instructions?”
“No.” He turned and moved toward the door, apparently intending to leave without another word.
She felt as though she should say something. “Mr. McBride?”
He glanced over his shoulder, looking impatient. “What?”
“If you need to go inside my house, there’s a key hidden beneath the big rock beside the front step.”
She certainly wasn’t surprised that his only response was a nod.
“Definitely an odd man,” she murmured when the front door had closed behind him. By the time she went out to her car to collect her cleaning supplies, both he and the old truck that had been parked outside when she’d arrived were gone. Carrying her things into his house, she found herself comparing him to the other McBrides she had met.
The McBride Law Firm had been one of her first clients, one she’d found only days after she’d arrived in town. Trent’s brother, Trevor, the man who’d hired her after a brief interview, was polished, charming, personable. Their father, Caleb, the senior partner of the firm, was the personification of a soft-spoken, good-humored Southern lawyer. It was through that custodial job that Annie had met Trent’s mother, Bobbie, who was talkative, well-intentioned and seemed to have an almost compulsive need to take care of everyone around her.
From her first impression, it was hard to believe Trent was related to any of the McBrides.
Not that she really cared whether he was unfriendly or even downright surly, she assured herself. Her only interest in Trent was that he had agreed—whether willingly or not—to do some much-needed repairs on her house in exchange for her cleaning his. A fair trade of services, no personal relationship implied. Which was exactly the way she wanted it to remain. Annie had no interest in forming a personal relationship with anyone in Honoria, Georgia, for now. After her recent debacle of an engagement, she certainly wasn’t interested in getting involved with another man for a while—especially one as difficult as Trent McBride seemed to be.
Even if he was gorgeous.
She pulled a spray bottle of kitchen cleaner out of her supplies and started to work on Trent McBride’s already-neat kitchen. No one would ever claim that Annie Stewart didn’t fully earn her pay.
THOUGH HE HADN’T SEEN it in years, the old Stewart place was in even worse shape than Trent had remembered. Even the lot had gotten smaller as the surrounding woods had been allowed to encroach on what had once been a decent-size yard. It wasn’t a bad house—good, solid structure overall—but it had been allowed to deteriorate before old Stewart had died, and had been vacant for almost a year since. The place needed a lot more than he could do in a month, he decided, pushing his glasses up on his nose, but he could at least make it reasonably safe for its present occupant.
Okay, maybe he had been a little bored lately—though he wouldn’t have admitted it to his mother for any reason.
Remembering what Annie had said about the front step, he set his toolbox beside it. He noted immediately that the step was not only broken, it was actually dangerous. It was a wonder Annie hadn’t fallen, landing on the oversize rocks that had been used to outline the unplanted flower beds on either side of the front door. He frowned as he recalled her saying that she’d almost tripped several times. She was very lucky she hadn’t.
Pulling out a hammer, a handful of nails and a level, he found himself thinking about Annie Stewart. She hadn’t been at all what he’d expected. For some reason, he thought she’d be older—much older. But she’d looked even younger than his own twenty-six years—and was so small and delicate he could hardly imagine her tackling heavy cleaning every day.
He supposed she could be considered pretty—if he had a taste for a heart-shaped face dominated by big, long-lashed brown eyes. Or a tip-tilted nose and a full, soft mouth bracketed by shallow dimples. Add to those attributes her glossy, shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair and a petite, but definitely feminine figure, and most men would probably start fantasizing about getting to know her better. Trent, on the other hand, had taken one look at her and made a silent vow to keep his distance.
If there was one thing he didn’t need in his life now, it was a sweet young thing who seemed to be in even worse shape than he was, judging from what his mother had told him. Annie apparently had no family, no friends in town yet and obviously no money if she was forced to live in this dump. He, on the other hand, had more family than he knew what to do with, old friends who were determined to stay involved in his life even though he had tried his best to push them away, and a nagging uncertainty about his future that seemed to have no workable solution.
He definitely had no interest in getting involved in Annie Stewart’s problems—whatever they were. He would make this house reasonably safe for her to live in—at least as much as he could accomplish in the four weeks he’d granted her—and then he would sequester himself into his own sanctuary again. No matter how hard his mother and others tried to drag him out.
BY THE TIME Annie finished cleaning Trent’s place, she was in love—with his furniture. Polishing his wood was the most sensual experience she’d had in ages, she thought ironically, slowly stroking a hand over a satiny-smooth cherry tabletop.
The solid wood, raised panel cabinets in his kitchen were works of art. The tables and chairs were solid, exquisitely crafted and so beautiful she found herself wasting several minutes just admiring them. An oversize rocker beside the stone fireplace in his cozy living room proved an irresistible temptation; she was unable to deny herself the pleasure of sinking into it, putting her head back and slowly rocking for ten blissfully lazy minutes.
The hand-crafted furniture was the only evidence of personality she found anywhere in Trent’s four-room cottage.
Bobbie McBride had claimed her son was a skilled woodworker. If these pieces were examples of his work, Bobbie had been guilty of major understatement.
Before she left, she wrote Trent a note and stuck it to the refrigerator with a magnet. It was simple and to the point: “Mr. McBride, the lightbulb in the bedroom blew out. I don’t know where you keep the replacement bulbs.” She wasn’t able to resist adding, “Your furniture is beautiful.”
Long after she left his house, while she was cleaning and scrubbing other places, Annie regretted that impulsive postscript. He’d made it clear he wanted to keep their arrangement strictly professional. She wouldn’t be the one to cross that line again.
THE FIRST THING Trent noticed when he limped into his house four hours after he’d left Annie there was the faint, fresh scent of lemon. It smelled clean, he thought.
The scent reminded him of Saturday afternoons from his childhood; his mother had spent nearly every Saturday morning cleaning and polishing. Because he didn’t like to dwell on the carefree days of his youth, days he wouldn’t see again, he pushed the memories away and headed for the kitchen in search of a cold drink and a pain pill. His back ached, letting him know he’d done too much today. He hated being nagged—even by his own abused body.
He spotted Annie’s note as soon as he entered the room. Prissy handwriting, he thought, deciding it looked like her. He could still hear the prim, polite way she’d called him “Mr. McBride.” He read the note, his attention lingering on the last line.
She thought his furniture was beautiful. Had she guessed that he’d made most of it himself? Had she somehow known that his woodworking was the only thing he took any pride or satisfaction from these days? It annoyed him that her compliment pleased him.
Scowling, he pulled the note from the refrigerator and tossed it into the trash.
ANNIE CLEANED the McBride Law Firm offices three afternoons a week—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She usually arrived just as everyone else was leaving and then locked up when she finished. She was running a bit late on Wednesday, the day after she’d cleaned Trent’s house, and everyone was already gone except Trevor McBride, who was working late in his office behind a pile of papers. A still-steaming mug of coffee sat at his elbow. Photos of his wife and his two young