It was reasonable, even important, that they get to know each other better. He could hardly help Flynn if he didn’t know the women Flynn was connected to.

That made sense.

It had nothing to do with obsession. Just because he’d bought a painting with her face in it, just because he couldn’t get that face out of his mind, all that didn’t mean he was obsessed.

He was merely interested.

And if he was practicing various opening lines under his breath, it was only because he understood the value of communication. He certainly wasn’t nervous about speaking to a woman. He spoke to women all the time.

Women spoke to him all the time, if it came to that. He was considered one of the top eligible bachelors—and God, did he hate that term—in the country. Women went out of their way to talk to him.

If Zoe McCourt couldn’t spare five minutes for some polite conversation, well, that was her loss.

By the time she pulled into a driveway, he’d worked himself into a mass of nerves and irritation. The vaguely annoyed glance she sent him when he pulled up behind her put a cap on it.

Feeling foolish and insulted, he climbed out.

“Are you following me?” she demanded.

“Excuse me?” In defense, his voice was flat and cold. “I think you’re overestimating your charms. Flynn’s worried about Malory. I saw you and thought you’d be able to tell me how she’s doing.”

Zoe continued to observe him warily as she unlocked her trunk. Her jeans were tight enough to afford him an intriguing view of firm female butt. She wore a short, snug red jacket with an equally snug striped top that stopped a full inch above the waistband of the jeans.

He noted, with some fascination that her belly button was pierced and sported a tiny silver bar. He actually felt his fingertips grow warm with the urge to touch it.

“I stopped by to see her before.”

“Huh? Who? Oh, Malory.” Now the back of his neck grew warm and he cursed himself. “How is she?”

“She looks tired, and a little down on herself.”

“I’m sorry.” He stepped forward as she began to unload the trunk. “Let me give you a hand.”

“I can get it.”

“I’m sure you can.” He solved the matter by taking the two heavy sample books of wallpaper from her. “But I don’t see any reason you should. Redecorating?”

She took out a paint sample book, a small toolbox—which he pulled away from her—a notebook, and some tile chips. “We contracted for this house. We’re going to open the business here. It needs work.”

He walked ahead, leaving her to slam the trunk. Yes, it did need work, but it had a sturdy look, and the lot was nicely established. Solid location, decent parking.

“Looks like it has good bones,” he commented. “You have the foundation checked out?”

“Yes.”

“Wiring up to code?”

She dug out the keys she’d picked up from the realtor. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I don’t know how to buy a house. I looked at a number of properties, and this was the best value, with the best location. Most of the work it needs is cosmetic.”