he’d referred to, eventually. The wood had apparently split when he’d nailed it, but he’d repaired it so expertly that only an obsessive perfectionist could find fault with it. But she was crazy about it, trivial flaw and all.
Hardly able to believe what he had done, she sank into the chair and began to rock, her work-weary muscles almost sighing in relief. Annie had grown up surrounded by beautiful, expensive things, but she had never fallen this hard for any inanimate object.
She could picture herself sitting in this wonderful chair on the cold nights still ahead, rocking, resting, listening to music from the stereo she was going to buy as soon as she had saved enough. Everything her uncle had owned had been sold at an estate auction, by his request, a few months after he’d died, and the proceeds had been deposited into an account for her, so there had been no furniture when she’d moved into the house he’d left her. She’d had to pick up a few odds and ends at secondhand shops to get by until she could do better. This chair was now the nicest piece she possessed. Having this beautiful rocker to relax in would certainly brighten up her evenings.
She had never envisioned herself living alone this way, but there were times when she actually enjoyed it enough to forget about the loneliness.
Had her uncle Carney enjoyed the solitary existence he’d led here? Eccentric and free-spirited, he’d rebelled early against the stringent expectations of his family—something Annie now understood all too well. She hadn’t seen her uncle often, only when he breezed through Atlanta to make contact with his only living relatives—her father and her—a total of only half a dozen times or so that Annie could remember. But he had always seemed fond of her, telling her wonderful stories about all the places he had seen, all the adventures he’d had.
He’d settled in Honoria—for reasons no one but him had ever known—after he’d broken a hip and had no longer been able to travel as he once had. He’d lived here nearly ten years before his death, but apparently hadn’t really gotten to know anyone in this town very well. Annie hoped to make a few more friends here than her great-uncle had. She only wished that she could have gotten to know Carney, himself, better. He would have understood, as no one else could, her need to break away from her parents, her father, in particular.
Her hand still stroking the chair, she glanced at the telephone nearby. Trent wasn’t the type to graciously accept gratitude—he’d always brushed her off when she’d tried to thank him for the work he’d done here—but she couldn’t wait until Friday to tell him how much this meant to her.
He answered in his usual curt manner. “H’lo?”
She spoke without bothering to identify herself. “Thank you. The chair is beautiful.”
“You didn’t have to call. I said you can have it if you want it.”
“Of course I want it. I love it. But—”
“Good. It was in my way here. I don’t need two.”
“I’d like to pay you for it,” she offered boldly. “You must have spent hours making it. Not to mention the materials.”
“Forget it. It wasn’t for sale, anyway. I told you, it’s flawed.”
“But—”
“Look, do you want the chair or not?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“Fine. Enjoy it. See you Friday.”
A dial tone sounded in her ear before she could say anything else.
Blinking, she hung up the receiver, then laughed incredulously, shaking her head. Trent McBride was one of the most exasperating men she had ever met. Rude, moody, withdrawn—and yet there was a streak of kindness and generosity in him that he hadn’t quite been able to hide from her.
She had learned a little more about him during the past three weeks. She hadn’t asked questions—she would consider that both unprofessional and unethical—but the people here seemed anxious to volunteer information about each other. They’d told her that Trent had been hospitalized for weeks after his accident, and that his injuries, whatever they were, had put an end to his air force career. And now everyone wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
Annie wondered about that herself—not that it was any of her business, of course. Several of her clients had tried to pump her for information about Trent, but she refused to cooperate, skillfully changing the subject whenever his name came up.
She crossed the room, stroked a hand over one satiny-smooth arm of the rocker, then sank into it again. Putting her head back, she closed her eyes and began to rock. The pleasurable sigh that escaped her seemed to echo in the quiet room.
GIVING ANNIE THE CHAIR had probably been a mistake, Trent thought glumly as he stared into his refrigerator on Friday of the following week. He’d thought she might like it, but he hadn’t been prepared for her to show her gratitude quite so…fervently. A stack of casserole dishes—enough for several days of meals—were neatly stacked in the fridge. Two loaves of fresh-baked bread sat on his counter. There was a plant on his kitchen windowsill, for Pete’s sake.
He’d only given her an extra chair that had been sitting in his workshop—a chair with a patched arm, for that matter. Had no one ever been nice to the woman before? He should have tried harder to talk himself out of the impulse when it had first occurred to him.
He closed the refrigerator and reached for the cup of coffee he’d poured a few minutes earlier. He’d thought he was hungry, but seeing all that food in there had killed his appetite. No more generous gestures, he promised himself. He didn’t want to encourage any more awkward expressions of gratitude.
She knocked on his front door just as he finished his coffee. As he went to let her in, he hoped she wasn’t bringing food or flowers this time.
Fortunately she was only carrying her cleaning supplies. She gave him one of her dimpled smiles when he reached out to relieve her of the heavy tote. He hated the way his abdomen tightened when she did that.
He was trying his best not to be attracted to her. But he was. He didn’t even particularly want to like her. But he did. Damn it.
“Good morning,” she said.
He nodded, dragging his gaze away from her sweetly curved mouth. “I thought I would fix that kitchen-cabinet door by your sink today. I noticed it keeps swinging open.”
Her smile tilted ruefully. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hit my head on it. I was beginning to think I was going to have a permanent goose egg on my forehead.”
He glanced automatically at her smooth forehead, seeing no damage there. No flaws at all, for that matter.
“Anything special you want me to do here?” she asked, her voice suddenly uncertain—as if the tension he was feeling this morning had rubbed off on her.
He shook his head. “I’m on my way out.”
He left quickly, before he could make a total fool of himself.
As he let himself into her house a short while later and inhaled the lemon-and-flower scents that he associated now with Annie, he reminded himself that the month he’d originally granted for this arrangement was over. He’d gotten quite a lot done on her house; he could quit in good
