A Gift for All Seasons

His brows crashed together. What was left of them, anyway. “I’m not—”

“The heck you aren’t. Because you know darn well what I’m talking about. Although if it makes you feel better, let me spell it out. I acted like a total dimwit when I noticed your scars. I don’t know why, I certainly wasn’t raised like that, and there’s no way I could live with myself without apologizing for my bad behavior. And no, you’re under no obligation to accept my apology, but I am obligated to give it. So. You ready to get started or what?”

For a good five, six seconds, Patrick could only gape at April like, as she put it, a total dimwit. Sure, her wanting to make amends probably stemmed more from ingrained good manners than anything else, but there’d been a fire behind her words that gave him pause. That, and that damned steady gaze, which was rattling him to hell and back.

“Apology accepted,” he heard himself mutter, then cleared his throat. “You might want to put on a coat or something, it’s pretty cold out here.”

She nodded, then vanished into the house, only to return a minute or so later with another woman, a tall blonde who looked vaguely familiar.

“This is my cousin, Blythe Broussard,” April said, wrapped up in an expensive-looking tan coat that fell well below her knees. “She’s overseeing the house remodel, but she’s also got some ideas for the landscaping.”

Still no husband. Interesting.

And maybe the guy simply isn’t here at the moment—

And this was nuts. He’d worked with plenty of female clients before, but this was the first time he could remember giving even half a thought to who they lived with, or were married to, or whatever. Mentally slapping himself, Patrick turned his attention to Blythe, who also met his gaze dead-on. Although, unlike her cousin, she’d probably been forewarned.

“Then let’s get started,” he said, waving the clipboard toward the gouged, muddy front yard—a fitting symbol for his life if ever there was one. “After you, ladies.”

She’d let Blythe do most of the talking that day. For many reasons, not the least of which was that Blythe had a far better handle on matters horticultural than April did. Or probably ever would. But for another, even though she’d gotten the apology out fine, the way Patrick had looked at her afterward had practically rendered her mute.

Although whether the condition was temporary or not remained to be seen, she thought as she pulled up outside the generic warehouse building on the other side of town, the unpaved parking lot littered with assorted trucks ranging in size from massive to gargantuan, not to mention all manner of digging and hauling equipment.

It’d been a week since the appointment. She’d assumed Patrick would send or drop off the plans and estimate at the inn, but the secretary who’d called had said he’d prefer she come to the office for the presentation. So here she was, clutching closed her Harris Tweed blazer as she trooped through the wind toward the door. At Clay’s urging, she’d gradually ditched her old wardrobe in favor of the classier—and more classic—items he’d kindly suggested would better reflect her new status. Hence the blazer. And the designer riding boots. But since moving back to St. Mary’s, she’d also reacquainted herself with jeans and the loose, comfy sweaters she’d once loved, even if she no longer had to rely on thrift stores or seventy-five-percent-off sales to buy them.

Instead of the middle-aged woman she’d heard on the phone, an older man in black-rimmed glasses sat behind the battered desk, his navy hoodie zipped up underneath a canvas coat as work worn as the desk. But his grin, set in a clefted chin, eased the nervousness she’d refused to fully acknowledge until that moment.

“Ms. Ross, right?” he said, rising and extending a rough hand.

“Yes—”

“I’m Joe, Patrick’s dad. He’s on the horn, but go on back to the conference room. We don’t stand on ceremony around here. You want some coffee?” He pointed to the standard-issue Mr. Coffee on the metal cart in front of the paneled wall. “It’s fresh, Marion made it before she ran to the bank—”

“Oh … no, thanks, I’m good.”

“Okay, then. It’s straight back, you can’t miss it.”

She heard Patrick before she saw him, his rich, deep laughter making her breath catch. That he could laugh like that made blood rush to her cheeks all over again. The conference “room” was nothing more than a collection of tables and folding chairs, no interior walls, with a big-screen TV—which probably cost more than the rest of the furniture altogether—mounted on the paneling on the far side of the space.

