Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins

Fresh paint.

      “This is very pretty, Ian,” I said.

      “Thanks,” he said. “Um … would you like to come in?” It was clear he didn’t know how to avoid asking us.

      “Sure! I’d love some coffee,” Annie said, shooting me another joyful look.

      We walked around the side yard, which had a bank of mature lilac trees along one side. I could only imagine the smell in the springtime. Then we came to the front, and once again, I stopped short.

      We were on the edge of a large field thick with goldenrod and late-blooming black-eyed Susans. Dragonflies dipped and skimmed, and finches flew in and out of the long grass. A stone wall ran along one side … a real stone wall, the Robert Frost variety, uneven and sincere. The gravel driveway led out to the unseen road—it would be hell to plow come winter, but who cared? About two hundred yards off was a large stand of maples, already topped in red. Ian would be in for quite a show in a few more weeks.

      “Come on in,” Ian said. Did I mention he was wearing faded Levis? I suppressed a lustful sigh and followed him onto the porch, then turned to take in the view (of the natural scenery, not his ass, though both were compelling). The wide porch wrapped around on the western side. Perfect for sunsets. No railing, just an unobscured view of the field. A person could spend all day sitting on a porch like this, listening to the birds and the wind in the grass, the smell of pines rich and sharp in the air …

      “You coming, Callie?” Annie chirped.

      “Sure,” I said distantly, tearing my eyes off the view.

      “This place is gorgeous!” she hissed. “And he’s not so bad himself! Oh, my God, those eyes!”

      “Can you keep it down, please?” I asked. Ian was already inside.

      “I wish I wasn’t married,” she murmured. “I’m serious. I’m leaving Jack.”

      “Super. I’ve always had a thing for him. Now’s my chance,” I said, stepping into the house.

      The interior of the house was pretty damn impressive, too. Clearly, an architect had done this, because it had that sleek, perfect feeling … smooth, shiny hardwood floors, streamlined bookcases, funky steel light fixtures. The overall effect was very modern, and maybe a little stark. And beautiful, because it was that, too. Expensive-looking furniture was well placed throughout, reinforcing the slightly chilly tone—I didn’t see a place where slumping and flopping could be executed too well, a far cry from the sofa I’d brought to Noah’s, which was aging leather and deliciously broken-in, a piece that seemed to invite a running start. But the house was beautiful.

      And it was clean. Immaculate, even. I was a fair housekeeper myself, but not like this.

      Off the great room was the kitchen, which had more steel light fixtures and slate countertops. Ian was already there, measuring out coffee beans.

      “How long have you lived here?” Annie asked, gesturing me to heel.

      “Not that long,” he answered, not looking at her. “Four months.”

      “How old is the house?” she asked. Honestly, I was surprised she didn’t whip out her phone and start taking pictures.

      “It was built in 1932,” Ian answered. “My uncle bought it in the sixties, and after he died, I bought it from the bank. Had it redone when I bought the practice.”

      Dropping her hand so that Ian couldn’t see (and making sure that I could), Annie rubbed her fingers against her thumb. Money. She nodded at me and smiled. I sighed.

      Angie’s ears pricked up as a car slowly came down the driveway, the gravel crunching under the wheels.

      “Oh, drat, Jack’s here,” Annie said. “Well, great meeting you! Have to run!”

      “What about your coffee?” Ian asked, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “Your husband’s welco—”

      “See you soon!” she said, then hurtled out the door and ran toward Jack’s car.

      “I thought she wanted coffee,” Ian said, staring out the window as Jack turned the car around and headed back down the driveway.

      “She has psychological problems. Sorry about that.” I looked around the room again. “This is a very nice place, Ian.”

      “Thanks,” he said, opening a cupboard. Inside looked like a Pottery Barn display—rows of neatly arranged mugs, all the same color and style, unlike my own motley collection, which ranged from the thick and uneven mug Josephine made me in preschool to an antique porcelain cup my gran had used each day for tea. Nope, Ian had only a row of mugs, six in all, pale green, very pleasing. Glasses, all the same model, six of each size, three sizes in all, stood like obedient soldiers.

      The same thought that had been niggling away at me all week popped into my brain. “I heard you and Fleur had coffee the other day,” I said.

      He looked up. “Who’s Fleur?”

      Say no more, Ian. Question answered. “Um … my coworker? Tony Blair’s mommy? The one who took you on the hike?”

      “Right. I think I saw her in town.” He returned his attention to measuring the coffee.

      “Can I look around a little?” I asked.

      “Sure.” He may have sighed.

      I wandered into the great room. On the walls were three large prints, all the same size, all matted in white and framed in black, a series of photographs of leaves … maple, fern, oak, close-up studies in sharp detail.

      “Did you take these?” I asked. “They’re really nice.”

      “Yes. Thank you,” he said in that formal way of his. It was starting to grow on me. The coffeepot gurgled.

      So Ian McFarland had an artistic streak. That was kind of nice. Quite nice, really.

      The bookcase held mostly science-related tomes … here was a page-turner—Flynn’s Parasites of Laboratory Animals. Blick! Small Animal Medical Differential Diagnosis. Along with the textbooks were scattered a few manly novels … Call of the Wild, The Old Man and the Sea. And aw! He had All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot, the charming story of the English vet.

      “I loved this book when I was little!” I exclaimed, taking it out.

      He looked up and almost smiled. “Me, too.”

      I replaced the book and continued my perusal, coming to a picture of Ian, an older woman … attractive, lean, very blue eyes … and a gorgeous man. Hello! Might this be Alejandro? Lord, I got a little turned-on just thinking his name. “Your family?” I asked, picking up the photo.

      “Yes.”

      “Is your brother married?”

      “Yes.”

      Figured. There was another picture of his mother … with a face I quite recognized. “Is this Bono?” I yelped, snatching the photo off the shelf.

      “Yes,” Ian said, smiling. “They met at a fundraiser in Africa … Nigeria, I think.”

      “Wow. I always thought we’d end up together, Bono and I.”

      “He’s also married,” Ian said.

      “Rub it in,” I said. A few of the books were not in English. “So you speak Spanish?” I asked, wandering back over to the kitchen area.

      Ian reached into another cabinet, which showed the same ruthless organization as the first. He took out a small pitcher in the same shade as the mugs, as well as a matching sugar bowl.

      “Yes,” he answered. “I moved to Latin America when I was eight, spent a few years there, a couple in Chile, three in Africa. I speak passable French, too. I knew a little Swahili, but I’ve forgotten most