“Because we don’t need one. We have a very nice business just the way it is. A website will bring a bunch of issues we aren’t interested in dealing with.”

“Such as?”

“We’ll have to hire people to fulfill orders, set up a distribution center, figure out shipping. So many headaches.”

“But it could grow your business exponentially.”

“We don’t want to grow our business. It’s fine the way it is.” He drove into a quaint little New England town with a signature white-steeple church, a volunteer fire department, a combination café and gallery, and there, in the middle of everything, the Green Mountain Country Store.

In the dark, it was hard to see much, but it seemed small next to some of the other buildings and boasted a quaint front porch. They were past it before she could ascertain much of anything else.

Will pulled into a parking lot behind a large white Victorian house.

“Where are we?”

“I assume you’re staying at the inn since it’s the only place in town that takes guests.”

Cameron pulled out the confirmation message she had printed at home. “The Admiral Frances Butler Inn?”

“That’s it.” He cut the engine and got out of the truck.

By the time she emerged onto thankfully dry pavement, he’d fetched her luggage from the back. “Can you hand me the black bag? My running shoes are in there.”

He retrieved the bag she pointed to and dropped it in front of her.

“You don’t have to shoot the messenger, you know,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“Just because you’re mad at your dad for hiring me doesn’t mean you have to be cranky with me.”

“You were irritating me long before I knew my dad had hired you.”

“You’re just full of charm, aren’t you?” she asked as she pulled on sneakers.

“So I’m told.”

“By who?”

He waggled his brows at her. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Actually, I really wouldn’t.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug as he led her into the back door of the inn. He seemed to know his way around, so she followed him through a series of hallways to the front desk where he rang the bell on the counter. The place smelled like potpourri and lemon-scented furniture polish.

An older woman came through the door wearing a housecoat, pin curlers in her hair and a warm, welcoming smile on her plump face.

“Hi, Will. What a nice surprise. What brings you in tonight?”

“Hi there, Mrs. Hendricks. I’ve brought you a guest. Cameron . . .”

“Oh,” the older woman said, resting a hand on her head as if she just remembered her curlers. “I look a sight.”

“You’re pretty as a picture, just like always,” Will said.

“Will Abbott,” Mrs. Hendricks said as her face turned bright red, “you could charm a bird out of a tree.”