The House on Blackberry Hill (Jewell Cove 1)

“My, my, it is a small world, isn’t it?” She hoped her cheeks weren’t giving her away as she picked up her drink and took a sip. Blushing would give him the wrong idea entirely.

“Isn’t it just?”

There was a long pause as he waited, standing by her table, and she finally sighed with irritation. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Arseneault?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

She swallowed, but made a point of lifting her chin and doing her best impression of disdain. “I wasn’t, no.”

“Tsk-tsk, Miss Foster.” He began to smile, popping a ridiculous dimple. She would not be charmed. She would not. His dark eyes sparkled at her. “How very rude.”

The blush she hoped wouldn’t appear heated her cheeks and she looked away, tempted to smile. “Oh, sit then. You’re going to anyway, and looking up at you is putting a crick in my neck.”

He pulled out the chair and sat, putting his elbows on the table and leaning forward until she could smell his clean, spicy scent. “Where are those Canadian manners we keep hearing so much about, eh?”

He was baiting her and she was terribly close to giving in. All she wanted was to have a decent meal in peace. Instead she was face-to-face with Mr. Sexy Lumberjack—again.

“I’m half American,” she stated, as if that explained it all, and he laughed.

“Well played, Miss Foster.”

She merely sipped her drink. The glass was only half empty and she was starting to feel the alcohol tingle through her legs and fingers. One drink would definitely be enough.

“I was born in Maine, you know. In Houlton,” she explained. “That’s where my gram lived, and where she had my dad.”

“So what prompted the move to Nova Scotia?”

“How did you know that’s where I’m from?” Good heavens, was nothing sacred around here?

He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. “It might have been mentioned that you had Nova

Scotia license plates. Besides, I saw your car at the house.”

Abby couldn’t stop the smile that curved her lips as she thought, “Small towns.” “Of course. Good old Bill at the gas station, right? Anyway, my mom was from Nova Scotia, and we moved there when I was young.” There was more to the story, but Abby wasn’t about to get into her long, screwed-up family history with Tom. No one wanted to hear a sob story about how her mother was more interested in being a party girl than a mother or her childhood spent traveling from one trailer to another. There was a difference between presenting basic facts and airing dirty family laundry. Especially to someone who was practically a stranger.

“So you have dual citizenship.”

“Comes in handy sometimes.” Her stomach rumbled and she wondered how much longer the food was going to take. “I just came to have some dinner,” she said, turning her glass around on the cocktail napkin. “If there’s something you wanted, now’d be a good time. I’m hungry.”

His face lost all trace of teasing. “All right, I’ll get right to my point. I want to buy your house.”

She nearly dropped her glass, the condensation slipping down her fingers as she stared at him. “What?”

“You don’t want it, right? And you’re going to sell it anyway. So sell it to me.”

Abby hadn’t seen the offer coming, but she could tell he was dead serious. “I thought you were a contractor.”

“I am.”

“And I didn’t say I was selling it.” The words came out, even though she knew them to be a lie.

He sat back in his chair. “So you’re keeping it? Staying here?”

“I didn’t say that, either.” She folded her hands. “You were right about one thing. I can’t sell it as it is. It needs work, but I’m still trying to get a full picture. It would be irresponsible to sell to you right now. After all, I doubt I’d get market value. You’ll do the renovations and then flip it for a tidy profit.”

“So? I’d be saving you a lot of headache,” he persisted.

“The house hasn’t exactly been the source of my headache today,” she pointed out.