All They Need

chapter FIVE



FLYNN BREATHED IN THE COOL winter air as he walked toward the house later that day, allowing the fact that he was here and this was real and that he was actually doing this to sink into his bones. Yes, restoring Summerlea was going to be a huge challenge, but it was doable. It was definitely doable.

He’d spent the past few hours completing a slow, painstaking tour of the garden. He had a list as long as his arm of basic maintenance issues to attend to, and he mentally allocated his free time to tasks as he climbed the stairs. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that it would take him a long time to turn things around here, doing it piecemeal, when his schedule allowed. A lot of people would simply throw money at it and let other people make the problems go away, but Flynn hadn’t bought Summerlea to delegate. Once, he’d hoped to spend his life making other people’s gardens beautiful, livable and sustainable. He’d given that dream up, but Summerlea offered him a different outlet for his passion.

Some people might call it a sop, and maybe it was. But it was his sop, and he was bloody well going to give it his all.

He kicked his shoes off inside the door, then padded around the house in his socks, washed his hands and finally carried the groceries he’d bought for dinner from the kitchen to the living room. He lit half a dozen candles, then set a match to the fire he’d laid earlier. Flames licked up the kindling and flared along the logs and he felt a very primitive sense of satisfaction.

Me man, me make fire.

Smirking at his own idiocy, he turned his thoughts to dinner. He’d bought a range of goodies—a truly indulgent picnic, really. A round of brie, gourmet crackers, olives stuffed with almonds and feta, tiny bell peppers filled with goat’s cheese, salty cashew nuts, a long, thin loaf of Afghan bread slathered with garlic, triple-smoked ham. For dessert, he had a slab of fruit and nut chocolate, and he had a choice of either an Australian shiraz or a New Zealand pinot noir to accompany his feast.

He was unwrapping the creamy-looking round of brie and contemplating which bottle of wine to open when he heard what he thought was a knock at the front door. He stilled, head cocked to one side. Sure enough, after a few seconds the knock sounded again.

He walked into the hall, baffled as to who it might be. The only people he knew in Mount Eliza were Mel and Spencer, the real estate agent. Given the way Mel had retreated when he’d bumped into her in town, he figured the odds were good it was Spencer. Which was a bummer, for a number of reasons.

Then he opened the door and recognized Mel’s tall, athletic silhouette in the deeper gloom of the porch.

“Mel. Hey,” he said, genuinely surprised.

“Oh. You’re here.” She made a nervous gesture with her hand. “When you didn’t answer, I thought maybe you’d gone out. I was just going to leave these here for you…?.”



For the first time he registered the two lanterns and a bottle of what looked to be kerosene at her feet.

“I found these in my shed when I was tidying up this afternoon and thought of you,” she explained.

“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week.”

She smiled, then moved away. Her car keys jingled in her hand. She was about to run again.

“Hang on to them for as long as you like.” She started to take another step backward but he reached out and caught her wrist.

“Not so fast. Before you go rushing off again, I need to make an unmanly confession—I have no idea how to light one of these things.”

Her wrist was warm in his hand. He could feel her pulse beneath his fingertips.

“They’re pretty simple.” She tugged lightly on her wrist and he let her go.

“Does that mean you won’t come in and have a glass of wine with me and show me what to do?”

She glanced over her shoulder, almost as though there was someone waiting for her in the car. For the first time it occurred to him that maybe there was, that maybe she had somewhere else to be.

Someone else to be with.

She was an attractive woman, after all. Young, single. The odds were good that the first guy with eyes in his head had snapped her up once her divorce was finalized.

“Unless I’m stepping on someone else’s toes?” he asked.

“No. I just— Sure, I can show you how to light them.”

He noticed that she’d avoided responding to the rest of his invitation. He grabbed one of the lanterns by its wire handle and held the door wide while she collected the second and the bottle of kerosene. She entered the house and he gestured for her to head into the living room. Firelight cast a warm glow over the room, while the few candles he’d lit created their own small pools of light.

