Destined for the Maverick. Allison Leigh

could tell the details weren’t necessary by the way he nodded. “I know who she is.”

      “It seemed like an ideal opportunity,” she pushed on. “So, are you a Rust Creek Falls native?”

      His nod was even briefer and she could sense his withdrawal. “You did commercial construction in Cincinnati?”

      She kept her smile in place, though her mouth went dry. She’d helped her dad build an extension on their garage, she knew the difference between a miter and a chop saw, and was an avid devotee to all television do-it-yourself shows. She was also well aware that didn’t make her an expert in anything. So she sidestepped.A little.

      Okay. A lot.

      The same way she’d sidestepped when she had her phone interview. “More, uh, more residential. Mr. Swinton needed a handyman.” She laughed overbrightly. “Handyperson, I guess I should say.”

      Jack’s gaze turned even more assessing. As if he could see right through to the truth of the matter. That, in her enthusiasm to move to Rust Creek Falls, she might have exaggerated her experience a teensy bit. And she hadn’t corrected Mr. Swinton’s assumption that she had plenty of on-the-job experience.

      The man had told her they were in need of general construction laborers, and specifically, he was looking for a woman. She’d guessed, by Mr. Swinton’s eagerness to make her fit his requirements, there hadn’t been too many females who’d applied.

      Anxious to move the topic away from her employment and back onto more interesting matters—namely the good-looking, seemingly eligible and for a few seconds there, seemingly interested, guy standing before her—she jerked her head at the small house behind her. “So, do you live in the neighborhood, Jack?” There were three other houses on the street, looking sleepy and quiet at seven in the morning on a Sunday. He could have come from any of them.

      “I’ve got a house a little ways outside town,” he said, revealing pretty much nothing, but dashing that hope all the same and leaving her wondering, instead, what he was doing there at that hour at all.

      He moved his hand from the dusty car and pushed his fingers in the front pockets of his jeans. She determinedly kept her gaze from following the motion too closely. The man knew how to wear jeans.

      “Keith’s gas station down on the corner is where you’ll want to take your car,” he said abruptly. “Keith’s a mechanic. He’s my cousin, but anyone around here will tell you he’s fair.” Then he settled his cowboy hat more squarely on his head, nodded and went over to one of the trucks parked on the street, same as her own car. It was black beneath the dust covering it, and had a rack in the back loaded with ladders. He climbed behind the wheel. “Hope you’ll enjoy Rust Creek Falls,” he said. Polite. Friendly.