Small-Town Hearts. Ruth Logan Herne

his emotions shielded. She couldn’t tell if he liked or hated the place, and that meant he had practice hiding emotions. Not a good sign. He stepped inside, moved forward, then paused overlong. “It’s spotless.”

      She frowned. “I do believe the ad mentioned that.”

      He turned and flashed a grin that made her heart quiver and her gut tingle, two physical reactions she’d just as soon chalk up to lack of iron. She was definitely in danger of being swept away by that smile. Those eyes. And great teeth, besides. Her mother was a dental hygienist in the lone dental office in Wellsville. She’d fall in love with those teeth, right off.

      “It did. But the last one I looked at said ‘clean’ and it wasn’t even close. I’ll take it.”

      “You don’t want to know the rent?”

      “If it’s too high, I’ll wrangle it down. But somehow, since it’s you, I’m expecting the price will be fair.”

      Of course it was fair. She would never consider bilking someone out of too much money for her own gain, or conniving her way into anything. For just a moment she lamented the idea of being good, of taking God’s word to heart and soul, and considered smacking him with an outrageous price so he’d take his appreciative gaze and business-savvy self elsewhere. She hesitated, wishing she could do that, knowing she couldn’t. “Six hundred a month. Plus utilities.”

      “Done.” He stuck out a hand. “Do you have a lease handy?”

      She nodded. “On my side. Come this way.” She led the way back down the stairs and around to a second entrance. She opened the door and proceeded up the inner stairway to a slightly more spacious apartment than his. She watched as he glanced around, surprised. “I expected different.”

      “Than?”

      He waved a hand. “This. This is fun. Modern. Kind of funky.”

      She eyed the mix of bright-toned pillows, flowers and casual corduroy seating, then laughed at the expression on his face. “You thought I’d have a wood-burning stove, perhaps? A spindle? A straw mattress on the wood floor?”

      He grinned, then shrugged. “An understandable mistake, Miss Russo. And might I add you look just as good in denim as you did in calico.”

      “Normal men don’t know materials. You realize that, right?”

      He flashed the smile again, the one that appeared open and honest, engaging and appealing. Key word: appeared.

      “My grandmother quilts. Beautiful stuff. She uses calico and ginghams a lot. And plain colors. But she’s partial to calico.”

      Megan nodded. So was she, truth be told. But it would seem weird to deck out her apartment in too many old-fashioned things. Like she was caught in the past or something.

      A house would be different. Someday she’d live in a sweet old colonial that hadn’t been split into multiple units, raise a bunch of kids, bake cookies, make candy for her own brood and welcome her husband home every night.

      She faced Danny. “Rent is due by the first of the month.”

      He grinned. “Which makes me late already. Here you go.” He bent and filled out a check drawn on a local bank. She frowned and raised an eyebrow toward him.

      “You don’t live here.”

      “No, but I opened a local account for business purposes before I came down. Makes things easier because, as you noted this morning, not every business down here uses plastic.”

      She accepted the check, scanned the amount, noted that it was for two months and gave him a brisk nod. “Thank you, Mr. Graham.”

      He edged closer. “My friends call me Danny.”

      She refused to budge despite his proximity, tilted her head up and met the undisguised twinkle in his gaze. Oh, yes, this boy had been around a bit. Or maybe she was becoming an old cynic like Mrs. Dennehy, the grocer’s aged mother. She bit back a sigh, met his gaze with an equanimity she didn’t feel and angled her head slightly, knowing that maneuver had caught his attention earlier. “But we’re not friends.”

      He nodded toward the check and grinned. “We might be in two months. Wouldn’t hurt to get in practice, Miss Russo. After all, we are going to be neighbors.”

      And that was all they’d be. She’d make certain of that. She nodded and moved toward the door, refusing to feel trapped over something as simple as a name. Besides, he was right. They’d be living side by side for eight weeks. She gave him an over-the-shoulder glance as she descended the stairs, noting his approval seemed just as notable going down the stairs. “Megan. My friends call me Meg.”

      “And Ben calls you Meggie.”

      She nodded and glanced back again, but this time held his look. “He’s the only one that calls me that. Got it?”

      His grin deepened. “Got it. Can I move in tomorrow?”

      She withdrew a key from her front pocket and dangled it in front of him. “Whatever works for you.” She stuck out a hand once he accepted the key and flashed him a smile. “Welcome to Jamison.”

      His grip was strong and firm. She refused to acknowledge the sweet spark of awareness that traveled up her arm and through her chest, nestling somewhere cozy in her belly. He held her hand a little longer than could ever be considered necessary and dipped his chin in acknowledgement when he let it go. “Thank you. It’s nice to be here.”

      Chapter Five

      “Yowza.”

      Meg shot Hannah a warning look the next afternoon. “Stop.”

      “He’s moving in?”

      “How’s that nut chopping coming, Hannah? You done yet?”

      “Today?”

      “Hannah Moore…”

      “Got it.” Hannah ducked beneath the counter, withdrew a tub of toasted almonds and filled the food processor halfway. She hit On, and the ensuing noise stopped conversation until the nuts were evenly chopped to her satisfaction. She dumped the cylinder into a bowl and then repeated the process twice more. Stepping back, she eyed the bowl and the chocolate vat, then nodded. “We’re good.”

      “Thanks. Measure out three cups of those for the toffee, and we’ll be just about there.”

      “Wonderful.”

      The half wall and Dutch door made it easy to keep an eye on the store. The old-fashioned bell over the door helped, too, an old-school way of announcing a customer when Megan’s attention was diverted. Hannah set the three cups aside in a smaller bowl and glanced out the window. “A customer.”

      “You got it?”

      “I do.”

      Megan swept her chocolate-dotted apron a quick glance as the door chime announced what Hannah already knew, her warm voice mingling with others as the tourists exclaimed over this and that.

      It was early yet. Midweek mornings were traditionally quiet while tourists walked, climbed, went sightseeing and shopping. Since chocolate didn’t do well in cars on a warm summer day, the candy store was generally their last stop before heading home or back to the motels in nearby Wellsville. That meant Meg made good use of the mornings, both before and after the shop opened, then busied herself with customers the rest of the day. And her ice cream window business was steady from three o’clock on, especially when area kids had summer sports in the evening. Then the line could grow ridiculously long in a relatively short space of time.

      She’d hired a local college girl, Crystal Murphy, to help out part-time and had two more college girls consigned to run her weekend festival booths. Coupled with Hannah’s summer-shortened library hours, they should be all right.

      When Hannah returned to the kitchen, she met Meg’s gaze and swept