She’d never gotten into town for her books and her house hunting, but that would come. Instead, she mused, she’d found an opening to a new career. One that thrilled her.

She had a chance now, a true and tangible chance for a new direction.

Not that Liam Donovan was going to make it easy. On the contrary, she decided, licking cheese from her thumb. He was demanding, occasionally overbearing and very, very much the perfectionist.

She’d done a full dozen sketches of the gnomes of Firth before he’d approved a single one.

And his approval, as she recalled, had been a grunt and a nod.

Well, that was fine. She didn’t need to be patted on the head, didn’t require effusive praise. She appreciated the fact that he expected her to be good, that he already assumed they’d make a successful team.

A team. She all but hugged the word to her. That made her part of something. After all these years of quiet wishing, she was telling stories. Not with words; she never had the right words. But with her drawings. The thing she loved most and had convinced herself over the years was an acceptable hobby and no more.

Now it was hers.

Still, she was in many ways a practical woman. She’d cut through her delight to the basics and discussed terms with him. A pity she wasn’t clever enough to have masked her sheer astonishment at the amount he’d told her she’d be paid for the work.

She’d have her house now, she thought, and, giggling with glee, poured herself a second glass of wine. She’d buy more art supplies, more books. Plants. She’d scout out wonderful antiques to furnish her new home.

And live happily ever after, she thought, toasting herself.

Alone.

She shook off the little pang. She was getting used to alone. Enjoying alone. Maybe she still felt quick pulls and tugs of attraction for Liam, but she understood there would be no acting on them now that they were working together.

He’d certainly demonstrated no sign of wanting a more personal relationship now. If that stung the pride a bit, well, she was used to that, too.

She’d had a terrifying crush on the captain of the debate team her senior year in high school. She could clearly remember those heartbreaking flutters and thrills every time she caught sight of him. And how she’d wished, miserably, she could have been more outgoing, more brightly pretty, more confident, like the girl he’d gone steady with.

Then in college it had been an English major, a poet with soulful eyes and a dark view of life. She’d been sure she could inspire him, lift his soul. When, after nearly a full semester he’d finally turned those tragic eyes her way, she’d fallen like a ripe plum from a branch.