His cell phone clamped to his ear, Patrick lounged in the far chair with one work-booted foot propped on the table in front of him, his “good” side to her. Focused on his conversation, he didn’t see her at first. It was a nice face, April decided, although Mel was right—you couldn’t call it exactly handsome. Honest, though. Good lines. A man’s face, she decided, one befitting someone older than his late twenties, since she guessed he was about the same age as Mel. Which made him a year or so older than her—

She suddenly realized he’d noticed her, his expression downgrading to neutral as he lowered his foot, then stood, pocketing his phone.

“Sorry. Didn’t see you standing there.”

Her stomach fluttered, from nerves, from something much worse, as she smiled. “It’s okay. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

He nodded, then waved her in. “Have a seat, then. This won’t take too long.”

The coolness in his voice made April cringe. For all his assurance the other day that he’d accepted her apology, there was no mistaking the change in his demeanor once he’d noticed her presence. Not that she expected everyone in the world to like her, but it killed her to think she’d done something, unwittingly or not, to hurt another human being.

Then again, she thought as she sat on one of the metal chairs, she’d been as sincere as she knew how when she’d tried to undo her gaffe. True, she couldn’t imagine what he’d been through, but despite this annoying quirk that made her want to resolve every problem life tossed in her path, she had to remind herself it wasn’t any of her business. Goodness, even Clayton had tried his best to convince her that, oddly enough, the entire world was not her responsibility. Breaking the habits of a lifetime, though—not so easy.

And keeping this relationship strictly professional would be one small, important step toward that goal. Contractor and client—this, she could do.

Then an image of what she realized could be the inn’s front yard appeared on the screen—a yard filled with stone paths and flower beds, blooming fruit trees and lush bushes. Of seating areas nestled into several outdoor “rooms.” A pair of evergreens flanking the porch steps, a hedge of roses alongside a low stone wall. And more, much more than she could take in.

“It could really look like that?”

“It really could,” Patrick said from several feet away, then began to explain what she was looking at, periodically adjusting the image as he took her on a virtual tour, his obvious enthusiasm for his work leaching past April’s not-so-hot-to-begin-with defenses. “The idea is to make it an all-season landscape—hence the evergreens. To decorate for the holidays, if you like.”

In the heat of the moment, their gazes met. Tangled. April quickly returned her attention to the screen. Not making that mistake again, nope.

“Oh … yes,” she said, willing her heart to stop pounding. “Perfect.”

“And in the back …” He clicked a few keys, and the backyard appeared. “A gazebo for weddings. Or whatever.”

Her throat clogged. “It’s absolutely amazing.”

“It also doesn’t come cheap.”

Ah, yes. Money. Business. Stay on track. “I wouldn’t imagine that it does.”

“Figured I may as well give you the full monty, we can always cut back if we have to.” He reached for a slim folder beside the computer, handed it to her. “Here’s the estimate, with a complete breakdown for materials and labor. See what you think.”

April pulled out the papers, scanned them, flipped to the last page, had a brief pang of conscience—considering all those years when she couldn’t even buy her mother flowers—then held out her hand. “Got a pen?”

Clearly, Patrick hadn’t expected that. “You sure? I mean, no questions—?”

“Nope.” She dug her checkbook out of her purse, discovered a pen already in it. “Never mind, I have a pen. I take it you’d like half down now?”

“Actually, we do it in thirds—”

She wrote out the amount, signed the contract, then handed it back to him with the check. “So when can you start?”

He separated the copies from the original, slipped hers into another folder, then set the folder in front of her. “Next week? The weather looks like it’s going to stay decent at least through the middle of the month.”

“Great,” she said, getting to her feet, then extending her hand, which he took. Another mistake, but too late now. And the sizzling would subside eventually.

The folder tucked against her side, she started out the door, wanting to get away from that intense, puzzled gaze. But he stopped her with, “I don’t get it.”

She turned, frowning. “Pardon?”

“Why you didn’t haggle.”

“Was I supposed to?”

“People … usually do.”