His Secret Son. Stacy Connelly

Gran,” she said brightly as she stepped into the living room.

      “Oh, Lindsay. There you are, dear. I was telling Ryder you would have been down sooner if you didn’t dress like you expect to be on television every day.”

      Heat flooded her face as she met her gran’s smile. Ryder’s grin grew even bigger as he whispered in a not so subtle aside, “All that fame went to her head, huh?”

      Ellie sighed. “She may well be too good for us both.”

      “Okay, stop. Both of you,” Lindsay argued even though she couldn’t help giving a little chuckle.

      Too good for Ryder Kincaid. That was actually worthy of a gut-busting belly laugh, but somehow Lindsay lost the humor she’d found in the moment.

      “I dress like a professional because I am a professional. Nothing more to it than that.” Last thing Lindsay needed was for Ryder to know how she’d agonized over her wardrobe—far more stressed than when she had dressed to be on television—before finally settling on a pair of ivory slacks and a sleeveless buttery-yellow blouse with rows of ruffles from the high neckline down to the fitted waistline. She’d added a pair of strappy beige sandals rather than her usual heels and kept her makeup and jewelry to a minimum. After all, she didn’t want Ryder to think she was dressing up because of him.

      Even if she was.

      “You’re on vacation,” her grandmother emphasized. “You should dress like you’re on vacation. You need to relax a little, have some fun. Ryder, maybe while Lindsay is in town, you could take her out a night or two. She really hasn’t—”

      “Gran!” The last thing she needed was her grandmother’s matchmaking! “Ryder is here because we’ve hired him to do a job. Taking me out to dinner is not part of his scope of work.”

      “No, that would definitely be an added benefit,” Ryder murmured much to her grandmother’s delight.

      “Don’t you have breakfast to make for a growing boy who’s going to wake up starving any minute now?” Lindsay asked, ignoring everything she’d told Ellie over the past few days about Robbie’s ability to fend for himself.

      “Oh, yes. Ryder, you’re welcome to join us again.”

      “Thanks, Ellie, but I think I’d better get started on the work you’re paying me to do.”

      “All right, then, but remember the offer still stands.”

      Her grandmother gave a small wave as she walked back toward the kitchen, and Lindsay’s relief that she and Ryder no longer had a matchmaking audience faded as she realized the two of them were now alone.

      Alone for the first time since that night over ten years ago.

      Oh, sure, they’d spoken briefly the other day, but this time Lindsay wasn’t ushering Ryder out the door. He was here to stay. For the next several weeks based on the estimate she’d signed. And she would have to deal with him invading her space, with seeing him every day...

      “I wouldn’t worry too much about what your grandmother said. You look amazing.”

      Lindsay swallowed as Ryder’s green gaze swept from the top of her head and the hair she’d pulled up in a twist and down to her feet. Every inch in between tingled in awareness, and his familiar smile set those butterflies to fluttering again.

      “Even if I do miss the beagle slippers and glasses.”

      Flames licked her cheeks at his teasing, but there was something in his voice, something that made Lindsay think—Ryder couldn’t possibly have found her more attractive in her ridiculous beagle slippers, ponytail and pajamas, could he? Couldn’t be hinting that he liked the old version of her—the shy, awkward girl she’d been—better than the new, improved woman she’d fought so hard to become?

      She forced the question out of her mind. Ryder’s preference didn’t matter. She hadn’t changed for him. She’d made the transformation for herself and for Robbie. She might have been a young, single mother, but she’d been determined to hold her head high and to let her son know she wasn’t ashamed of him.

      Ignoring the beagle slippers comment altogether, she asked, “What’s on the agenda for today?”

      “I thought I’d start on the front porch. The stairs—the stringers and the steps—all need to be remade along with the railing. We’re supposed to have some good weather the next few days, so that’s a plus for working outdoors.”

      Clearville weather—while far cooler than the summers she’d gotten used to in Phoenix—could be mercurial. In the desert, you could count on long, hot, rain-free days throughout May and June with the monsoon storms holding off until July or August. But the Northern California weather was less predictable with occasional rain and fog rolling in off the nearby ocean.

      “I’ll replace the porch fascia, and I want to strip the paint off the floorboards, too.”

      Lindsay tried not to grimace at the amount of work—and that was only the outside. “What color were you thinking of repainting?” Her grandfather had gone with a mottled grayish green that she figured must have been on sale but, unfortunately, clashed with the house’s pale blue gingerbread trim.

      “I figured I’d stain it. Keep it natural, you know. Why cover up perfection?”

      And there it was again. That low murmur and the look in his eyes that set off a trembling in her belly and sudden weakness in her knees. Lindsay swallowed even as she tried desperately to pull her gaze from his. That might have worked if she hadn’t found even more tempting features to focus on—the high curve of his cheekbones, the hint of stubble along his jaw, the sculpted perfection of his lips, so close to hers. Lips that looked so sexy and seductive—

      “Of course, I’ll have to tear out any warped or rotted pieces.”

      Warped and— Right. The porch. All that talk about keeping things natural. Not covering up perfection. And she’d actually thought he’d been talking about her?

       Lindsay Anne Brookes, how big a fool are you?

      There didn’t seem to be an answer to that question, so she chose to respond to Ryder instead. “I like the idea of keeping the natural wood on the porch. What about the railing and—fascia, wasn’t it?”

      He nodded. “I’ll try to match that with the trim on the house or we could add another color if your grandmother would like that.”

      “Matching the trim would be best.” Although the painted ladies, as the Victorian houses were called, often had a variety of colors along the trim, eaves and fascia, Lindsay didn’t want to go overboard. She had to keep the new buyer in mind. “I do want to thank you,” she said to Ryder, “for being so...sensitive about my gran’s feelings and the work my grandfather did.”

      “Me? Sensitive? Wow. Can you write that down so I can show my mother? I don’t think she’ll believe it without proof.”

      “It was a bit of a shock to me, too.”

      Because there’d been a time when the way Ryder treated her had been anything but sensitive.

      The unspoken reminder of the past swirled around them, obscuring the teasing moment. Ryder’s expression sobered. “Lindsay—”

      Her stomach clenched. She didn’t know what he was going to say, but she suddenly didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not when she still had to face seeing him on a daily basis for weeks to come. “Anyway, I appreciate it. My grandfather did love this place and put a lot of hard work into it. Even if his skill didn’t match his determination.”

      “Well, there’s no reason for me to go around bad-mouthing the work he did, but you do know that I’m going to have to start over with most of it, right? The porch is only the beginning, but once I’m done, your gran won’t have to worry about uneven steps or a loose railing anymore.”

      “I