He even noticed the dimple that creased her cheek when she smiled. She was sexy and earthy, yet exuded an innocence and charm that, if he let it, might get under his skin.

“When do you plan to open the doors?” she asked, and he cleared his throat for fear his voice would betray him.

“By early next summer. Soon as the winter snowpack melts.” He wasn’t used to being grilled, wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Where is your ranch, exactly?”

“Outside of town about three miles or so.” He decided to end the conversation before she dug too deep. She was a nosy one, this Katie Kinkaid. If he let her, she’d talk to him all afternoon. “I gotta run.”

“Wait a minute. I’m a reporter with the Rogue River Review—that’s our local paper—and I’d like to do a story about the ranch when you open.”

So that was it. He should have known.

When he hesitated, she barreled right on. “You could think of it as free advertising.” She angled her face upward for a better look at him and he thought he noticed a hint of defiance in the tilt of that impish chin.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

“Here—let me give you my card.” Whipping open a small purse, she scrounged around for a second, extracted her wallet and edged a clean white business card out of a slit behind a picture of her son obviously taken a few years back. “Here. Just give me a call, or I’ll contact you.” She looked up at him expectantly as he flipped the card over and over between his fingers.

“I don’t have anything like this yet,” he admitted. “The deal just went through, but I’ll call you later.”

“Or I’ll call you,” she repeated quickly, as if she thought he was giving her the brush-off. Apparently she was used to being in charge.

“Fine. Nice meetin’ ya.” He slid her card into the back pocket of his jeans and walked to his truck. A black cat that had been sunning himself on the hood, perked up his head; then, as Luke opened the driver’s door, the animal shot to his feet and hopped lithely to the ground.

“Oh, come here, Charcoal,” Katie said, bending down and picking up the slinking feline. “That’s a boy.”

As Luke rammed the truck into gear, cranking on the steering wheel, he caught a glimpse of Katie in the rearview mirror. One hip thrust out as she cradled the cat against her chest, dark glasses hiding her eyes, lips tinged a soft peach color, she exuded a natural sensuality that caught a man off guard and squeezed tightly. Too tightly.

His gut feeling about her was simple: Katie Kinkaid was a woman to avoid.

* * *

Katie was still petting the cat, staring down the driveway and asking herself a dozen questions about the enigmatic cowboy who had taken up residence in Tiffany’s carriage house when J.D. Santini’s Jeep roared into the drive. J.D., Tiffany’s brother-in-law and soon-to-be husband, was behind the wheel.