“Yeah, a cowboy-turned-developer-and-businessman. Married. One daughter. Well, one legiti—” She held her tongue as both her children had turned their heads in her direction. “Uh, would you, uh, like to eat with us?” she asked as much to change the subject as anything else. She set the lid onto the barbecue. J.D. Santini was the last person she wanted to spend time with and in the corner of her peripheral vision she caught a glimpse of her son rolling his eyes theatrically.

J.D. hesitated, then shook his head. “Thanks, but another time. I just wanted to work a deal with you.”

“A deal?” She was instantly wary.

“I’ll need a phone until mine’s connected.”

“No problem.” She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The man made her so damned nervous. She picked up the empty saucepan and spoon and told herself not to let down her guard for a minute. J.D., she reminded herself for the fiftieth time, was a man to avoid. If possible. “There’s the wall phone in the kitchen.”

“Seen it.”

“And an extension in my bedroom on the second floor.”

“The kitchen will do.”

He started up the two steps leading to the back porch and Tiffany felt a wash of color flood her cheeks. “Fine.”

“When the bill comes, I’ll take care of the extra charges.” He hesitated. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” But it was. Everything about him seemed to be a complication in her life. “I was serious about dinner,” she added, knowing she was making a big mistake, but unable to stop herself. She was going to live in the house with him for the next few months. If life was going to be tolerable, they had to get along. “Look, it’s not a big deal, but I thought we should try and . . . and . . .”

“And what, Tiffany?” he asked, his eyes as dark as slate.

What was it about one of his looks that could make her feel like a fool? “Never mind. I was just being polite.”

He looked over his shoulder to the well-used barbecue and the smoke escaping from a hole in the lid. Furrows etched his brow and suspicion tightened the muscles of his shoulders. “I think we’re past being polite.”

“Then we should go back a step or two, don’t you think?”

He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “What is it they say? Something about never going back.”

“Then they’re wrong.” She stepped closer to him, close enough to notice the few flecks of gray at his temples. “You barged in here. Asked all sorts of questions about me and the kids. Demanded to live here. So I think—no, I insist that we be civil and, yes, at times even polite to each other. If we don’t, I can guarantee our new living arrangements aren’t gonna be worth a single red cent.”