was delighted at the chance to update and redesign the robes—the Community Church had a wonderful choir. She was already sketching out ideas in her head. Which was a good thing since her draft board was now buried under the last delivery. She’d considered taking the drafting table home, but that would only complicate matters. The fabric and tools she needed were here at the shop.
Luckily, Cindy had again volunteered to help, this time to organize the overflow. She held up a bolt of fuzzy pink fabric. “Where do you want me to put this?”
The space where the fake fur had been was now filled with another bolt of material. “I swear they multiply at night after I leave.” Emma rubbed her forehead. “For now, on the cutting table.”
“That’s already stacked a mile high.”
Emma sighed. “When did everything get so out of control?”
“It’s not so much out of control—it’s that you’re out of room. Face it, Emma, push has come to shove. Why don’t you call Michael? He’ll give you a fair bid and he won’t run over budget with a bunch of unexpected costs.”
Michael was a friend from church and Emma knew Cindy was right about him. He would be more than fair. “I wish I were more flexible, open to change—it would make this easier.”
“We are who we are,” Cindy replied.
“How did you become so wise?”
“I had plenty of practice doing dumb things. I guess after a while some of it had to sink in.”
Emma finally smiled. Cindy was kind, generous, full of life and fun. But definitely not dumb. “Uh-huh.”
“So, are you going to call Michael?”
“Yes.” Emma took a deep breath. “You’re right, it’s past time. And I trust him completely. How could I go wrong?”
Emma was still coming up with disaster scenarios as she pulled into her driveway that evening. Having taken her courage in hand, she’d called Michael. And he’d recommended one person. Seth McAllister. Her mysterious next-door neighbor. The one she’d deliberately been unneighborly toward.
Surreptitiously, she studied his house as she collected her bag. Why in the world had she convinced herself that the man was a danger? Michael had nothing but high praise for Seth. And Emma had jumped to conclusions. It wasn’t a move worthy of her belief system.
As she walked inside, Emma greeted her dogs absently. When they ran outside, she paused, looking at Seth’s house. She thought of how lonely she’d been when she moved to Rosewood and instantly felt guilty. Well, it wasn’t too late.
She could cook a pretty decent lasagna. And luckily, she had everything she needed. The previous evening she’d made a big vat of spaghetti sauce. Once the wavy lasagna noodles were cooked, it didn’t take long to layer the casserole and then pop it in the oven.
As it baked, she took some time to freshen her makeup and change from her work clothes into a sleeveless yellow cotton shirt, cropped pants and sandals. She added a splash of cologne for courage, then traded her discreet pearl studs for cloisonné earrings that dangled just enough to frame her face. Satisfied, and refusing to primp one more second, she checked on the lasagna. It was ready. Taking a deep breath, she convinced herself that she was, too.
“Okay, boys,” she addressed the dogs. “I’ll be right back.”
Cocking their black and white heads in identical positions, they watched her leave.
“Welcome, neighbor,” she muttered to herself as she approached his house. “No, that sounds like I’m from Mayberry. Welcome to the neighborhood. That’s better. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thanks.”
Emma jerked her gaze from the benign sidewalk to the not-so-benign expression on Seth’s face. “Um, hello.”
“Hello.”
She stared back at him.
He smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re at a loss for words.”
She blushed with remembered embarrassment. Great. All she could do apparently was babble or stare. “No. Not at all. I’ve come to say welcome.”
His eyebrows lifted so slightly she wondered if she imagined it.
“Again, thank you.”
Emma waved the tips of her oven mitts. “This just came out of the oven. I hope you like lasagna.”
“Yeah. I do. But I’m not sick.”
“It’s not chicken soup. And from experience, I know it’s hard enough to unpack without having to cook.”
“So you cooked for me?”
That assessment seemed too personal, so she lifted the lasagna. “Could we put this in your kitchen?”
“Sure.” He started to reach for the dish.
She pulled it back a few inches. “It’s too hot to handle without the mitts.”
He turned and opened his kitchen door for her.
Emma’s first impression was disappointment. The room was so bland, without any personality. But, of course, he hadn’t had time to decorate. She put the casserole on the cool, empty range burners. “Looks like you haven’t started dinner.”
“No. I’m not into cooking.”
Which meant he probably lived here alone. But she refused to give into the temptation to pry. “When I first moved here I lived on takeout. Some of the neighbors brought cookies, but even I can’t live on sugar and chocolate alone.”
He pointed to a counter piled with plates of cookies, brownies, pies and cakes. Maybe Cindy was right. The word must have gotten out to the single women of Rosewood: handsome, single man on Elm Street. Catch him while he’s fresh.
But Emma didn’t rise to the obvious. “I hope you have a gallon of milk to wash those down with.”
He grimaced.
“Or coffee,” she amended. Self-consciously, she gripped the oven mitts.
“That’s one staple I’m never without. Would you like a cup?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“You aren’t going to leave me to polish off these delicacies by myself, are you?”
Emma didn’t know how to flirt. She was so out of touch, she wasn’t even certain that’s what he was doing. But then it was coffee, not a date. “I guess I could have a cup,” she conceded.
Again she thought she saw that barely visible motion with his brows. “Have you eaten dinner?”
“No. But having a cookie won’t spoil my appetite.”
He scrounged around
