talk? Probably. About what? He fought to find some topic of conversation that would make it appear as if he were comfortable and not ready to jump clean out of his skin. Nothing worthwhile came to mind, so he quit thinking and focused on his one and only task: heating the darn soup. The sooner they ate, the sooner she’d leave, the sooner he’d be able to breathe again.

      They worked around each other, neither speaking. He heard her gather the dishes and silverware, and just as at the Beanery, he felt her presence even when he couldn’t see her. She had an energy that was, at once, vivid and warm. Saturating and, yes, life-affirming. It bounced around the room, around him, in a way that somehow made him feel more whole. Real.

      Dammit all. She really did remind him of the sun.

      The thought didn’t sit with him any better than it had before, so he inhaled a deep breath into his lungs and stirred the soup. Kept right on stirring, because he wasn’t sure what else to do with himself. He should’ve let her take care of the soup, as she’d wanted. Then, at least, he’d have been mobile and not stuck inside his own head making ridiculous comparisons. Next time, he’d let her— No. There wouldn’t be a next time.

      Couldn’t be a next time when he wasn’t sure he would survive this time.

      Suddenly, there she was, standing beside him and putting the bread into the toaster. Too close for comfort. A weird sense of familiarity appeared. Almost like déjà vu. If he let himself, he might be able to believe that this—preparing a meal, sharing space with each other—had happened before. Many, many times before. And would happen again.