The New Girl In Town. Brenda Harlen
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they fell only a couple of inches below the curve of her butt.
“What the heck is that thing?” she asked, taking a deliberate step back from man and beast.
“He’s a dog,” the man responded in the same whiskey-smooth tone. “And although he’s overly affectionate at times, he doesn’t usually take to strangers.”
“Obviously it’s a dog.” At least it had four paws and wagging tail. “But what kind? I’ve never seen anything so—” ugly was the description that immediately came to mind, but she didn’t want to insult the man or his best friend, so she decided upon “—big.”
His smile was wry. “He’s of indeterminate pedigree—part deerhound, part Old English sheepdog, with a lot of other parts mixed in.”
She glanced at the handsome stranger again, saw that he was giving her the same critical study she’d given his pet. She was suddenly aware that her hair needed to be combed, her teeth needed to be brushed and her T-shirt was covered in muddy paw prints. Then his gaze lifted to hers, and she forgot everything else in the realization that his eyes were as startlingly blue as the sapphire sky overhead.
“Did you ever consider putting your dog in obedience classes?” she asked. “Preferably before it—he—knocks somebody unconscious.”
“As a matter of fact, Rosie graduated top of his class. He can heel, sit, lay down, roll over and speak.” He shrugged and smiled again. “He just hasn’t learned to curb his enthusiasm.”
“No kidding,” she said dryly. Then she frowned. “Did you call him ‘Rosie’?”
“It’s short for Rosencrantz.”
“Rosencrantz,” Zoe echoed, wondering what kind of person would inflict such torture on a helpless animal. Not that this one was helpless, but the name still seemed cruel.
“As in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” he told her. “From Hamlet.”
She was admittedly surprised—and more intrigued than she wanted to be by this sexy, blue-eyed, Shakespeare-reading stranger.
“Where is Guildenstern?” she asked apprehensively.
“With my brother,” the man answered. “My business partner found the two puppies abandoned by the creek in his backyard. He and his wife wanted to keep them, but they already have a cat and a baby on the way, so I got one and my brother took the other.”
She noticed that he spoke of his partner having a wife but didn’t mention one of his own. Not that it really mattered, of course. She had a lot of reasons for moving to Pinehurst, but looking for romance was definitely not one of them—especially when the wounds of her failed marriage had barely begun to heal.
“Well, you need to keep that thing on a leash,” she said, forcing her thoughts to refocus on the conversation.
The animal in question immediately dropped to its belly and whined plaintively.
Zoe frowned. “What’s wrong with him?”
“You said the L-word,” he told her.
She looked at him blankly.
“L-E-A-S-H.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He shook his head. “Rosie hates being tied up.”
“Well, he’ll have to get used to it because I don’t appreciate being attacked in my own yard by your mongrel pet.”
“Your yard?” He seemed surprised by her statement. “You bought this place?”
She nodded.
“Are you rich and bored? Or just plain crazy?”
She bristled at that. “You’re not the first person to question my sanity,” she admitted. “But you’re the first who’s had the nerve to do so while standing on my property.”
“I’m just…surprised,” he said. “The house has been on the market a long time, and I hadn’t heard anything around town recently about a potential buyer.”
“The final papers were signed yesterday. This is my house, my land, my space.”
“If this is your house, your land, and your space, then that would mean—”
He paused to smile, and she cursed her traitorous heart for beating faster.
“—you’re my neighbor.”
Mason watched as her pale cheeks flushed with color, making him think she might be attractive if she cleaned herself up. Right now, however, she was a mess. Her long blond hair was tangled around her face, her brow—above incredibly gorgeous eyes the color of dark chocolate—was creased with a scowl, and her skimpy little T-shirt was covered in mud. But he couldn’t help but notice that the shirt clung to curves that looked soft and round in all the right places, and he felt the stir of arousal.
He gave himself a mental shake, acknowledging that he’d definitely been too long without a woman if the sight of this disheveled little spitfire was turning him on.
His current hiatus from dating had been a matter of choice as much as necessity, since his break-up with Erica had coincided with a flurry of big jobs that had required all of his attention and focus. Recently, however, things at the office had started to slow down a little. Enough at least that he could catch a decent amount of sleep at night and maybe even consider getting out socially again. If he did, maybe he’d meet a woman who was more his usual type.
But it was this woman who had his attention now. Because she was, if not his type, at least his neighbor, which made him naturally curious about her.
“Tell me something,” he said.
“What’s that?” she asked warily.
“What possessed a city girl like you to buy an abandoned old house like this?”
“What makes you think I’m a city girl?”
He allowed his gaze to move over her again, lingering, appraising. “The designer clothes and fancy watch, for starters. But mostly it’s the casual self-confidence layered over restless energy that says to hell with the rest of the world and somehow fits you as perfectly as those snug little denim shorts.”
She tilted her chin. “That’s quite an assumption to make after a five-minute conversation.”
He smiled. “I enjoy studying people—and women are a particular interest of mine.”
“I don’t doubt that’s true,” she said dryly.
He wasn’t dissuaded by the comment or her tone. “You never did answer my question about why you bought this house.”
“It’s a beautiful house.”
“It might have been a dozen years ago,” he allowed. “Before Mrs. Hadfield got too old and too tight-fisted to pay for the repairs.”
“What happened to Mrs. Hadfield?” she asked, in what seemed to him a blatant attempt to change the subject.
“She passed away about eighteen months ago, left the house to a grandson who lives in California. He put it on the market right away, but there was only one early offer on the property and he refused to sell to a developer, insisting his grandmother wouldn’t have wanted the house torn down and the land divided.”
After that deal had fallen through, Mason had learned from the real estate agent that the grandson had some specific ideas about the type of person Beatrice Hadfield wanted living in her house after she was gone. But he’d refused to elaborate on the criteria, even to the agent, and she’d mostly given up on selling the house—until now, apparently.
“And you know about this unsuccessful sale because…” she prompted.
“Because there are no secrets