The Sweetest Gift. Jillian Hart

straight to her car.

      “I’ll give you a call and we’ll talk!” Janice promised with die-hard cheerfulness.

      Right, and I have caller ID. Kirby settled on the seat of her little red sedan and let the hot, sweet double mocha work its magic. As soon as enough chocolate was in her bloodstream, she started feeling better again.

      The last time I volunteered on a committee with you, Janice Appleton Bemis, you stole the boy I was interested in and humiliated me in front of half the student body. Get someone else for your committee. That’s what she should have said. Sure, easy to think of all those words now, when she was halfway down Railroad Street.

      She wasn’t going to let Janice ruin her mood. No way. This was the best day Kirby had had in ages—finally a better paying job, which meant she got to keep the house she’d bought and couldn’t quite afford.

      If that wasn’t good news enough, her loud and noisy next-door neighbor had been evicted yesterday.

      Relief sighed through her. Another blissful night of peaceful and uninterrupted sleep was ahead of her tonight. That would make two nights in a row. It sounded like heaven.

      If she ever needed confirmation that prayers came true, this was it.

      Until she pulled down her street and spotted the strange pickup parked in her next-door neighbor’s driveway. Her happiness began to ebb. Surely Ruth Gardner, the landlord, hadn’t found a new renter already.

      No, probably not. It’s only a repairman, she told herself. There’s no way someone else could have moved in already. And Ruth had promised she’d find a renter more suitable to the neighborhood.

      That’s definitely a repairman, Kirby decided as she slowed down, fighting the seat belt to twist around for a better look. It certainly wasn’t someone moving in, not with the ladder and a big box of tools in the back of the pickup.

      Just how many repairs would the house need? How soon before it would be rented? After six months of torment putting up with noise, she had a right to be curious.

      Who was fixing the house? Was it a general contractor, meaning the job would take a long time? Or a handyman come to do minor repairs?

      Ooh, there he was. The workman loped down the front steps and into sight. He was a dark-haired man, probably six feet tall with wide shoulders and lanky rather than bulky build. He wore a red baseball cap and a gray T-shirt and jeans. A tool belt hugged his lean hips. That was all she saw before she pulled into her driveway and the hedges separating the properties hid him from her sight.

      Hmm… Whether he was there for major repairs or minor, he was definitely handsome. Not that handsome men paid her any attention, let’s face it—she’d never had that kind of luck. But it never hurt a girl to look and admire God’s creation in the pleasing form of a hardworking man.

      Especially a girl who wanted a husband to call her own. But not just any man—the right one. That man was turning out to be harder to find than she’d ever dreamed.

      Kirby killed the engine and set the parking brake. Her keys tinkled merrily as she climbed from the car, careful not to spill her steaming mocha. The tepid breezes whipped her dark blond hair into her face, and out of habit she folded the long strands behind her ear as she headed up the walk.

      Who would her ideal next-door neighbor be? How about as handsome as the workman next door? And if the angels were kind, he’d be quiet and sedate. Polite. Hardworking. Kind. Christian.

      Oh, and wonderful in every way. Someone exactly the opposite from the single, wild-haired guy who’d just moved out and who’d played his bass guitar in his garage night after night from midnight until four in the morning.

      No, her ideal man would be soft-spoken and considerate and looking for his true love. Of course, he’d take one look at her and fall instantly in love—

      “Howdy.” A bold male voice came out of nowhere.

      Kirby yelped and a bubble of foam popped up through the drink hole in the plastic cover, scorching her hand. A suspicious rustling had her turning toward the hedge along the property line.

      A man climbed through the foliage like James Bond on a mission.

      Or like a prisoner on a jailbreak.

      Evergreen needles dusted his dark, short hair. Yep, it was the workman from next door. He was more powerful looking up close. Developed muscles corded his lean, rock-solid arms. He looked intimidating as he straightened to his full height, probably a few inches over six foot, on the lawn in front of her.

      Why was he coming through the shrubs instead of walking around on the sidewalk like a normal person?

      “I scared you,” he said, apparently not shy at all, as he dusted bits of green hedge off his gray shirt.

      Say something. Kirby took a breath, trying fruitlessly to get past the shyness that always haunted her.

      “I’m sorry. I guess you’re not used to men bursting through your hedges.”

      “Most people use the sidewalk. There are fewer branches to trip over.” Oh, that was brilliant, Kirby.

      “I’m a unique sort of guy. I never take the easy route. My friends call me Sam.”

      Friends? “Then what do your enemies call you?”

      “Deadly with an M-16.” His rugged face was as unforgiving as stone.

      Adrenaline kicked up in her blood. Okay, time to run into the house and lock the door. It wouldn’t hurt to be on the other side of the dead bolt. A man who mentioned a gun had to be dangerous, right?

      “I used to be in the military.”

      Okay, so now he tells her, after scaring her to death. Who is this guy? she wondered. Kirby took a few more deep breaths, wiped her hand off on her slacks and studied him. He didn’t look dangerous at all with the sunlight spilling over him and his hands jammed harmlessly into his front pockets.

      What an imagination she had. “Thanks for clarifying that. For a minute there, I thought you might be a convict on the loose.”

      “Nope, just a man come to fix the plumbing next door.” One corner of his mouth crooked in the attempt at a grin, but it was a failed attempt. His face seemed too hard for a smile. “Sorry, I guess I scared you. Didn’t mean to.”

      “Really? Here’s a hint. Next time you introduce yourself to a woman, don’t mention an assault weapon.”

      He winced. “I was kidding about that. My buddies call me the comedian.”

      Comedian? He looked dead serious. As if there wasn’t one thing amusing about him. But he was a big man and in fantastic shape, and so she wasn’t going to argue. If he thought he was funny, then she was happy to let him think that.

      At least her heart rate was almost back to normal. “Fine, well, I’m going to go in now. Nice meeting you…” Whatever your name is.

      “Sam.”

      “What?” Her pulse rocketed up a notch.

      “Sam Gardner.” His rock-hard brown gaze pinned hers. “Guess I should have introduced myself properly. So a woman alone and as skittish as you would feel comfortable.”

      She’d be offended by his tone, except that there was a glimmer of humor in his eyes. Oh, she knew about men like him. Too handsome for his own good, and he knew it, too.

      Shouldn’t he be next door repairing the plumbing? Why was he bugging her?

      He arched his brow, and on his granite face it was more of a demand than a question. “I’ve told you my name. So it’d be polite if you told me yours.”

      “I never said I was polite.”

      “Darlin’, you have it written all over that peaches-and-cream complexion of yours.” A hint of a smile played on his mouth. “Go ahead. You can say it.