A Gift for All Seasons. Karen Templeton

has the sweetest little girl.…”

      Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Blythe and Mel exchange a glance. Deciding to ignore it, April faced them again. “I actually went back to apologize, but he’d already left. So that’s my first order of business when he gets here.”

      Blythe’s eyebrows dipped. “To apologize? You sure that’s a good idea?”

      “You got a better one?”

      “Yeah. Act like it never happened.”

      “Oh, right—”

      “I’m serious,” the blonde said, her short, spiked hair like frosted glass in the sunshine. “Look, I get you feel like crap, but he’s probably used to it—”

      “So that makes what I did okay?”

      “No. But the last thing you want to do is make him more uncomfortable, right?”

      Conflicted, April looked to Mel. “So what would you do?”

      “Me? I would’ve hired another landscaper. Maybe. Hey,” Mel said when April rolled her eyes, “all you can do is trust your gut. Do what feels right.”

      The doorbell rang. Straightening, she set her mug on the counter and swiped her suddenly damp palms down the front of her jeans. “If I don’t throw up first,” she muttered, then headed toward the door, which, after a lung-searing breath, she opened.

      Only to run smack into that crystalline gaze, boring directly into hers.

      He’d never in his life seen someone blush that hard. April kept swallowing, too, like she was about to be sick. Patrick took pity on her and held up his clipboard, to remind her of his purpose there. Except she shook her head, making her red-gold hair swish softly over her shoulders and Patrick unaccountably irritated. Although about what, he couldn’t have said.

      What he could say, though, was that she was even prettier than he remembered. As in, short-out-the-brain pretty. If a trifle too put together for his taste, what with her sweater, shoes and headband all matching. She was also obviously broken up about what she’d done, even before she said, “Before we get started … there is no excuse for how I acted the other day. And I’m sorry.”

      Frankly, he was torn, between wanting to let her off the hook and wanting to see her squirm. His face took some getting used to, no two ways around it. So taking offense was pointless. People were just people.

      But something about this one especially provoked him. Maybe because he wasn’t entirely buying the whole innocent act she was trying so hard to sell.

      Patrick slid his hands into his back pockets, narrowing his eyes even as he realized she’d kept hers steady on his face. Like she was trying to prove something, probably more to herself than to him.

      “How you acted?”

      She swallowed again. And somehow turned even redder. Had to give her props, though, for not sending out her husband in her stead. Then again, for all he knew this was one of those projects where the wife handled all the design decisions and the man just signed the checks. They got a lot of those. “Yes,” she finally said. “At the garden center.”

      “Can’t say as I noticed anything.”

      “And now you’re messing with me.”

      His brows crashed together. What was left of them, anyway. “I’m not—”

      “The heck you aren’t. Because you know darn well what I’m talking about. Although if it makes you feel better, let me spell it out. I acted like a total dimwit when I noticed your scars. I don’t know why, I certainly wasn’t raised like that, and there’s no way I could live with myself without apologizing for my bad behavior. And no, you’re under no obligation to accept my apology, but I am obligated to give it. So. You ready to get started or what?”

      For a good five, six seconds, Patrick could only gape at April like, as she put it, a total dimwit. Sure, her wanting to make amends probably stemmed more from ingrained good manners than anything else, but there’d been a fire behind her words that gave him pause. That, and that damned steady gaze, which was rattling him to hell and back.

      “Apology accepted,” he heard himself mutter, then cleared his throat. “You might want to put on a coat or something, it’s pretty cold out here.”

      She nodded, then vanished into the house, only to return a minute or so later with another woman, a tall blonde who looked vaguely familiar.

      “This is my cousin, Blythe Broussard,” April said, wrapped up in an expensive-looking tan coat that fell well below her knees. “She’s overseeing the house remodel, but she’s also got some ideas for the landscaping.”

      Still no husband. Interesting.

       And maybe the guy simply isn’t here at the moment—

      And this was nuts. He’d worked with plenty of female clients before, but this was the first time he could remember giving even half a thought to who they lived with, or were married to, or whatever. Mentally slapping himself, Patrick turned his attention to Blythe, who also met his gaze dead-on. Although, unlike her cousin, she’d probably been forewarned.

      “Then let’s get started,” he said, waving the clipboard toward the gouged, muddy front yard—a fitting symbol for his life if ever there was one. “After you, ladies.”

      She’d let Blythe do most of the talking that day. For many reasons, not the least of which was that Blythe had a far better handle on matters horticultural than April did. Or probably ever would. But for another, even though she’d gotten the apology out fine, the way Patrick had looked at her afterward had practically rendered her mute.

      Although whether the condition was temporary or not remained to be seen, she thought as she pulled up outside the generic warehouse building on the other side of town, the unpaved parking lot littered with assorted trucks ranging in size from massive to gargantuan, not to mention all manner of digging and hauling equipment.

      It’d been a week since the appointment. She’d assumed Patrick would send or drop off the plans and estimate at the inn, but the secretary who’d called had said he’d prefer she come to the office for the presentation. So here she was, clutching closed her Harris Tweed blazer as she trooped through the wind toward the door. At Clay’s urging, she’d gradually ditched her old wardrobe in favor of the classier—and more classic—items he’d kindly suggested would better reflect her new status. Hence the blazer. And the designer riding boots. But since moving back to St. Mary’s, she’d also reacquainted herself with jeans and the loose, comfy sweaters she’d once loved, even if she no longer had to rely on thrift stores or seventy-five-percent-off sales to buy them.

      Instead of the middle-aged woman she’d heard on the phone, an older man in black-rimmed glasses sat behind the battered desk, his navy hoodie zipped up underneath a canvas coat as work worn as the desk. But his grin, set in a clefted chin, eased the nervousness she’d refused to fully acknowledge until that moment.

      “Ms. Ross, right?” he said, rising and extending a rough hand.

      “Yes—”

      “I’m Joe, Patrick’s dad. He’s on the horn, but go on back to the conference room. We don’t stand on ceremony around here. You want some coffee?” He pointed to the standard-issue Mr. Coffee on the metal cart in front of the paneled wall. “It’s fresh, Marion made it before she ran to the bank—”

      “Oh … no, thanks, I’m good.”

      “Okay, then. It’s straight back, you can’t miss it.”

      She heard Patrick before she saw him, his rich, deep laughter making her breath catch. That he could laugh like that made blood rush to her cheeks all over again. The conference “room” was nothing more than a collection of tables and folding chairs, no interior walls, with a big-screen TV—which probably cost more than the rest of the furniture altogether—mounted on the paneling on the far