“Marketing and public relations.”

“What kind of marketing?” he asked.

She sighed. “The lame kind, apparently. I seem to have lost my creative mojo. I got an email this morning from my biggest client—my only client, actually—and they’re basically rejecting the campaign I’ve been working on for months and months.”

“Ouch. Who’s the client?”

“They’re a big national home builder. I have to say, I’m not surprised. My heart’s just not in it. They build these huge subdivisions with hundreds and hundreds of houses, all from the same cookie-cutter models.”

“What can you do?” Ezra asked.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never had a client reject my work before. I was hoping moving here might be the spark to light my creative fire, but nothing seems to be working.”

“Give it time,” he advised. “You’ve been here what, three days?”

Punkin wandered into the kitchen and went immediately to Ezra, placing one muddy paw on their guest’s lap. Ezra chuckled and obligingly scratched the setter’s ears. “Good boy,” he said.

“I can’t believe he’s doing that,” Ivy said. “He’s usually pretty standoffish with strangers.”

“I keep telling you, I’m not a stranger,” Ezra chided. He stood and placed his plate and coffee cup in the sink. “I took the liberty of measuring that broken windowpane in your room and the back bedroom. If you want, I can pick up some glass at the hardware store and replace the panes. How’s tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s good, but honestly, don’t you have better things to do? Ezra, I appreciate it, but I don’t know how I can repay your generosity.”

“You could let me take you to dinner, for starters,” he said. Then he pointed to the hunk of cake on the kitchen counter and grinned. “And I wouldn’t say no to the rest of that cake, if you’re not going to eat it.”

Ivy felt herself blushing. “How about this? You let me cook dinner for you. Not like a date. More as, like, a neighbor thing.”

Ezra’s grin faded momentarily. “Not really what I had in mind, but I guess it’s a start.”

Chapter 6

Ivy stood, shivering, staring at the thermostat. No heat. Temperatures had plummeted overnight. She’d burrowed deeper under the sleeping bag and quilt and finally, at daylight, she’d faced facts. No heat.

She bundled up in her warmest clothes, donned two pairs of socks and her boots, and went down to the basement to check out the furnace. It was cold and silent. How old was this thing? James Heywood had mentioned that his in-laws had only installed central heat in the eighties. Which meant her furnace was beyond middle-aged and facing obsolescence.

“Nooo!” she wailed, trudging back up the stairs. The chicks were peeping loudly from their cardboard crate.

She carried the crate into the chilly kitchen and set it on the table. “Hang in there, girls,” she told them. “I’ll have you warmed up in a second.” She turned on the oven and opened the door. Nothing. No blue flame. Nada.