"But we're not so glad to pay the heating bills," Vera said as they reached the kitchen. The room was blessedly cozy because of the pellet stove sitting in one corner of the fireplace.

"Good Lord, this must be original." James ran a hand over the gray fieldstones of the hearth. "Five feet square at least, and these look like genuine buggy axles."

He fingered the pot swings on either side of the enormous fireplace, then draped his coat over the back of a chair.

"I don't know what they are," Vera said. "An old Mennonite gentleman came to point and parge, and he ended up doing a great deal more than that. I love that fireplace, but I also love the exposed chestnut logs and the flagstone floor. This time of year, I wear two pairs of wool socks twenty-four-seven. Have a seat."

James wandered around the kitchen a while longer, a man who apparently enjoyed touching things-the mantel, the cabinets, the marble counters, the drawer pulls of the antique breakfront that stored her mother's china. He caressed wood and stone as if he'd coax secrets from Vera's counters and chimney, while she wondered where he'd acquired his calluses.

"Whipped cream, Mr. Knightley?"

"Please, and a little nutmeg, if you have it."

"A connoisseur." And lo, lurking next to the oregano in Vera's spice rack was a canister of nutmeg, probably leftover from holiday baking. A connoisseur would appreciate fresh, homemade cookies, so she got down her cookie tin and peered inside. "We're in luck. My daughter has left us a few cookies."

Half a batch of homemade chocolate-chip pecan turtles remained, and they'd be scrumptious with hot chocolate.

"Don't bother putting them on a plate," James said. "I can dip into the jar, same as any other civilian. How long have you lived here?"

He could probably finish the entire batch without gaining an ounce, too, and keep up the small talk the entire time.

Which was...charming? A lifetime spent in practice rooms and concert halls didn't equip a woman with a ready ability to a.n.a.lyze men.

Sobering thought.

"I moved here with my daughter a little over a year ago," Vera said, putting a plain white mug of whole milk into the microwave. "Twyla will get off the school bus in about fifteen minutes, and if I'm going to walk to the foot of the lane, I'd better not linger over my hot chocolate."

A bit rude, offering the man a drink one minute and hustling him along the next. Anger could leave a woman that rattled, but Vera's guest didn't seem offended.

"Your lane has to be half a mile long, and it's not quite thirty degrees out with a mighty brisk breeze. Are you sure you want to walk that distance?"

"I'm sure I do not," she said, giving his hot chocolate a final stir. "But somebody has broken into my garage. Today, I don't expect an eight-year-old to trudge that distance by herself." Though Twyla did, on the days when her mother wasn't feeling paranoid.

Angry, not paranoid. Rattled, anyway.

And mildly charmed.

Something in James's expression changed, became more focused. "Your garage was broken into? You mentioned a mechanic."

"One of my tires is flat. I've called the road service, but I'm off the beaten path, and finding somebody to put on the spare will take a while. I'm pretty sure I can figure it out. I've changed a tire or two."

Half a lifetime ago, on a vintage Bug, while one of her brothers had alternately coached her and laughed uproariously.

Now would be a good time for a guy with broad shoulders and competent hands to tell her that tires went flat for no reason all the time. Even brand-new tires that had cost a bundle to have put on and balanced.

When Vera had squirted whipped cream onto James's hot chocolate, he appropriated the nutmeg from her and did the honors, then spun the lazy Susan that held her spices and added a dash of cinnamon.

They worked in the same a.s.sembly line fashion on Vera's drink, the spices contributing a soothing note to the kitchen fragrances.

"Ladies first," James said, saluting with his mug.

Because James looked like he'd wait all winter, Vera took a sip of her drink.

Rich, interesting, sweet, and nourishing-an altogether lovely concoction in the middle of a dreadful day. A small increment of Vera's upset slid away, or at least from her immediate grasp.

"Your vehicle was vandalized while your car sat in a garage that I'll presume you keep locked," James said, staring at his mug. "You suspect your ex is behind this?"

Lawyers, even hot chocolateswilling lawyers with interesting blue eyes, were good at putting together facts.

Right now, that was a helpful quality.

"I'm fairly certain my ex is carrying a grudge," Vera said, "and fairly certain he stole my copy of the restraining order. Without it, if I call the cops, they might show up, but they won't do anything if they find Donal here. If I can wave the order at them, they might lock him up."

James helped himself to a paper towel and pa.s.sed one to Vera, folding his up to use as a coaster on her butcher-block counter. He wasn't shy about sharing personal s.p.a.ce, and he smelled good-piney, outdoorsy, and-best of all-not like Donal.

"Domestic relations law hasn't been my area for several years," he said, "but I think you have the gist of it. If you like, I can reach Trent on his cell and verify that."

"Please don't. I already feel like a ninny for calling him. He's newly married, isn't he?"

"Very, and he chose well this time."

James's tone suggested the first Mrs. Knightley had not enjoyed her brother-in-law's wholehearted approval, though her successor apparently did.

"I chose reasonably well the first time," Vera said, "not so well on the rebound."

"Whereas I have yet to choose. You make a mean hot chocolate, Mrs. Waltham." He touched his mug to Vera's, probably signaling an end to the self-disclosure session.

"Call me Vera, and have some cookies."

He took a bite of cookie, catching the crumbs in his hand. "What time did you say the bus came?"

"Any minute. Why?"