“Do you have matches or a lighter?” Mel asked as she placed her lantern to the left of where he’d set up his camping gear.

He pulled the box of matches from his hip pocket and handed them over. She knelt in front of the first lantern, carefully pouring kerosene into the tank below the wick. A strand of her long, curly hair slid over her cheek and she pushed it back impatiently. She put the lamp together, then lifted the glass shade. A match flared to life in her hand and she applied it to the wick. It took immediately, burning with a bright blue-and-orange flame before settling down. She slid the glass into place and a warm glow spread out from the lantern.

“That’s more like it. Much more civilized,” he said.

Mel glanced at him briefly, her mouth curved into that uncertain smile of hers. Then she shifted to the second lantern and repeated the process.

While she was occupied, he opened the bottle of shiraz and poured wine into two of the plastic tumblers he’d bought along with his other supplies that morning.

“There you go,” Mel said as the second lantern came to life. “When you want to shut them off, just lift the glass and blow out the flame. They can be a bit smelly, so make sure the room stays ventilated.”

She pushed herself to her feet and he held out the glass of wine. She shook her head immediately. “I can’t.”

“Somewhere else to be?”

“Not exactly…”

“Giving wine up for Lent?”

She smiled slightly. “No.”

“Then have a drink with me. It’s my first night in Summerlea and, while I don’t have anything against swilling a whole bottle of wine on my own, as a rule I prefer company.”

She hesitated for a moment longer before taking the glass. “Thank you.”

“Have a seat,” he said, waving toward the array of pillows and rolled-up bedding he’d fashioned into a couch of sorts. “I can offer you a pillow, or a rolled-up sleeping bag and sleeping pad. Nothing but the best.”

She looked as though she wanted to say no again—no doubt she’d planned to simply stand there and gulp down her wine before making a bolt for the door—but after another one of those maddening hesitations she crossed to the fire and knelt to the right of the hearth, her wine in one hand. He’d set the chopping board on top of an old crate he’d found in the kitchen and he crouched there now and cut the brie into bite-size wedges.

“You should know I have victuals as well as wine,” he said, sliding the chopping board toward her. “This is a quality establishment.”

“I can’t eat your dinner.”

“Trust me. There’s plenty. My eyes are bigger than my belly. Always have been.”

He started peeling lids off deli containers until the peppers, olives and ham were arrayed in front of her. He added the bread, crackers and cashew nuts then reached for his wineglass. Holding it high, he offered a toast.

“To Summerlea, and camping out, and finger food.” He leaned forward to clink his glass against hers.

She frowned, but didn’t say anything. He waited until she’d taken a mouthful before nudging the cheese toward her.

“Eat something. I dare you.”

Her gaze shot to his face, startled, and he raised his eyebrows. After a few seconds she grabbed an olive, popped it into her mouth and bit down almost defiantly.

He felt a ridiculous surge of triumph. She was staying. For now.

He tried to think of something to say that would put her at ease. His gaze fell on the lanterns. “So did you do much camping when you were younger?”

“Yes. Every summer, pretty much. It was the only way we could afford a family vacation.”

“Where did you go?”

“Dad likes to fish, so we always had to be near water of some kind. Lake Eildon, Eden, Merimbula, Wilson’s Promontory.”

“Did you like it?”

She thought about it for a moment. “You know, mostly I did. At the time I thought I didn’t. But in hindsight, those holidays were some of the best times we ever had as a family.”

“Did you sit around the campfire holding hands and singing ‘Kumbaya’?”

“Why? Are you about to break into song?”

He laughed. “Hardly.” He tore off a hunk of bread and passed it to her before tearing a second hunk for himself. “I always wanted to go camping when I was a kid but Mom hates sleeping rough. Which is pretty funny, given how much she loves gardening. She always says that if there’s no hot and cold running water, she’s not interested.”

