Unfinished Business: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс

table shoveling in pie. Friends, he’d said. Maybe they could be friends. She leaned back against the counter.

      “Where’s the dog?”

      “Left him home. Dad caught him digging in the tulips yesterday, so he’s banished.”

      “You don’t live here anymore?”

      “No.” He looked up and nearly groaned. She was leaning on the counter in front of the window, the light in her hair. There was the faintest of smiles playing on that full, serious mouth of hers. The severe tailoring of her slacks and shirt made her seem that much softer and feminine. “I, ah…” He reached for the milk. “I bought some land outside of town. The house is going up slow, but it’s got a roof.”

      “You’re building your own house?”

      “I’m not doing that much. I can’t get away from here long enough to do much more than stick up a couple of two-by-fours. I’ve got a couple of guys hammering it together.” He looked at her again, considering. “I’ll drive you out some time so you can take a look.”

      “Maybe.”

      “How about now?” He rose to put his dishes in the sink.

      “Oh, well…I really have to get back….”

      “For what?”

      “To practice.”

      He turned. Their shoulders brushed. “Practice later.”

      It was a challenge. They both knew it, both understood it. They were both determined to prove that they could be in each other’s company without stirring up old yearnings.

      “All right. I’ll follow you out, though. That way you won’t have to come back into town.”

      “Fine.” He took her arm and led her out the back door.

      He’d had a secondhand Chevy sedan when she’d left town. Now he drove a sporty four-wheel drive. Three miles out of town, when they came to the steep, narrow lane, she saw the wisdom of it.

      It would be all but impassable in the winter, she thought as her Mercedes jolted up the graveled incline. Though the leaves were little more than tender shoots, the woods were thick. She could see the wild dogwoods blooming white. She narrowly avoided a rut. Gravel spit out from under her wheels as she negotiated the last sweeping turn and came to a halt behind Brady.

      The dog came racing, barking, his tail fanning in the breeze.

      The shell of the house was up. He wasn’t contenting himself with a cabin in the woods, she noted. It was a huge, spreading two-story place. The windows that were in place were tall, with half-moon arches over them. What appeared to be the skeleton of a gable rose up from the second story. It would command a majestic view of the distant Blue Mountains.

      The grounds, covered with the rubble of construction, sloped down to a murmuring creek. Rain would turn the site into a mud pit, she thought as she stepped from her car. But, oh, when it was terraced and planted, it would be spectacular.

      “It’s fabulous.” She pushed back her hair as the early evening breeze stirred it. “What a perfect spot.”