Page 7

I WOKE UP having spent a restless night dreaming of Ryan Devlin’s big hands.

And it was his hands I’d dreamed about, despite having gotten an eyeful of another impressively large part of him.

I’d always had a thing for guys who worked with their hands—part hero worship and part competency kink, because I was the kind of guy who had to call a plumber to change a washer in a leaky faucet.

Ryan’s hands carried strength in them but also incredible gentleness.

I made myself breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs and ate in the living room where I could look at the bookshelf full of carved wooden animals and aliens. Ryan’s work was so fine and intricate, and something about the idea of such powerful hands doing such delicate work fascinated me.

When I finished breakfast, I rinsed my plate and stacked it in the dishwasher.

So, ready to be all inspired by Caldwell Crossing, I got in my rental car and drove into town.

It was smaller than I remembered. Okay, so I’d been a kid the last time I visited, and memory had a way of painting things larger than they were, but there were more than a few empty storefronts on Main Street that said Caldwell Crossing was in an economic downturn.

I was glad to see Harmony Chocolates was still open; as a kid, it had drawn me like a magnet. Turned out it did now as well.

I was served by a cute guy with curls and brilliant blue eyes, and ten minutes later, loaded down with a tote bag full of more chocolate than I needed for my entire stay, I went to the grocery store and stocked up there as well.

I found myself mulling over the steaks, wondering if I ought to buy one or two.

Should I offer to cook Ryan an apology dinner?

Was there such a thing as an “I’m sorry I thought you were mugging me and then I saw your dick” steak?

Wagyu, probably. With truffle sauce. Well, the grocery store’s ribeye would have to do, with a peppercorn sauce if they had a bottle.

Was it weird to invite Ryan to dinner at his own house?

What if he thought it was a date? Did I want it to be a date?

Maybe I did. I was out of practice when it came to relationships, and it wasn’t as though I had a string of successful ones behind me anyway.

I didn’t even have any interesting or exciting failures.

All my relationships had just run their course, I supposed, and we’d looked at each other, shrugged, and gone our separate ways.

That was probably a sad indictment on what a boring person I was.

but I didn’t want an exciting relationship.

Drama was great in books but not so much in real life.

In real life, I wanted something warm and comfortable.

I wanted an old-knitted sweater of a relationship, cozy and soft and worn in so it fit just right.

I took a longer route back to the cabin, soaking up the atmosphere and making mental notes of what to add to the page: the way the light filtered through the trees, the fresh, clean scent of the air, and how a time-critical race to catch a killer might get totally screwed up when your main characters had to wait for a tourist in an RV to do a nine-point turn when they realized they wouldn’t fit through the covered bridge.

In my book, I’d definitely wedge that RV in there good and proper.

When I finally got back to the cabin, an orange cat was sunning itself on the porch swing.

It bolted as soon as I pulled up, which was great, because the swing looked like a fantastic spot to sit with my laptop and get some notes down.

First I unpacked my groceries, and then, my heart beating faster in anticipation—either of rejection or acceptance, it wasn’t picky—I made my way along the shore of the lake and through the trees to Ryan’s workshop.

I couldn’t hear any power tools, but the roller door was up, so I presumed he was in.

“Hello?” I called from a safe distance, not wanting a repeat of yesterday’s incident. I slowed down my pace.

Ryan appeared in the doorway, raising a hand to shield his eyes as he looked out into the sunlight.

He really was gorgeous with his dark eyes, his olive skin, the scruff that wasn’t quite long enough to call a beard, and the wavy dark hair that was just begging for someone to run their fingers through.

Well, if he’s taking applications…

Shut up, libido. We don’t even know if he’s interested.

“Hi,” he said, sounding a little wary.

“Hi.”

“Uh, do you wanna come in?” He stepped back from the doorway, and I followed him into the shade of the workshop.

“Oh, wow!” I said as my gaze fell on the workbench that ran the length of the place. “Did you make all these?”

A row of about a dozen roses, intricately carved from wood, lay on top of a green cutting mat. It was a stupid question to ask Ryan, probably, because what was the alternative? That he’d magicked them into existence?

“Yeah,” he said softly. “For Founders Day. I have a stall.”

“Can I?”

He nodded, and I reached out and picked up one of the roses.

“This is amazing. Where did you learn to do this?”

“YouTube.”

“I thought you were going to say you studied under some master craftsman or something and he taught you all his secrets.”

He ducked his head when he smiled. “Nah. Everything is on YouTube nowadays. That’s where all the master craftsmen are hanging out.”

