The Texan's Honor-Bound Promise. Peggy Moreland

Forrester.”

      “Never heard of him.”

      “He’s not from around here.”

      “Then how’s he going to do the work?”

      “He’s staying in the apartment over the garage.”

      Kate sat bolt upright. “A complete stranger? Have you lost your mind?”

      “I checked his references,” Leah said defensively.

      Scowling, Kate slouched back in the chair.

      “Which doesn’t mean squat. The references he gave could all be his friends.”

      Leah caught her lower lip between her teeth, having thought the same thing, then shook her head. “No. He seems like an honest guy. He even agreed to allow Craig to help with the restoration.”

      “He’s probably cleaning out your house as we speak.”

      “Would you stop?” Leah cried. “You haven’t even met the man.”

      Kate rose. “Then introduce me.”

      Leah looked up at her blankly. “Now?”

      Kate shrugged. “No time like the present. We can grab some lunch on the way back.”

      “And who would mind the shop while we’re gone?” Shaking her head, Leah plucked her purse from beneath her desk and headed out.

      “Where are you going?” Kate asked, following her.

      “I—I forgot something at home.”

      Kate bit back a smile. “Liar. You’re going to check on the mechanic.”

      Leah opened her mouth to deny the statement, then clamped it shut and marched out the door, her chin in the air.

      Settling into the apartment above Leah’s garage took Sam all of about five seconds. All he had with him was crammed into his duffel bag, which consisted of about four changes of clothes, his toiletries and an extra pair of boots—all civilian wear, since he was on a monthlong leave from the army.

      He’d just dumped his underwear and undershirts into a drawer when he heard a tap on the exterior door.

      “Come on in,” he called. “It’s open.”

      Just as he stepped from the bedroom and into the sitting room, Leah was bumping the front door closed with her hip. And a nice curvy set of hips at that, he noted.

      She lifted her arms, indicating a stack of towels and washcloths. “Thought you might need these. My cousin and her husband were my last guests, and I forgot to restock the linen closet after doing the laundry.”

      “Thanks.” He took the linens from her and set them on the antique trunk that served as a coffee table.

      “And speaking of laundry…do you mind if I use your washer and dryer? I’ll supply my own detergent.”

      “Help yourself. It’s off the kitchen. The controls are self-explanatory, but let me know if you have any problems.”

      “I’m sure I can figure it out.”

      When she didn’t make a move to leave, he looked at her curiously. “Was there something else?”

      Avoiding his gaze, she picked up a pillow from the sofa. “About your references…” she began uncertainly as she plucked at its corded edge.

      “Is there a problem?”

      “No. No problem. In fact, they were all glowing.” Huffing a breath, she tossed the pillow to the sofa and turned to face him. “Yes, there is a problem. Not a one of the men I spoke with mentioned anything about your past work history.”

      Though he knew he was treading on dangerous ground, Sam wasn’t worried. He’d gotten himself out of tighter spots in the past. “Probably because I’ve never worked directly for any of them.” He gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat,” he invited. “I’ll answer whatever questions you might have.”

      She hesitated a moment, then sat down at the far end of the sofa. “Just for a minute. I need to get back to the shop.”

      Dropping down on the opposite end, he draped his arm along the back of the sofa and opened his hand. “Fire away.”

      “You might start by explaining how you have a month available to devote to this project.”

      “That’s simple enough. I’m taking what might be called a sabbatical while I consider a career change.”

      She looked at him curiously. “You don’t like working as a mechanic?”

      “Oh, I enjoy working on cars well enough,” he replied, neatly avoiding a lie. “Always have. In fact, I think I was about fourteen when I rebuilt my first engine.”

      Her eyebrows shot up. “Fourteen? That’s not even the legal age to drive a car!”

      Chuckling, he shook his head. “No, but it’s legal to work on one. My dad was a rancher, but his first love was cars. Especially vintage models. While most of the boys my age were playing with baseballs and bats, I was pulling engines and rebuilding carburetors.” Before she could ask another question about his past, he shifted the conversation to her. “Did you have any weird hobbies when you were a kid?”

      She blew out a breath. “I didn’t rebuild cars, that’s for sure. My only hobby—if you would call it that—was arranging flowers.”

      “Your mother was a florist?”

      She snorted a breath. “Hardly. Our neighbor was. She ran a floral business out of her home. I hung out there while growing up.”

      Hoping to take advantage of this opening to learn more about her, as well as her family, he angled a leg onto the sofa and faced her. “She let you help her make floral arrangements?”

      “Not at first. In the beginning I was more like a gofer. Fetching supplies, sweeping up the cuttings, that kind of thing. I eventually graduated to making my own designs, but that was years later.”

      “Do you remember your first?”

      Her face softened at the memory. “A baby gift for a new mother. The vase was a ceramic baby carriage. I filled it with pink carnations, baby’s breath and greenery.” She shot him a sideways glance, her expression sheepish. “Not very original, huh?”

      He shrugged. “Everybody has to start somewhere.”

      “Well, that was definitely my defining moment. I was hooked from then on and never looked back.”

      Although he knew about the business she currently owned, she wasn’t aware he did. “So you’re a florist?”

      “In a sense. I own my own company. Stylized Events. We handle all the details of a party, from invitation to cleanup and everything in between, including floral arrangements, depending on a client’s preferences.”

      He shuddered. “Sounds like a lot of work to me.”

      “It is,” she agreed. “But I love it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Or I do most of the time.”

      “Uh-oh. Contrary clients?”

      She laughed softly. “Only one, really. Mrs. Snodgrass—or Snotgrass, as my assistant refers to her.”

      He laughed. “Obviously your assistant believes in calling a spade a spade.”

      Grimacing, she grumbled, “Which is why I’m here.”

      He lifted a brow. “And why is that?”

      She dropped her gaze, obviously embarrassed that she’d let that slip. “Kate thinks I was a little…well, hasty in allowing you to move into the apartment.”

      “A cautious woman,” he commended with a nod of approval. “But in this