He put a set of keys on the counter. "We can take my car."

"That's not necessary." In truth, as charming as he was, as handsome as he was, the idea of getting into a vehicle with James left Vera uneasy. Donal was handsome and occasionally gruffly charming. He could also be a d.a.m.ned conniving snake with a bad temper.

"You take the car then." James slid the keys toward her. "It's colder than a well digger's...boots out there, and I have a niece who's seven-a pair of them, actually. This isn't weather a lady should have to face alone at the end of a long day."

Twyla bounced up the lane on colder days than this, and James had to know that-the Knightley family was local, after all. He'd pa.s.sed Vera his keys for another reason, one having to do with her near panic at having no wheels, and ladies facing bad weather all on their own.

"I can put your spare on while you wait for the bus," he said, while the keys sat three inches from Vera's hand.

Until fifteen months ago, Vera had never lived on her own, ever. She'd given up leaning on a man, and so far, the results had been wonderful-when they weren't scary.

"I can't let you do that, James. It's too much trouble."

"It's no trouble at all to a guy who was tearing down engines from little up. I like the smell of axle grease, and I haven't had homemade cookies since I don't know when. Scat," he said, taking her hand and slapping the keys into her palm. "If you leave now, you can have the seats nice and toasty by the time your daughter gets off the bus."

He brought his mug to the sink and rinsed it out, leaving it in the drain rack. The line of his back was long and lean in the vest of what looked like a very expensive three-piece suit.

What was Vera doing, ogling the man's back?

James Knightley washed his dishes, and for some reason, that rea.s.sured Vera he could be trusted to change a tire. Even so, she had to wonder what Trent Knightley had told his brother of her divorce. Attorney-client privilege was one thing, but James was both brother and law partner to Trent.

Men gossiped. Alexander had a.s.sured her they gossiped as much as women did, and Vera's first husband had not lied to her...all that often.

"The garage is this way," she said, leaving her hot chocolate unfinished. "You can take the cookies with you."

"They're good." He took one more and set the tin back up on top of the fridge with the casual ease of a tall man. "Trent recalls your cookies fondly."

Not a hint of innuendo in that line-not that innuendo would have been welcome.

"I'll drop a batch off the next time I'm in town," Vera said, turning on the garage lights. "Call it a wedding present. I think the temperature has fallen as the day has gone on."

"We're supposed to get a dump of snow later this week and-Vera Waltham, I am in love. You own a 1964 Ford Falcon, and this blue is probably the original paint color. My, my, my. Does she run?"

Cars and houses were female to James Knightley. Would he also consider pianos female?

"Not at the moment. The Faithful Falcon needs a battery, among other things, but some fine day, I want to see my daughter behind that wheel. The car belonged to Alexander's grandmother, and he wanted Twyla to have it."

James left off perusing the old car and scowled at Vera's other vehicle, a late-model bright red Tundra, listing slightly.

"That's why n.o.body wants to come change your tire."

"What's why?"

"These pickups have the spare up under the bed," he said, opening the truck's driver's side door.

His movements and his voice were brisk, all male-in-antic.i.p.ation-of-using-tools-and-getting-his-hands-dirty. "The mechanism for holding the spare in its brace always gets rusted, and to get the tire down, you have to thread this puppy here"-he rummaged under her backseat-"through a little doodad over the tag, and into a slot about"-he emerged holding the jack and a long metal rod-"the size of a pea, and then get it to work, despite the corrosion. I love me a st.u.r.dy truck, but the design of the spare brace a.s.sembly leaves something to be desired. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Like she'd heard no sweeter music that day than a man recounting the pleasures of intimate a.s.sociation with a truck? He cradled the jack a.s.sembly the way some violinists held their concert instruments.

"You reminded me of my oldest brother. I forget not all men are like Donal."

Some men dropped their afternoon plans, took time to get a court order certified, minded their manners, and rinsed out their dishes. Some men changed tires without being asked. Vera would never be in love again-Olga had an entire lecture about the pitfalls of romantic attraction-but Vera could appreciate a nice guy when one came to her door.

"I couldn't stop you from changing that tire if I tried, could I?"

"No. You could not. Trucks and I go way back, and I don't like this Donal character very much." James's gold cuff links had gone into a pocket, and he was already turning back his sleeves. "Don't you have a school bus to catch?"

He said it with a smile, with one of those charming, endearing smiles. Could he know that for Vera to even drive down the lane alone would take a bit of courage?

Fortunately, n.o.body embarked on a solo career at age seventeen without saving up some stores of courage.

"You're right. I have a bus to catch," Vera said. "You're sure this is OK?"

"Shoo," he replied, positioning the jack under the axle with his foot. "I may not be done by the time you get back, but I will put the hurt to the rest of those cookies before I go, if your daughter doesn't beat me to it."

Vera left him in her garage, cheerfully popping loose lug nuts. If she'd had to do that, she'd probably have been jumping up and down on the tire iron while calling on St. Jude, and still the blasted bolts would not have budged.

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The First Kiss.

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Kiss Me h.e.l.lo.

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Praise for Grace Burrowes: "Burrowes's great writing and ability to bring her characters to life with subtle power and authenticity enhance an emotionally charged romance." -Kirkus "I love her style of writing and the stories she tells have depth and emotion that will capture your heart and mind." -Night Owl Reviews For more Grace Burrowes, visit:.

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