Willowleaf Lane. RaeAnne Thayne

      CHAPTER TWO

      A FEW HOURS after leaving the candy store, Spence decided house hunting had to rank about dead last on his list of favorite activities. Even behind the IRS audit he had once endured.

      “I’ve got several more houses to show you but I’m not sure we even need to see them,” the perky real estate agent flashed her extremely white teeth at him as they pulled up to the address she indicated, in a neighborhood he remembered delivering papers to.

      “Given what you’ve told me you’re looking for, I think you’ll really love this house,” Jill Sellers went on. “The location is fantastic, close to the mouth of Silver Strike Canyon and the recreation center but within walking distance of the downtown restaurant scene. The house comes fully furnished, which I know you want. The interior is beautifully designed in a contemporary style for the discriminating renter.”

      Was that what he was? Since when? As far as he was concerned, a couple beds and a working kitchen just about covered his needs.

      She beamed at him, which he found more than a little unsettling. He certainly didn’t remember her being this helpful when they went to school together, at least in their earlier years. By the time he had reached high school, he had started to excel in sports and the same girls—who the year before had turned up their nose when he walked past in his ripped jeans and too-small jacket—had suddenly seemed to look at him with new eyes.

      He supposed he should be grateful he wasn’t a complete leper in town.

      “I’m sure we’ll love it,” he answered.

      “Or not,” Peyton muttered.

      She hadn’t liked any of the rental properties Jill had showed them in the past two hours—and made no secret of it. Several houses later, he was sick of her attitude and tired of trying to find something she might like, when he knew in his bones she wasn’t going to be happy with anything.

      Nothing in Hope’s Crossing would please her. She was quite determined to hate everything about the community, which ought to make for an interesting six months.

      He sighed, wondering again if he had made a huge mistake taking this job at the recreation center. It had seemed like an ideal opportunity when Harry Lange had called him—far better than sitting around working on his golf handicap, dabbling in a few investment interests he had held on to and waiting for offers he knew were never coming.

      He had also had some vague idea that perhaps this might be an opportunity for him to reconnect with the daughter who had turned into a baffling, surly stranger.

      “You’re going to have to at least take a look inside before I’ll let you tell me how much you hate it,” he said to Peyton.

      “Whatever.”

      She followed the two of them into the house. Though moderately sized from the outside, the inside seemed to open up, probably because of the soaring windows of the two-story great room that looked out behind the house at Silver Strike Canyon. From the front, the house would have a pretty view of town.

      The decor, while fine, seemed a little impersonal. What else could he expect in a property that was mainly used as an executive rental?

      The master bedroom was huge with an oversize shower in the attached bath that featured multiple showerheads. The second bedroom also had an attached bath and he saw Peyton’s eyes light up at the jetted tub, though she quickly veiled her expression.

      The best feature of the house, as far as he was concerned, was the completely glass solarium with a small but adequate lap pool.

      “This one works for me,” he said when they returned to the gourmet kitchen for another look, after Jill Sellers had led them through the house, her speech punctuated with exclamation points and capital letters. “We’ll take it.”

      “I just knew you’d love it!”

      She touched his arm in a way he definitely recognized as flirtatious. He glanced down at her hand against his sleeve, the nails pink, sharp and glossy. Unbidden, he had a sudden image of Charlotte Caine’s hands, competent, a little callused, with her nails short and unpainted.

      She had made all the fudge in the store. Peyton had told him as much when she had rather grudgingly shared a couple samples with him.

      He forced away thoughts of Charlotte. “You must have good instincts,” he said in reply to Jill.

      “I hope so. Without good instincts, I wouldn’t be able to do my job, would I?”

      He didn’t know a blasted thing about being a real estate agent and had no desire to learn. Of course, he didn’t know the first damn thing about being the director of a community recreation center either, yet here he was, preparing to take on the job.

      “Can you see if they’ll consider a short-term lease? I only want six months. And how soon can we move in?”

      He wasn’t even sure if he—or Peyton—would make it that long, but he had committed to six months and intended to stick to his contract with Harry.

      “I’ll speak to the owner, see if I can negotiate a little, and bring you back a lease agreement to sign in a few hours. You could be in this little gem by bedtime.”

      “I still don’t see what’s wrong with staying at the lodge,” Peyton muttered.

      What he wouldn’t give to have her carry on a halfway civil conversation with him. Of course she preferred the luxurious accommodations at the Silver Strike Lodge. But he had a feeling Harry wouldn’t be too thrilled about extending their stay indefinitely in rooms that generally went for several hundred dollars a night.

      “We’re not spending the next six months in a hotel. We need a real house.”

      “We have a real house. In Portland.”

      By the time those six months were up, she was going to make him crazy. “Which will still be there when we’re finished here in Hope’s Crossing. Meantime, we need a kitchen, outdoor space, room for a housekeeper.”

      “Babysitter, you mean.”

      This was another argument he didn’t want to debate with her again so he decided to ignore the comment for now. “This works better than any of the others we looked at, don’t you think?”

      “I guess.”

      That was as ringing an endorsement as he was likely to get from her. “We’re in,” he said to Jill. “Give me a call after you talk to the property management company.”

      “I will. I have your number. And you have mine, right?”

      “I’m sure I can find it somewhere.” He managed a polite smile and hoped she understood he didn’t intend to call her about anything but his real estate needs—which, after signing this lease, would be nonexistent.

      He ushered Peyton out to the Range Rover he had picked up to replace the sports car he drove in Oregon. As he backed out of the driveway and turned in the direction of the canyon mouth, he was struck by the charming view—the colorful houses nestled in trees as they climbed the foothills, the picturesque downtown with its historic architecture, the grand rugged mountains standing sentinel over the valley.

      He certainly didn’t remember Hope’s Crossing ever being so appealing when he was living with his mother in that tiny dilapidated house a few blocks off Main Street that probably hadn’t been painted since his grandfather had died twenty years before Spence was born.

      Kids could certainly be self-absorbed and he