If he wanted to talk with her, he’d call—and if he got her voicemail again, he’d ask her to return the call rather than leave a message.

He hadn’t yet done that.

So . . . she should wait. Give him breathing room after their conversation on Saturday night. If he was running scared, a woman who was too forward could send him fleeing the opposite direction.

Or maybe her impromptu kiss had already done that.

The drone of the buffer masked her huff as the machine continued to smooth out the rough spots in the wood and remove the layers of protective finish.

It was a shame there wasn’t a buffer for the soul—and the heart.

Other than love, of course.

But love carried risk. It required taking a leap into the unknown and a willingness to fail—and fall.

For a person like Brent, whose experience with love—or the lack of love—was disastrous, that risk could be too formidable.

Not the happiest thought she’d had today—and it stuck with her for the remainder of the job.

Once all the bad junk had been stripped off the wood, she shut off the buffer, leaving the mask over her nose as dust motes swirled around the room.

There were two tactics she could employ to convince Brent to take another chance on love.

The first involved a follow-up phone call—after a reasonable interval—if he didn’t get in touch with her. That step was a given. The only challenge was deciding what constituted a reasonable interval.

The second tactic involved prayer. Also a given—and one she intended to launch immediately.

Because cutting through all the garbage that was preventing him from dipping his toes into romance again could very well take a miracle.

13

THE EVE REILLY STORY had dried up.

Buzz skimmed the Wednesday Post headlines again, flipping through the pages.

Nothing.

There hadn’t been a single mention of it in the paper—or on the news—since the phone call to the station a week ago . . . and that had only merited a one-paragraph follow-up. Apparently she’d weathered the storms of the past ten days and was staying the course.

Some people had a knack for escaping danger unscathed.

For a while, anyway.

But if blows continued to rain down on them, eventually one would hit its target and their luck would run out.

“Aren’t we the cerebral one.”

At the taunt from Suds, he closed the paper and tucked it between the insulated food carrier and the tree supporting his back. “I decided to improve my mind as well as feed my stomach during lunch break.”

Suds snorted and waved toward the paper. “There’s nothing but bad news in there. I get enough of that in real life. Give me Candy Crush any day.” He lifted his cell.

“Video games will turn your brain to mush.”