He’d chosen this spot, well back from the main road, to put down his own roots, to build his own place. He’d walked and wandered these woods all his life. He’d known his spot long before he’d become a man.

He went in through the mudroom, into the kitchen, flipped on the light. He’d designed the space, with Beckett’s help. Clean lines, simple, and roomy enough for a table. He put the cell phone he’d finally stopped resenting on the charger, grabbed a bottle of water.

He’d get that hot shower now, a hell of a lot later than planned.

The dog trotted upstairs with him, went directly to the big square of pillow he used as a bed. Circled once, twice, a third time, then with a huge sigh curled up with the ratty stuffed cat he loved. Still he watched Ryder, tail thumping contentedly as Ryder emptied his pockets, pulled off his belt.

He stripped down, tossed the clothes in the direction of the hamper, and walked naked into the big indulgent master bath.

A man who worked with his hands, with his back, deserved the king of showers. Especially if he was a contractor and knew how to get it done.

It rivaled the baths they’d put in the inn—the tile work, in his case, in tones of stone gray, the long white counter, the stainless steel vessels. He turned the rainhead and body jets on full, and plenty hot, and let them beat the muscles tight from a long day of work, and play.

And as they loosened, he thought of Hope.

He wasn’t going to screw with her. And he sure as hell wasn’t responsible for her history with assholes.

She’d started it. He reminded himself of that because it was damn well the simple truth. He’d kept his distance, until recently. He’d kept it because there’d been something right from the jump. He hadn’t wanted something, not with a sloe-eyed, sharp-cheekboned beauty queen who probably paid more for a single pair of those stilts she wore than he had for every shoe in his closet combined.

Maybe the stilts made her legs go on forever, but that wasn’t the point.

She wasn’t his type, and he sure as hell wasn’t hers. Hers wore designer suits and ties, probably went to art openings and galas. And liked it. Maybe even the opera. Yeah, the asshole had looked like the opera sort.

She’d started it, and if they finished it, he’d make sure they both laid their cards on the table first. He played fair. And since maybe Owen had a few valid points, he’d think about it awhile before deciding either way.

And if the time came when they both gave the nod, well, he’d play extra fair. No problem.