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      DANIEL JOSEPH GRAYSON, co-founder and CEO of Hobby Hut Enterprises, was running away from home. He wished he’d done it a year ago, because this hiatus was long overdue.

      Daniel was desperate to regain his enthusiasm for the family-owned business. He needed to get back in touch with himself, because sitting in his plush executive office, surrounded by yes-men and -women, constantly staring at profit-loss spreadsheets, was distorting his perception of life. Hobby Hut’s version of Stepford wives—those nauseatingly agreeable robots whose sole purpose was to protect their high-dollar salaries and prestigious positions—were driving him absolutely nuts!

      No longer could Daniel bounce ideas off his junior executives or expect constructive and innovative input, because he couldn’t trust their hidden motives. A year ago, when his grandfather officially retired, things rapidly deteriorated. J. D. Grayson was the only person Daniel could depend on to tell him the truth, and now the old man was spending his golden years in leisurely pursuits.

      Therefore, Daniel decided to leave his executives holding the bag, forcing them to earn their exorbitant wages. He was hotfooting it out of Oklahoma City—without leaving a forwarding address. For one month Daniel was going to become a regular Joe and hope like hell that the working stiffs in this world were nothing like corporate society with its patronized schmoozing—along with a little treacherous backstabbing thrown in for good measure. Daniel craved a breath of fresh country air, longed to shed the cloak of executive privilege, and dodge the entourage of glossy females who saw him as a blue-chip bachelor.

      Hell’s jingling bells! He wasn’t sure if he was liked for himself these days, or if his power, wealth and influence formed the world’s perception of him. There was only one way to find out, Daniel mused. When he became your everyday average regular Joe Schmo he would discover how many true friends he could acquire.

      Daniel steered the clunker truck that he’d borrowed from his grandfather off the interstate and cruised down the two-lane road toward Fox Hollow. The town was situated in a valley, surrounded by timbered hills and clear blue streams. The community was only a hop, skip and jump away from a scenic lake.

      The quaint, off-the-beaten-path hamlet was just what the doctor ordered, he thought to himself. This area of the state catered to hunters, fishermen, lake-goers and retirees. This was the perfect getaway for a cynical, jaded executive—namely him—who needed to get back in touch with the simple pleasures in life.

      Feeling his tension and frustration ebb, Daniel cruised his bucket-of-rust truck from one end of Main Street to the other. It took three minutes—less if he hadn’t stopped for the white-haired old woman who jaywalked in front of him. There was one stoplight, dozens of parking spaces without meters, and several wooden barrels—belching riotous collections of flowers—sitting in front of each business establishment. A hardware store, with a sign that read If We Don’t Have What You Need We Can Special Order It, sat on one corner. A floral shop, antique store, tractor-mechanic shop, mom-and-pop grocery, hole-in-the-wall café, tag agency and furniture store lined the street. There were no traffic jams in which road-raging motorists shouted at one another and saluted with their middle fingers. Daniel didn’t hear the screech of brakes or blast of horns. What he heard was the sound of peace and quiet, the warble of birds and local citizens greeting one another as they passed friends and acquaintances on the sidewalk.

      Ah, so this was what life was like in the real world. He’d almost forgotten. Daniel glanced down to check the time, then remembered he had stuffed his Rolex into the corporate safe. It was his intention to blend into the scenery and keep a low profile. He’d just as soon no one knew he could afford more than these casual clothes and clunker truck.

      Looking west, Daniel spotted the local Hobby Hut. The doors should be opening soon, and he wanted to be first in line to apply for a job. He had selected this specific town for his hiatus for two reasons. Number one—it was only forty-five minutes from his office in the city. And two—this store manager’s sales reports were impressive. Mattie Roland was doing more business in this little town than other Hobby Huts were doing in major cities in a five-state area.

      Determined to acquire a job at his own store, Daniel hiked down the street, amazed that strangers nodded and greeted him as if he were a long-lost friend. He felt welcome immediately, and he hadn’t been here more than ten minutes.

      Daniel pulled up short and stared in amazement at the window displays at Hobby Hut. They were divided into four sections—nautical, folk art, colonial and Americana. Original and print reproductions of landscape and still-life paintings, accentuated by Hobby Hut frames, were bookended by hand-painted curio and knickknack shelves that boasted figurines and collectibles. Small console tables, deacon’s benches and storage chests had been painted to match the theme of each display. Daniel stood there for several minutes, absorbing the ambiance, admiring the artwork and cleverly arranged displays. No wonder Mattie Roland was one of the top managers in the company. Her displays practically reached out and grabbed you off the street and lured you into her store.

      The words inspiring and imaginative came quickly to mind. These examples of decor made you want to give your home a makeover, to fill each cubbyhole, niche and wall with these intriguing combinations of art, woodcrafting and antiques that created a homey, welcoming appearance.

      Finding the door unlocked, Daniel entered, hearing the tinkling sound of delicate chimes that announced his arrival.

      “I’ll be with you in a minute,” came a sultry female voice from somewhere in the near distance. “Browse to your heart’s content.”

      Daniel blinked, startled. Who was minding the store? A dozen expensive items could be shoplifted before the manager emerged from the back room. Maybe Mattie Roland wasn’t Employee of the Year after all.

      While Daniel surveyed the items on the aisles the white-haired woman who’d jaywalked in front of his rattletrap truck waddled inside. She nodded cordially to him, then stared toward the workroom in the back of the store.

      “Mattie? How’s my project coming along? You about finished, hon? My son and grandchildren are coming tomorrow, ya know. I want to have my shelves and family pictures hung before they arrive.”

      “Not to worry, Alice,” said the disembodied voice. “I’m putting the finishing touches on your shelves right now. Come on back and have a look-see.”

      Daniel was surprised the hunch-shouldered senior citizen could move so fast. She scurried off in her orthopedic shoes, her cotton dress swishing around her as she went.

      While Alice and Mattie did their thing in the workroom, Daniel circumnavigated the store, marveling at several other eye-catching displays of woodcrafts, ceramics and unusual antiques. Mattie Roland was obviously a whiz when it came to interior decorating. Daniel never would have thought to assemble these particular items and arrange them as she had, but the effect was extraordinary. The woman definitely had a gift!

      Daniel’s brain short-circuited when he glanced over his shoulder to see a petite but voluptuous female, dressed in paint-splattered jeans and T-shirt, walking toward him. There was a smudge of Lucky Shamrock Green on the tip of her nose and a streak of Longjohn Red on her elbow. Her raven-colored ponytail was slightly off center, but amethyst-colored eyes, rimmed with incredibly long lashes, dominated her pixielike face. Mattie Roland was five feet four inches, one hundred fifteen pounds—give or take—of arresting female who reminded him of an enchanting leprechaun.

      Mesmerized, Daniel stood there like a tongue-tied doofus. This vivacious young woman was Mattie Roland? Employee of the Year?

      “Hi,” Mattie greeted cheerily. “Is there something I can help you find in Hobby Hut?”

      The sizzling jolt of awareness caused his tongue to stick to the roof of his mouth. He, who spent