He just didn’t expect to be spending so much time tracking down where the house roof was leaking and why the kitchen sink didn’t have hot water and why the window in the upstairs bathroom refused to open. Meanwhile, woodworking orders were pouring in on his website, and everyone wanted everything now. He was unlocking the door to the shop when he heard tires on the gravel driveway.

Shit. He didn’t have any client appointments today and he definitely did not have time to handle a walk-in client. He turned as the dark blue compact parked near the shop. The driver’s door opened and a petite redhead got out, looking at him across the roof of the car. She rested her arm there and pushed her large sunglasses up onto her head.

Oh, double shit. Andrea Wentworth. What the hell was she doing here?

She flashed him a wide smile, as if they were dear old friends instead of sworn enemies. At least, that was what they’d been their senior year—enemies, pure and simple. After being the best of friends growing up.

“Zayne Rutledge!” she cried. “Look at you! And look at this place! It’s wonderful!”

Her voice was all singsong-y and sugar sweet. Yup, this was the Andrea he remembered—as if a smile from her should be received with gratitude that she’d deigned to notice your very existence.

He tried to keep his voice level, thinking of his business and not what he wanted to tell her personally. High school was a long time ago and... Ah, screw it. He didn’t need to impress her. He turned his back, opening the door to the shop.

“It’s Sunday. If you need work done, set up an appointment on my website. I don’t do walk-ins and I’m busy.”

“Oh! Um...” He thought he detected a bit of hurt in her voice, but that was impossible. You needed a heart to feel pain, and he knew she didn’t have one. Seeing her put him right back in the crowded high school hallways, avoiding the other kids’ taunting. Andrea coughed, and her voice cracked a little. “I understand you’re busy, but I really need to speak with you.”

He stood in the doorway, refusing to look back at her. He didn’t want to remember those days or the finger-pointing. The times Andrea stood there in icy silence as he was called another Rutledge loser and worse. His shoulders felt tight.

“I’m not bumping anyone ahead of the line, even if their name is Wentworth. Go to the website, Andrea. Or better yet...go away.”

“Mature as ever, I see.” There was a familiar whip-sharp edge to each word. There she was. This was the Andrea he knew. “I don’t need carpentry work. I need to talk about the agreement we had with Cliff Thompson about the corn maze.”