A Place to Call Home. Kathryn Springer

As he drew closer, the ruggedly handsome features became more defined. Strands of silky, ink-black hair lay even with the five o’clock shadow darkening his angular jaw. Mirrored sunglasses—Abby had never been a fan—concealed his eyes.

      “Hello.” Ignoring the second crop of goose bumps that sprouted up her arms, Abby forced a smile. She spotted her flattened sandal in the spot where Mulligan had been dozing and discreetly toed it back on. “Can I help you?”

      He stopped several feet away, close enough for her to see her distorted reflection in his sunglasses. “Are you Abby Porter?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then I’m here to help you.”

      Abby blinked. “Excuse me?”

      “I’m Quinn O’Halloran.”

      The name meant nothing to her. “I’m sorry. I—”

      “Daniel Redstone sent me.” He yanked off the glasses and Abby found herself staring into a pair of slate gray eyes. “I’m your new carpenter.”

      “My new…” Abby couldn’t push the rest of the sentence past the knot in her throat. She tried again. “He didn’t mention you’d be coming over today.” Better. The squeak that had made her voice sound like a rusty screen door was barely noticeable now.

      He shrugged. “According to Daniel, you’re under a tight deadline and need to keep the project moving along. I thought I’d stop by and take a look around to get a feel for things before I start.”

      “I am under a deadline but—Mulligan, no!” Abby lunged for the dog, who’d finally summoned the courage to inch close enough to swipe his tongue against Quinn’s hand. She gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. We’re still working on basic etiquette.”

      “You’re a golfer.”

      “Golf?” At first the meaning behind his statement didn’t sink in. When it did, Abby smiled. “No, I borrowed the term because I adopted Mulligan from the animal shelter an hour before he was to be euthanized.”

      “Another chance.” The pale gray eyes lit with sudden understanding.

      “It seemed to fit.” Abby ruffled one of Mulligan’s floppy ears. “And I happen to think everyone deserves a second one, don’t you?”

      Quinn didn’t answer. Because Abby Porter’s megawatt smile had momentarily short-circuited the hardware in his brain.

      He knew her.

      No, Quinn silently corrected the thought. He’d seen her before. On billboards strategically placed around the city of Chicago. Wearing black velvet and pearls. The reigning princess of Porter Hotels.

      Only this princess looked different. And not only because of her smile. Honey-blond hair, caught in a casual knot at the base of her neck, accentuated delicate features dominated by a pair of eyes that were silver-green like an aspen leaf.

      Instead of black velvet, she wore figure-hugging jeans, a paint-splattered T-shirt and a pair of sandals decorated with the gaudiest plastic daisies he’d ever seen.

      But looks could be deceiving. He’d learned that the hard way. As far as Quinn was concerned, a diva in blue jeans was still a diva. Before she’d been aware of his arrival, he’d caught a glimpse of her reclining on the chaise longue with a book propped in her lap. Obviously she was so motivated to get the inn ready for her grand opening that she was taking a break before the day had barely started.

      Quinn steeled himself against her smile, unnerved that it had had such an effect on him.

      “Do you think you can spare a few minutes to give me a tour of the place?” He leveled a pointed gaze at the chaise longue.

      “Of course.” Abby’s smile faded.

      Quinn wasn’t quite prepared for the direct hit to his conscience. If he’d forgotten the reason he’d changed his professional focus from providing security to buildings instead of people, a few seconds in Abby Porter’s company had brought it crashing back. Buildings were easy to figure out. People, not so much.

      They fell into step together, and Abby switched into tour guide mode.

      “The main lodge started out as a private vacation retreat for a wealthy family, but eventually they donated it to a local church.” She gestured toward the sprawling two-story split-log home that Quinn had passed on his way to the gazebo. “The congregation built five additional cabins on the water and turned it into a retreat center and Bible camp. Eventually, though, they couldn’t keep up with the larger, more modern camps and had to turn it over to the bank.”

      Quinn could empathize. He knew all too well what it felt like to struggle to keep a business afloat.

      “After that,” Abby went on, “it ended up in the hands of a developer. He planned to replace the lodge with condos but later realized it wouldn’t appeal to tourists who wanted a full recreation lake…and easier access to civilization. Most of the people who come back to Mirror Lake think of it as a second home rather than a vacation spot. They appreciate the slower pace.”

      “That’s why you chose to turn the place into a bed-and-breakfast rather than a resort,” Quinn guessed. “It will attract the type of clientele looking for peace and quiet.”

      Abby gave him an approving look. “It sat empty for almost five years until my Realtor happened to mention it a few months after I started looking. Believe it or not, I had to beg her to show it to me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But the first time I saw it, I knew it was perfect.”

      Quinn looked over at the lake, as clear and smooth as window glass, beyond a stand of towering white pines. He’d moved to Chicago after his tour of duty because he’d been ready to take on the world. Ready for a fresh start where no one knew the name O’Halloran. The energy and pace of the city had matched his lifestyle. Or so he’d thought. Until he moved back to Mirror Lake.

      That first night Quinn spent in his childhood home, temperatures had dipped into the forties, but he’d crawled out the window of his old bedroom and sat on the roof.

      He’d forgotten what it felt like to see the stars at night. To drive for miles without seeing a single house or apartment complex. Quinn may not have wanted to return to the town where he’d grown up but he hadn’t expected to feel a tug on his soul, as if he were still connected to it. Especially when his memories of the place weren’t exactly the Hallmark kind.

      Sensing that Abby was waiting for a response, Quinn’s gaze moved from the lodge to the weathered cabins strung like wooden beads along the shoreline. Work, work and more work. But he was reluctant to strip the sparkle from Abby’s eyes. Again.

      “It’s got potential,” he heard himself say.

      Abby turned and smiled up at him. “I think so, too.”

      Once again, Quinn wasn’t prepared for the force of Abby’s smile.

      Focus, O’Halloran.

      “What time does the rest of the crew usually get here?”

      Abby shot him a puzzled look. “The rest of the crew?”

      “The work crew,” Quinn clarified.

      Abby’s low laugh went straight through him. “Now that Daniel is gone, you’re looking at it.”

      She couldn’t be serious. “You and Daniel have been doing everything yourselves?”

      “That’s right.” Abby reached down to fondle Mulligan’s ears. “I hired some teenagers to do some painting, but they have other jobs so they’re only available on the weekend.” She skipped up the wide plank steps and opened the front door. “I moved in at the beginning of June and started working on the main house right away. It was in fair condition but I’m still in the process of…”

      The rest of the words dissolved in Quinn’s ears as he stepped through