“Mostly, I agree with her. But I’m prepared to make an exception every now and then. There are some parts of the world you can’t see without roughing it.”

She was starting to lose the tense, wary look around her eyes. Flynn settled against the rolled-up sleeping bag. The fire was really throwing out some heat now. Or maybe it was the wine warming his belly. Either way, he could feel the week’s worries slipping away.

“Tell me, have you ever had to deal with a blackberry thicket?” he asked.

“Yep. Got the scars to prove it, too.”

“I’ve got a huge one on the western boundary. About five meters long by two meters thick.”

She whistled. “Impressive.”

“I know received wisdom is to poison them, but I’m not a fan of using chemicals in the garden if I can avoid it.”

“You’re thinking of digging it out?”

“I guess I am, since that’s the only alternative.”

She grimaced. “Horrible job. I did it once. It’s not just a matter of cutting it back, you have to dig the roots out—and you have to dig deep, too. Anything you miss will sprout again in spring. Took me months to get on top of mine.”

“Yeah, I’m anticipating a battle. I’m trying to work out whether I should tackle it first or prune the orchard.”

“Blackberries, definitely. Those bad boys will take over if you let them go. I tell you what, I’ll drop my brush-cutter off for you tomorrow. That’ll break the back of it above ground for you, at the very least.”



“That’d be great, thanks. But only if it won’t be leaving you high and dry.”

She waved a hand to indicate she wasn’t fussed, then helped herself to some ham. She resettled with her legs stretched out to the side, her tumbler of wine within easy reach. The firelight struck auburn notes in her dark hair, and the heat had put a bloom in her cheeks. Of its own accord, his gaze slid below her neck to where her fuzzy blue sweater covered her full, round breasts.

He dragged his gaze away. He hadn’t asked her in for a drink so he could stare at her breasts—even if they were very, very nice.

“So, have you got any ideas for how you’re going to renovate the house yet?” she asked.

“Not a single one.”

She laughed and shook her head. “You’re such a gardener.”

“Guilty as charged. I have a friend who’s an interior designer. I might let her loose on it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Won’t Hayley have something to say about that?”

He shouldn’t have been surprised that she assumed he and Hayley were still a couple. After all, five weeks ago they’d arrived arm-in-arm to stay in one of Mel’s cottages together. But he was, and it took him a moment to formulate a reply.

“Hayley and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” She took a big gulp of her wine, her swallow audible. Her free hand smoothed down her thigh before gripping her leg above her knee. Tightly, if her white knuckles were anything to go by.

“It’s okay, Mel. I didn’t invite you in so I could jump your bones.” He’d meant it half as a joke, half as reassurance, but she only grew more tense.

“I should go,” she said abruptly. She set her glass on the hearth and stood. She seemed impossibly tall viewed from his prone position, with her features limned by firelight and her curls a halo around her face and shoulders.

“Okay,” he said, more than a little baffled by how quickly their conversation had shifted. He swallowed the last of his wine, then stood and led her to the door. The cold night air was a shock after the coziness of the living room.

“Thanks for the drink,” she said as she moved past him to the porch.

“Thanks for bringing the lanterns. And for being my first visitor.”

She rolled a shoulder, brushing off his gratitude. “Have a good night.”

She disappeared into the darkness. He stood in the doorway listening to her retreating footsteps. After a while there was nothing but silence, then he heard the faint, distant sound of a car starting. He shut the door and returned to the living room, where he threw more wood on the fire and poured himself another glass of wine. Then he stretched out, his head supported by the sleeping bag.

He couldn’t work her out. Every time he saw her she seemed to be walking on eggshells—when she wasn’t backing away at a million miles an hour. He’d practically had to hold her at gunpoint to get her to accept a glass of wine.

Yet she’d gone out of her way to bring him the lanterns tonight, and he bet if he arrived at her place at three in the morning, he’d find the key to Tea Cutter Cottage beneath her doormat.

