Loving the Lawman. Ruth Logan Herne

as Zach moved toward the door. “Knowing your wife and father, I don’t think there is such a thing.”

      “I can’t disagree.” Zach sent him a rueful look. “And with the new barn nearly complete, I see a busy season ahead of us. But truth be told, I couldn’t be happier, so bring on the cows. Ladies.” He turned and tipped his cap in their direction. “Thank you for making this relatively painless.”

      “You’re welcome.” Gianna smiled at him, then turned toward Seth. “Is it easier for you to work on the clothing racks if we’re not here? If it is, Gram and I can make ourselves scarce. I know we said we’d be gone today, and sometimes it’s a pain to have people underfoot while you work.”

      * * *

      Would it be easier to work if she disappeared behind that long, rippled curtain?

      Definitely.

      Then he wouldn’t have to pretend she wasn’t there. Breathe her amazing perfume that was nothing like anything he’d ever smelled before. But they were neighbors. Moreover, he was her landlord, so he had to get used to working with her. Or at least working near her. And while he hadn’t thought he was in the market for anything romantically inclined, when Gianna drew close, it wasn’t close enough. And he was old enough and mature enough to know that meant his interest extended beyond a friendly handshake.

      Hers didn’t. Correction: she was tempted, but determined to remain off-limits, and he’d had enough of difficult women with Jasmine, so he was all right with maintaining distance. He respected lines drawn in the sand. So be it. He set up his saw at the north end of the building and flexed a shrug. “I can ignore you if you can ignore me.”

      Her eyes went wide, then narrowed, and Seth was pretty sure the thought of being ignored didn’t sit well with the Italian princess at the opposite end of the room. He didn’t like it all that much either, so he’d wait and see what she’d do. Eyeing the long expanse of walls, he had plenty of work to keep him busy. And at least they weren’t playing that horrible, boring—

      Orchestral strains broke into his train of thought, deep strings with a slow, haunting percussive backbeat. He could bang his head against the wall right now, or man up and pretend he didn’t notice, but when some guy began belting out all the angst of the world in some foreign language, he reached for the earplugs he’d brought along and almost hugged the packaging. Some guys used earplugs for the most minute sawing jobs. Not Seth, but Gianna and Carmen didn’t know that.

      Let them think he was protecting fragile eardrums. And he was, in a way. Because his eardrums would be okay if he never listened to opera again.

      * * *

      She’d redone the side seam twice, a ridiculous novice mistake because it was a simple seam, straight and thin.

      Easy when there isn’t a wonderful man working ten yards away, wearing well-washed Wranglers and a perfectly fitted dark knit turtleneck.

      He was humming something, too, something that didn’t meld with Pavarotti’s majestic tenor, and as Gianna plied her seam ripper for the second time, inspiration hit.

      Seth was wearing earplugs. For the drill’s noise?

      Or the opera?

      Chagrined, she realized that just because she was a huge fan of the singing stage, a guy like Seth might want to tear his hair out rather than hear the deep operatic tones and strings repeatedly. She moved to the apartment, spotted her grandmother catching a midday catnap in the living room overlooking the snow-swept frozen water and turned off the music feed to the shop. When she came back through the curtained door, the only noise was his slightly off-key rendition of “Fields of Gold.”

      Seth liked Sting.

      So did she.

      She retook her seat in the well-lit sewing corner and hummed along with him. The new quiet bathed her in peace, the melding of her voice with his soft and unassuming. The duet was broken from time to time as he mounted the bars high enough to avoid street-length dresses grazing the floor. Just before he turned on the drill to set bracket holes in the next section, he turned, frowned, then smiled.

      Oh, that smile.

      Her heart melted. Her fingers stuttered and the business end of a pin bit the tip of her thumb. She jumped back, not wanting to taint the gauzy fabric with a prick of blood, and Seth moved to her side instantly. Concern erased the smile, and he grabbed for her hand. “Are you hurt?”

      “No, just silly.”

      He looked puzzled momentarily, then awareness dawned. He snatched the earplugs from his ears and pocketed them. He examined her hand, seemed to decide she’d most likely live and dropped it back into her lap. “Sorry. You just looked scared there for a minute.”

      “Only because blood won’t wash out of dry-clean-only fabric,” she told him. She pressed a small pad of white cotton to the tip of her finger and nodded toward the far wall. “The brackets look good. I love that stressed bronze color.”

      “It fit.”

      “Yes.”

      He started to turn back to his work, then swung around again. “You turned off the music. You can listen if you want. This is your place now.”

      Add considerate and self-sacrificial to the list of attributes she liked about this man. She shrugged, checked her finger, then reapplied the pad to make sure she’d stanched the tiny cut. “Compromise is a good thing when people work together. You’re not an opera fan, I take it.”

      His face said more than his reply. “No.”

      She laughed. “Well, did you know that Pavarotti and Sting have sung together?”

      “I’m not sure I believe it, but I’ll ask—when?”

      “On Pavarotti & Friends,” she explained. “The producers arranged for all kinds of musicians to perform with him. Rockers. Jazz. Classical. My father was highly insulted, but I loved it.” She sent him a pointed look and added, “Pavarotti and Sting sang ‘Panis angelicus.’”

      “I love that hymn,” Seth admitted. “It’s majestic.” He drew up a chair, pretended to check a nonexistent watch and said, “Break time. Is it a rule that if you’re Italian you must love opera?”

      “It should be,” she teased. “I love the rise and fall of voices, and I don’t care if it’s opera, a barbershop quartet or a strong choir. The synchronized timing of music and voice calls to me.” Memories swept her. Made her smile. Broadway. The Met. Concerts in Central Park. “I worked in New York after college, and I had the opportunity to see all kinds of things, a multitude of cultures. An amazing experience.”

      “Will you go back?”

      The question hung between them, suspended in midair, as if her answer meant a great deal, as if their casual conversation could lead to something stronger. More permanent. But that was silly. “Just to visit,” she told him. “My home is here now.”

      He smiled again, but it wasn’t the amused smile of moments ago when he’d realized she’d switched the music off. This smile held the warmth of hope and the promise of spring. “Well.” He stood, brushed his hands against the sides of his thighs and squared his shoulders. “The finger’s okay?”

      “Fine, thanks.”

      “Then I’ll get back to work.”

      “Me, too.”

      Everyday words, simple and sweet. But as she watched him cross the room, his gait relaxed, she knew she hadn’t shared easy conversation with an attractive man in a long time.

      She’d dated occasionally after losing Michael. And she’d had fun from time to time, but she’d worked to have fun, putting forth concerted effort so her dates wouldn’t think she was a total waste of time.

      Enjoying moments with Seth required no work. That slow, comforting gaze. The big, blue eyes. The firm chin