Hanna Martine - Long Shot

“Bah, just fake it. No American would ever know.”

Leith smiled, thinking he could probably pull out a brogue if he thought about Da hard enough, but just the idea made his chest ache.

“What can I do for you, Rory?” She’d been one of his favorite clients before her Hemmertex president husband had moved the headquarters to Connecticut and changed the valley forever.

“Sorry to call so late, but I just got back from this boring office party where I heard a wicked rumor that you were leaving Gleann and going to set up your business elsewhere.”

He moved through the darkened house to the little TV room in the front with the window overlooking Jen’s rental. He kept the light off, and collapsed into the pink velour recliner with the lace doily armrest covers.

“You heard right,” he told Rory.

“Then I’m calling to beg you to come work for us again.” Now he heard the slight slur of drink in her voice. “Hal’s bought the most ridiculous house in Stamford and I hate all the landscapers. You’d be my very own, just like I always wanted. Well, at least until word got out. Then I suppose I’d be forced to share you.”

At least Rory was open and lighthearted about her flirting. Mildred had just peeked at him from behind her curtains. And Rory was completely devoted to Hal, who teased Leith mercilessly about being the underage gardener of his wife’s fantasies.

And now Rory Carriage wanted him to start work in Stamford, one of the more competitive areas in the country, to say the least. But if he could get an “in” using her . . . It was the first lead he’d had in over a year, and it really didn’t get any better than this one.

He scooted to the edge of the recliner and switched the phone to the other ear so he could twist toward the window and watch Jen’s shadow pace.

“What do you need?” he asked Rory.

“Oh, honey, don’t ask me such open-ended questions.” She laughed. “Everything. I’ve got three acres, a concrete hole for a pool, and a gazebo from 1983. The gardens were laid by the most boring designers ever. I could have done what they did. I need you and your big bulldozer. Don’t say no.”

Three acres. He started to sweat from the excitement. Three acres, from scratch, in a whole new area he could immerse himself in researching. Brand new inspiration.

“Sounds promising.” He kept his tone level. She’d called him and begged, which meant he could probably get away with a little jump in price, when all along he’d been preparing to cut back. He stood up, the recliner groaning and snapping back into position.

“I’m heading out tomorrow for one of Hal’s conferences; I don’t even know what it’s for. We’ll be home Monday. Any chance you can get here first thing? I want everything done before Candy’s wedding in September.”

Monday. Stamford was a five-hour drive. He’d get up in the middle of the night if he had to.

“Monday it is,” he told Rory, then got her new address and hung up.

Fucking A. Exactly the kick start he needed at exactly the right time.

Jen’s kitchen light went out. A few moments later, the dim chandelier over the staircase blinked on, followed by a warm glow in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Yeah. Exactly the right time.

Because even though Jen had come back after all these years, she’d leave again. And this time, so would he.

He stood there in the musty dark of Mildred’s old house, staring up at Jen’s window. She reappeared, and it stopped the breath in his throat. Her gorgeous body backlit, her hair now down around her shoulders, she yanked the curtains closed. A second later, the lamp went out.

Leith ground his forehead into the window, knowing he was about to have a completely unsatisfactory few minutes with his right hand.

Aimee hadn’t slept with Gleann’s sole plumber just once. A single occurrence might actually have made things easier to handle. No, apparently they were an ongoing thing. And in this case, “ongoing” meant “dramatic” and “exceedingly strange.”

Jen stood in the middle of the Thistle’s front sitting room, her sister hovering in the kitchen doorway and Owen, the handsome, middle-aged man with the gigantic metal toolbox, inspecting the buckled drywall on the walls and ceiling.

“I need to cut into this so I can get to the pipes and see what caused the burst.” Owen was cool as could be, but Aimee was watching him with her arms crossed.

Aimee said to Jen, “Ask him how long until it’s all done. New pipes. New walls and painting and everything.”

Owen’s eyebrows shot into his forehead.

Jen rolled her eyes. “Seriously? He’s right here.”

Ainsley flounced into the room, her sandy blond ponytail swinging, her oversized, crooked teeth chomping into an apple. She took one look at her mom and Owen, and heaved a sigh worthy of a guilt-loving grandma. “Are you guys fighting again? Hi, Owen.”

Owen turned from where he was running fingers down bubbled, soggy wallpaper. “Hey, you. If your mom wants to play games, tell her I said hi, and that I’m sorry.”

“What’d you do now?” Jen thought Ainsley said around a mouthful of apple.

Owen smiled. An affectionate dad’s smile. He wasn’t Ainsley’s dad, but he was someone’s, that was for sure. “Nothing I can tell you.”

“Ew.” Ainsley came over to Jen and gave her a quick hug.

Owen chuckled in a way that said he’d been teasing.

Ainsley seemed shockingly comfortable with the sudden reappearance of her aunt, considering how badly Jen had left them high and dry during their first and only New York City visit. Nine-year-old Ainsley didn’t care what happened three years ago, but Aimee would never forget. And really, could Jen blame her?

Last night Jen and Aimee had taken the girl to the Stone for fish and chips since the B&B’s water was still off, and Jen had desperately grabbed for something to talk about. But Ainsley, apparently a seasoned pro and a social natural, had it all covered. She’d chattered on in a way that reminded Jen so much of Aimee at that age, all opinion and I-don’t-care-what-you-think. Her favorite topic was these two older girls she seemed to emulate—someone named Lacey, and another she just called T.

Jen turned to her sister. “You have insurance, right? Money to cover repairs?”

Owen pulled out a long, narrow saw from his toolbox. “Aimee, I’ll only charge you for materials, as usual.”

Aimee ignored him and looked at Jen with worried, glassy eyes. “I’ve got a little put away, and insurance will cover some of it. But I need the income from during the games. The Scottish Society president is staying here and I’m fully booked. The rooms have to be perfect. Can you ask Owen when he’ll be done?”

“Maybe he’d be done quicker,” Jen noted, “if you didn’t play these games. What is going on here anyway?”

Ainsley laughed. Owen added wryly, “Yeah, I’d kinda like to know, too.”

Aimee worried her lip and suddenly looked sheepish. “Old habits,” she mumbled. Just as Jen had figured.

“I don’t have time for this, Aim. I’ll let you explain that comment to Owen.” Jen pressed a hand to her forehead. “You brought me here for another reason and I have to take care of that.”

“Taking care of that” involved getting out to the fairgrounds and seeing firsthand all the supplies and tents and signage stored there. She also needed to do a location assessment, make sure she agreed with the layout and found the grounds suitable.

“Aimee,” Owen said with a chuckle, “tell your sister it was nice to finally meet her.”