She snapped off a significantly smaller branch and gave it a toss in the direction of the backyard. She had a good arm, and the dog barreled after it, flinging wet mud in all directions.

“I apologize for my brute of a friend there,” Silas said. “I would assure you he is not always an asshole like this, but then I’d be lying. This is exactly why he got the boot from therapy dog school.”

Her sharp brown eyes darted to where the dog was rolling, stubby legs in the air. “Therapy dog school?”

“The rescue thought, since he was smart and affectionate, he’d make a good therapy or emotional support dog. He was a fast learner, but they underestimated the stubborn streak. They could get him to open drawers and refrigerators, but only when he felt like it. Nailed my shin just this morning on a dresser drawer he left open before he helped himself to all my bacon.”

“Wow,” she said.

“Speaking of wow, how about you show me this view?” he suggested, pointing toward the bluff.

3

3

Maggie did her best to not watch Silas Wright take measurements of the terrace, the front of the house, the back fence. She had plenty on her plate without adding a flirty, not-terrible-to-look-at landscaper to it.

Dean—who was on the second floor and wailing along to a Britney Spears classic—had outdone himself in the research department. Mr. Wright was exactly right for the camera.

Her followers would eat up the curling, dirty-blond hair that peeked out from beneath the hat. The crinkles around the gray eyes. His stubble beard toed the line between careless bad boy and hometown heartthrob who was too busy to shave.

He was tall with a rangy, muscled build that filled out his T-shirt, advertising more than just the name of his business. Broad chest and shoulders with tan skin. The peek of a tattoo just under the sleeve of his shirt.

He bent to examine the stone at the far end of the terrace, and she had to turn away before she started thinking too hard about that very firm butt he came equipped with.

The sunroom. Yes. She should be thinking about whether she needed to replace all of the molding around the windows, not about man-butt.

She peeked again and had no regrets before prying another piece of casing free. Some owner in the recent lineage had replaced the glass in the enclosed porch, and Maggie’s budget cheered.

Satisfied that the casing needed to be replaced on only one of the dozen windows—thank you, baby Jesus—she added the item to her growing list on the iPad and then put her gloves back on and loaded rotted wood into the wheelbarrow on top of the orange shag carpeting she’d ripped out of the small hall closet.