Currant Creek Valley. RaeAnne Thayne

of running restaurants and, more importantly, as a person.

      The stars had aligned and she couldn’t make any more excuses.

      She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined this place crowded with customers, standing in the middle of a gleaming kitchen giving orders to her own sous-chefs, smelling delicious things cooking, listening to the clink of glasses and contented conversation.

      And a string of colorful words coming from the back entrance.

      She jerked her eyes open as the words pierced the last of her hazy fantasy and sent it whooshing away.

      A man was here, in her restaurant. An unhappy man, by the sound of it. Seriously? Somebody really thought they could break into her restaurant in broad daylight, probably hoping to steal construction tools left on the site?

      Guess again, asshole, she thought.

      She reached for the closest weapon she could lay her hands on, a two-by-four about the length of her torso, and edged around the corner.

      A hallway led off the main dining room toward the restroom facilities, as well as a space she intended to make a separate dining room for private parties.

      With her heart pounding, she peeked around the corner, two-by-four at the ready. Afternoon sunlight filtered in through the windows and she registered only a few quick impressions of height and muscled bulk, dark short-cropped hair and an unmistakable air of menace.

      The man had already pilfered a reciprocating saw in one hand and had a tool belt dangling from the other. Thieving bastard. No way was she going to let him get away with robbing her place, even if the stuff belonged to the contractor responsible for these knuckle-gnawing delays.

      She was too angry to think about the wisdom of taking on a very large man presently armed with power tools. This was her restaurant and she had worked too blasted hard for it to let some jerk think he could march in here and loot the place.

      Gripping the two-by-far in suddenly damp hands, she stepped forward. “Don’t even think about it.”

      He whirled around, even tougher and scarier than she had first thought. He was also surprisingly clean-cut for someone up to no good.

      “Don’t think about what?” he growled, his voice as hard as his features.

      “You picked the wrong place to rob, buster. My brother just happens to be the chief of police.”

      He cocked his head, one eyebrow lifted. “Is that right?”

      “You better believe it. Now put down the tools and get out of here before I call him.”

      “Trust me, you don’t want to do that.”

      Her anger kicked up a notch at his tone. As a sous-chef, she had spent more than a few years in the kitchen with temperamental, patronizing little men who thought they could intimidate her with their bluster and bluff. She was tired of it, yet another reason she couldn’t wait to open her own restaurant.

      She refused to acknowledge the grim truth of his words. She absolutely didn’t want to call in Riley to help her deal with this. As a general rule, she had always tried to take care of herself, not drag her family into her problems.

      She wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead, she shifted the board—now growing increasingly heavy—and whipped out her cell phone. In this case, she would do whatever was necessary. Even if that meant turning to her brother. She scrolled through her address book and found Riley’s number but paused, her thumb hovering over the name.

      “You’ve got until the count of three to clear out,” she said, aware she sounded perilously close to something out of a spaghetti Western.

      He apparently agreed. “You’re going to feel really stupid if you call in the cavalry right now. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

      She sniffed. “Funny, that’s exactly what I would expect a criminal to say.”

      “I’m not a criminal.”

      “Again, I would have totally expected you to say that.”

      He gave a rough laugh that seemed to sizzle through her. Just nerves, she told herself. To fight them, she gripped the board more tightly and stared him down.

      He looked a little bit old to be doing the smash-and-grab thing, maybe her age or slightly older, but he did have a biceps tattoo dripping beneath the short sleeve of a worn T-shirt that showed off every hard muscle.

      All in all, he was really quite gorgeous, for a criminal, even if he didn’t seem in the least threatened by a woman holding a two-by-four and a cell phone.

      “Can I ask who you are and what you’re doing here?” he actually had the effrontery to say.

      She gaped at him. “None of your business! You’re the one who’s trespassing.”

      “Really? You think? Then why would I have this?”

      He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a key that looked remarkably similar to the one she had used to unlock the door for her book club over an hour ago.

      “You think I’m stupid enough to fall for that? For all I know, that could be a key to the storage shed where you hide your victims in barrels full of acid.”

      He blinked a few times but didn’t lose his amused half smile. “Wow. Been watching a few too many horror movies, have we?”

      Okay, maybe it was a bit of an overreaction to accuse him of being a serial killer, but she wasn’t about to back down now. “My point is I don’t know who you are or why you’re breaking into my restaurant.”

      “Your restaurant? Wrong. This is Brodie Thorne’s restaurant.”

      The board slid a little in her hand and she finally set it down to rest one end on the ground, wondering uneasily if she might have made a teensy little mistake here.

      “Okay, technically, yes.” The restaurant was Brodie’s, if one considered that he was the person who took all the risks and paid all the bills. “But I’m his chef.”

      The guy’s half smile turned into a full-fledged one and her stomach fluttered at the impact of it. Oh, my.

      “We appear to have a little misunderstanding here. You must be Alexandra McKnight.”

      She squinted at him. “Maybe.”

      “Brodie told me about you, but for some reason I thought you would be older.”

      She made a face. She would be thirty-seven this year, which felt ancient sometimes. “Okay, so we’ve established who I am. Now who the hell are you?”

      “Oh, sorry.” Coming out of that rough-edged, dangerous-looking face, the charm of his friendly smile caught her off guard.

      “I’m Sam Delgado. I’m going to be finishing up your kitchen.”

      His words finally penetrated her thick skull and she wanted to throw her face in her hands. She was an idiot who shouldn’t be let out in public.

      This man was charged with building her kitchen in an insane handful of weeks and the first thing she did to welcome him aboard the project was accuse him of stealing what were probably his own tools.

      If she wanted this kitchen to provide ideal working conditions, she had to work closely with the contractor Brodie had picked. How would she be able to do that now, with this inauspicious beginning?

      She propped the board against the wall and faced him with what she hoped was an apologetic look. “Oops.”

      To her relief, he didn’t seem upset, even though a little annoyance would be completely justified. “Now aren’t you glad you didn’t call the police?”

      “It was an honest mistake. You have to admit, you’re a scary-looking dude, Sam Delgado. It must be the ink.”

      “I’m a pussycat when you get to