He thought about how she’d looked, standing above him a few minutes ago outlined by firelight, and acknowledged to himself—at last—that he found her attractive. Very attractive.

He always had.

And maybe he’d lied when he’d said he hadn’t invited her in to jump her bones.

If he closed his eyes, he could still remember in vivid detail how she’d looked rising out of the fountain at the Hollands’ that night, her gown glued to every curve and hollow of her body. Over a year and a half had passed, but that moment was still etched in his memory as though it was yesterday.

That didn’t mean he was going to do anything about it. No matter how sexy her tall, athletic body was. No matter how compelling he found her soft gray eyes and wide, mobile mouth.

Someone had hurt Mel Porter. Quite badly, if he was any judge. She was vulnerable. Maybe even a little broken.

He was the very last thing she needed in her life. As he’d proven so thoroughly with Hayley, he was not a good bet in the romance department right now. He had too much on his plate, too much uncertainty in his world, and he didn’t want to set up expectations that he wasn’t going to fulfill again. At best, he was good for some no-strings sex and some laughs, but Mel was not fling material. Not by a long shot.

He took a long swallow of wine and told himself it was a good thing she’d gone home.

By the time he’d finished his third glass, he had almost convinced himself it was true, too.





MEL CHASTISED HERSELF the whole drive home. She’d known taking the lanterns to Flynn’s place had been a bad idea. From the moment she’d spotted them in her garden shed this afternoon she’d been at war with herself, going back and forth over whether she should drop by Summerlea and offer them to Flynn or not.

She’d been worried the gesture would come across as sucky or ingratiating, as though she was desperate for Flynn to like her. In the end she’d convinced herself that if she dropped them off and didn’t try to parlay the brief contact into anything further, there was no way he could misconstrue her intentions as anything other than what they were—a friendly, neighborly gesture.

Then he’d asked her to show him how to light the lanterns, and the next thing she’d known she had a glass of wine in one hand and a piece of brie in the other.

Not what she’d anticipated, although she’d be lying if she pretended that she hadn’t enjoyed their conversation—until the moment he’d revealed he and Hayley had broken up.

A hot flush of embarrassment washed over Mel as she remembered the way she’d bolted for the door after he’d made that crack about jumping her bones. With the benefit of hindsight it was clear to her that he’d seen her tension and had been trying to put her at ease—and she’d responded by behaving like a scared rabbit.

Very sophisticated and adult. God, she was an idiot. She should have listened to her first instincts and simply stayed away from Summerlea and Flynn Randall.

She threw her keys onto the kitchen counter as she entered the house and crossed to the sink. Pouring herself a glass of water, she drank deeply. The empty glass thunked loudly against the counter as she set it down with too much force. She stared out the window past the dim reflection of her own features.

The world outside was dark and still. In contrast, she was buzzing with adrenaline, her head filled with mixed-up thoughts and half-acknowledged emotions.

She’d read the self-help books. She knew this was all standard fare for a woman recovering from psychological abuse. Knew, too, that it would take years for her to regain her confidence fully. If she ever did. It was a day-by-day battle to recover herself. Hour by hour.

Weariness washed over her. She was so sick of feeling anxious and uncertain. So sick of always doubting herself and second-guessing her every move.

Once upon a time, she’d been fearless. She’d been brave and confident and bold. She’d set off for London with two pairs of jeans, a pair of boots, half a dozen T-shirts and less than a thousand dollars in her bank account. She’d thrown herself into the adventure of travel—picked fruit, pulled beers, cleaned houses, packed boxes—done whatever it took to make enough money to live and move onto the next new place. She’d made great friends, had amazing experiences. Then she’d met Owen and fallen in love. The ultimate adventure. Or so she’d thought.

She’d come home and become Mrs. Melanie Hunter, and bit by bit, Mel Porter had slowly ceased to be, thanks to a concerted campaign by her husband to try to turn her into something other than what she was.