I rolled the stem of the rose between my thumb and forefinger, making the flower turn. “Wow. How much do you sell them for?”

“Twenty bucks each.”

I blinked at him. “That seems like not enough for something handmade.”

He shrugged. “I charge tourists more. And assholes.”

“Oh, so do I get slugged double tax because I’m both?”

He laughed softly. “Nah, just the twenty bucks for you.”

I set the rose back down. “I’ll have to catch up with you on Founders Day. Do you only make roses?”

“I do other things too. Small pieces, mostly,” he said. “Kitchen stuff is always popular. Book stands for recipe books. Cheese boards, bowls, pestles and mortars. That kind of thing.”

“What about your animals and your aliens?” I asked.

A flush climbed his throat. “Yeah, I take some of the animals along.”

“Not the aliens?”

He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah, not really.”

“Why not? They’re adorable.”

His flush rose. “I guess they’re not what people are after, you know? People like animals. They probably like to think of whittling as kind of folksy and old fashioned, and aliens don’t fit that vibe.”

“I like them,” I said, and his mouth quirked. “Um, so I came over here to ask you something.”

He gave me a wary look.

“Would you be interested in having dinner with me tonight? At your cabin? It’s kind of an apology for yesterday, and maybe we could get to know each other a little better? Just as friends. Not that I’m opposed to— anyway , I bought steaks.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you write books?”

“I’m a total wordsmith. Just, mostly on paper.”

That caused a genuine smile. “Uh, I’d like to, except I’m catching up with friends for dinner at Lucy’s Bar.”

“Oh.” My stomach swooped. “Um, maybe tomorrow?”

“You could come,” he said. “If you wanted. They wouldn’t mind.”

“Okay,” I said, before I could second-guess myself. “I’d love to.”

And when he ducked his head shyly again, I was surprised by how much I meant it.

LUCY’S BAR WAS on Main Street in Caldwell Crossing.

Ryan’s rattling old truck got us there just before sunset.

The interior of the bar seemed dark at first, but my eyes adjusted after a moment, and then it felt cozy and warm.

It was filled with sports memorabilia and even an old gas pump.

Ryan led me through to a corner booth, where a group of guys was already crammed together.

“Hey,” he said. “Everyone, this is Adam. He’s staying at the cabin. Adam, this is Sam, Conor, and Haider.”

“Hi,” I said and gave an awkward little wave.

Everyone shuffled up to give us room. I found myself sitting next to curly-haired Haider, the guy who’d upsold me half the store at Harmony Chocolates earlier, while Ryan sat across from me beside Conor.

“What brings you to Harmony Lake?” Sam asked me as a server appeared with our menus.

After we’d paused to give our drink orders, I said, “I needed a change of scenery, mostly, and I can work from anywhere. So I thought I’d spend a while here. It’s beautiful.”

“No place like it,” Sam said with a smile.

They were a good group. I learned that Conor was a firefighter and that Haider didn’t just work at Harmony Chocolates, he owned the place.

“Where’s Ben?” Ryan asked Sam.

“At his place,” Sam said. “We’re not joined at the hip.”

“Ben is Sam’s new boyfriend, and they’re totally joined at the hip,” Haider said, eyes sparkling. He clutched his chest and said, dramatically, “And to think Ben was almost mine!”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“I don’t think he was almost yours,” Conor said.

“Well, I called dibs,” Haider said.

Ryan snorted. “You can’t call dibs on a person.”

Haider laid his hand on my forearm and gave me the world’s cheekiest grin. “Adam, has anyone called dibs on you yet?”

My gaze shot to Ryan, who was bright red.

“Um, no,” I said. “Ryan’s right. You can’t call dibs on a person.”

Haider lifted his hand, laughing. “Oh, you can, and you should . It’s so much fun.”

Sam rolled his eyes again, but he was smiling.

“If you want to know about the local area, Sam’s the guy to ask,” Ryan said. “His great-great-something-grandfather built the town.”

“Literally!” Haider agreed. “His surname is Caldwell.”

“And you should go to his farm,” Ryan said. “It’s a maple syrup farm, and it’s got a bunch of sharp machinery and stuff you could use for your murders.”

In the sudden silence that befell the booth, I said, “Um, I write books. Murder mysteries. Completely fictional. There’s no actual murdering going on.”

Beside me, Haider flicked a coaster at Ryan. “I thought you’d invited Hannibal Lector to sit next to me!”