The hunky dude said, “Milagro, on the off chance that this is not a really desperate attempt to make me feel sorry for you, you need to come back with me. You can call Mercedes to come get you.”

I stopped. “You know Mercedes?”

“Yes, I know Mercedes. Come back to the house.”

“You won’t try anything?”

“You’re the one who always starts things, not me.”

“Prove that you know me. What’s my favorite color?”

“Trick question. Leopard print.”

“Lucky guess. What’s my favorite music?”

“Anything you can crank up too loud and play over and over. Your favorite clothes are too revealing. Your favorite drinks have paper parasols.”

“What’s my favorite book?”

“How should I know?” he said. “You quote Twain a lot.”

“So I really know you? I mean, before last night.”

“Yes, Milagro, we know each other.”

I was comforted by the annoyance and exasperation on his face, expressions not uncommon with men who knew me, and I said, “Okay, but keep your distance.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.” He led the way back down the lane, stopping to push a button that closed the electric gate.

Magnificent English walnut trees lined the way, and ahead I saw an impressive pale gold sandstone house. Across a field was a pretty little white cottage.

Straight ahead was a brown barn and there was a blocky building off to the side. Horses ambled in the fields that led to tree-covered hills.

We walked by the big white truck that was most definitely not my truck.

“This place is very beautiful,” I said.

He led me around the house toward the back entrance. Old roses, their perfume floating on the air, clambered on a fence that enclosed a marvelous garden.

I peered over the fence and saw a slate patio beneath an ancient oak, espaliered pear trees, and all sorts of deciduous shrubs in spectacular bloom. “Your roses are gorgeous, but they should have been pruned.”

“I can’t do everything.”

The man wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, so I smiled and said, “It’s still a fabulous garden. You’ve got many of my favorite species of rose and your viburnum are just bursting, aren’t they?”

“Let’s go inside.”

“Okay. I’m embarrassed that I don’t even remember your name.”

“It’s Oswald.”

“I’ve never met anyone named Oswald before,” I said as we stepped into a mudroom with an extensive display of sunhats and baseball caps.

Oswald put his cap on a hook and led me through a spacious kitchen done up in Monet shades of bright blue and yellow with high-end appliances, through a dining room, past a Mission-style living room, and into a study.

“Very manly man,” I said, looking around at the leather furniture, dark paneling, and built-in bookshelves. “Whose house is this?”

“Mine.”