Liz Talley - The Way to Texas

She ignored the sudden spike in her internal temperature. “Currently there are five bedrooms and two bathrooms. I think we can make a general gathering place from three of the bedrooms and one of the baths. I only want to take up half of the floor space. I like the idea of other rooms being available for clients who need rest or aren’t feeling too well. We don’t really have those capabilities on the first floor.”

“Well, it’s hard for me to judge without looking, but I’ll keep your wishes in mind. It’s been a while since I’ve taken on a remodel. I’ve been designing and building entire subdivisions for the past few years. But, I got my start doing remodeling jobs in college, so it’ll come back. Let me look at the space and the blueprints.”

She frowned. “I didn’t think about blueprints. Nellie would have those. No doubt they’re locked in a safe-deposit box at Oak Stand National.”

“You want to commit to a time for meeting and reviewing the structure?”

Dawn tried to picture the calendar in her planner, but her brain felt fuzzy. The planner was her secret crutch, a concrete guideline to keep herself straight and from feeling as though she’d fall apart. Without it, she couldn’t remember. A bazaar was coming up one Saturday in October, but she couldn’t recall which day they’d picked. “I don’t have my calendar with me, and I’m sure Nellie will need a little help. But I think it’s safe to meet next Saturday afternoon.”

“Saturday it is,” he said, draining the last of his drink.

“I have a few things to finish at Sammy Bennett’s place anyway. If you can send the plans to me before then, I’ll get something rudimentary drawn up for a starting point.”

Dawn nodded and mentally highlighted next Saturday, praying she’d remember it. She popped the last of her blueberry muffin into her mouth, took one more swig of her coffee, then pushed back her chair. “I’d like to pick up a few things for Nellie but I’m afraid I’d need to borrow the money. I’ll make sure you get reimbursed.”

“No problem,” he said, rising and stretching. Again, she watched each movement. Damn. Why did the contractor have to be so hunky? She didn’t entirely trust herself to resist this kind of temptation.

“Are you sure?” she stammered, trying to direct her thoughts to her sister-in-law, who was stranded without even a toothbrush.

“Absolutely,” he said, tossing his cup in the trash can beside the door. “I saw a Wal-Mart across the highway. No problem to swing by there.”

And Dawn believed him. Tyson seemed the kind who handled everything in an unruffled manner, as though nothing got under his skin. As though he was as steady as the rain starting to fall outside. The man was like jazz, black coffee and faithful dogs. Totally mellow. Likeable. And likely to bring you back for more.

And that was the consolation in the whole attraction thing she had going for him. She didn’t like the slow, steady guys, no matter how great they looked in piqué polo shirts. She liked the flashy types, the ones who pressed their advantage, who sent overblown roses and bought her girly drinks designed to make her drop her panties. She liked guys who played it fast and loose. Guys who were totally unreliable at everything except breaking her heart.

Falling for those unreliable ones had been her modus operandi from the moment she first noticed boys.

So she wouldn’t have a problem with Tyson. He had safe and dependable stamped all over his delicious body. He probably had a first-aid kit in his truck and a condom in his wallet.

No, Tyson Hart wasn’t her type at all.

There would be no problem with having him working above her every day, lifting boards with his big, strong arms and taking off his shirt when it got too hot.

She swallowed hard at the thought of Tyson’s bared chest.

Stop it, Dawn. Stop picturing the man as a man. He’s a contractor. Period.

The contractor in question swung open the door of the coffeehouse and allowed her to pass. She ignored the loose grace of his walk. She ignored the way the truck smelled like him. She ignored the way his arm brushed her shoulder when he threw it over the seat to look behind him as he reversed out of the parking lot.

She sighed in self-congratulation and crossed her legs. Her sandal kicked something underneath the bench seat. She leaned down and saw a first-aid kit lying at her feet.

Bingo.

TWO THINGS STRUCK TYSON as he walked up the drive toward Tucker House the following Saturday. Elderly people had more energy than he thought. And Dawn Taggart looked extremely hot.

The front lawn was covered with several tables sporting old-fashioned checked tablecloths. He wasn’t certain what was going on, but he spotted several plants clustered on tables and assorted blue-haired ladies in aprons scurrying around. Of course, the highlight was the peek of Dawn he’d caught before she disappeared around the corner. Dawn, wearing cutoff jean shorts, a white T-shirt and soap bubbles in her dark hair.

She was barefoot and laughing.

It jolted him unlike any sight in a long time.

“Hey, come on over here and buy some shortbread cookies. I made ’em myself,” a frail bird-like woman called to him. Her blue-veined hand beckoned and the smile on her face had him changing directions and veering toward a table showcasing cakes and cookies.

“I ain’t seen you around here before,” she said, patting her silver bouffant and tossing a look over one shoulder to her friend, who tittered like a wren. Both sets of eyes sparkled beneath the bifocals they wore.

The friend, who wore a striped apron that read “I’m not aging, I’m increasing in value” nodded her head. “I haven’t seen you, either.”

“Well, now, ladies, I don’t mind being the stranger who sweeps into Oak Stand and buys up all these cookies,” he said, giving them his best charming grin.

“Why, Grace, he’s a sweet-talker, just right for me and you, honey,” the silver-headed lady said, setting out several jars of jam.

Grace agreed. “In that case, may I suggest the poppy-seed muffins and the sour cream pound cake? And don’t forget Florence Roberts’s mayhaw jelly. You just can’t buy that off the grocery shelf.”

He stuck out his hand. “Sold. And I’m Tyson Hart. My grandfather—”

“Grady Hart’s grandson. Well, I’ll be darned, Grace. You remember this boy from Sunday school? He’s the one who ate the paste and Dr. Grabel had to give him that ipecac.”

Grace clapped her hands together. “Of course, Ester. He chased girls all over Oak Stand when he came to town each summer. My granddaughter, Becca, was one of ’em.”

Ester peered up at him. “You still a rascal, Tyson?”

He cleared his throat, but was saved from answering by a kid shouting behind him. Which was good because he didn’t want to recall a past that involved consuming paste. Or chasing Becca. Obviously, the impression he’d left on the small town hadn’t been the one he’d hoped.

“Chasing girls, huh? Wouldn’t have pegged you for that type. And paste?” It was Dawn’s voice behind him. Damn, he’d hoped she wouldn’t hear the ladies’ comments. He didn’t want her to think he was unreliable or slimy. But why it mattered so much escaped him.

“Never underestimate the power of paste,” he said, turning. “It was my secret weapon with the girls. Could hardly peel ’em off me they stuck so hard.”

Dawn rolled her eyes then offered her hand. He took it, surprised to find it was wet. She withdrew her hand and wiped it on her shorts. “Sorry. Hunter Todd and I are running a dog wash.”

She smiled and something bumped in his chest, not to mention a certain heat built south of the border. Her damp T-shirt clung to her rounded breasts. The shirt was big enough to slide off one shoulder and reveal a lacy bra strap. Her wavy dark hair was in a ponytail, though some tendrils escaped to stick to her cheeks. Her painted pink toes wiggled in the grass. He’d be tempted to say she looked like a teenager, but there was nothing gawky or innocent about Dawn.