I want her back. I want to be that brave and confident again. I want to laugh without looking over my shoulder to see who is judging me. I want to just be.

She’d been trying. She’d been silencing the voice in her head whenever it started in on her—the voice that sometimes sounded like Owen, and sometimes like his mother. Mel had been doing her best to reconnect with her family and her old friends. She’d even been making a point of doing something impulsive every now and then, the way she used to before second-guessing herself had become a way of life.

She had no idea if any of it was making a difference, but she didn’t know what else to do, either.

Her gaze shifted, focusing on the ghostlike reflection in the window instead of the yard outside. The woman staring back at her looked so sad and lost that she felt an instinctive surge of compassion for her.

You’ll get there. Don’t worry. You’ll muddle your way through.

Turning away, she flicked off the light and walked to her bedroom. The familiar bedtime routine of washing her face and brushing her teeth was infinitely soothing, a form of behavioral valium, and she climbed into bed and pulled the quilt high around her shoulders.

Rather than give her whirling thoughts more oxygen, she very deliberately called up an image of her orchard-to-be.

Her brow furrowed with concentration, she began to plan her design. After a few minutes, her brow smoothed out.

Not long after that, she slipped into the forgetfulness and comfort of sleep.



THE FIRST THING Mel remembered the next morning was that she’d promised her brush-cutter to Flynn so he could tackle his blackberries.

She groaned, covering her face with her hands.

Everything in her rebelled at the thought of facing him again after her undignified retreat last night. There was no way he didn’t know why she’d left—she might as well have hung a sign over her head with the words I’m sexually aware of you glowing in hot pink neon, the way she’d scrambled for the exit the moment he’d mentioned he was single.

He probably doesn’t expect to see you, anyway. He probably thinks you made an off-the-cuff offer and won’t be surprised if you don’t follow through.

She seized on the idea the moment it registered. People made offers all the time that they didn’t follow through on. Come over for dinner sometime, we’ll have to catch up, blah, blah. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she simply…forgot to take her brush-cutter over to Summerlea.

Except, of course, that it would make her a big old yellow-bellied scaredy-cat. A cowardly custard who made excuses for herself instead of facing up to the world. Last night, she’d stood at her kitchen sink and grieved for the bold, adventurous, confident woman she’d once been. The only way she was going to get her back was to start challenging herself, pushing herself to move past all the little safety mechanisms she’d built into her life to protect herself and please her ex-husband.

She threw off the sheets and rolled out of bed. Then she showered and breakfasted and went out to collect the brush-cutter from the shed. She checked the oil, filled it with fuel and switched the bump-feed line head for the brush-cutting blade. Then she put all the necessary accessories together in a recyclable bag and loaded it into her car. She was about to head over to Summerlea when both sets of her guests appeared to hand in their keys and extend their thanks for a relaxing stay. She directed them to local cafés with reputations for good breakfasts and handed out winery trail maps and a guide to the Tyabb antiques market in case they wanted to see a little more of the area before heading home. Then she girded her loins and drove over to Summerlea.

She collected the brush-cutter and accessories and did battle with the rusty gate latch before marching up the path. Her boots sounded very heavy and loud on the porch as she crossed to the front door.

She knocked, the sound echoing inside the house. Flynn didn’t answer immediately and she rested the brush-cutter on the porch and knocked again. When nothing but silence greeted her, she walked around the house to double-check that his car was still there. It was.

He was obviously in the garden somewhere, even though it was still early. She could leave the equipment on the porch for him to find later. It was the perfect win-win—she would have fulfilled her obligation without having to look him in the eyes after last night’s cut and run.

Sure, why not do that, you big old wuss? Then you could swing by the supermarket on the way home and grab enough canned food and bottled water so that you don’t have to leave the house for the next six months.

She sighed. This being-brave, reclaiming-her-old-self business was hard work. Hoisting the cutter over her shoulder, she headed into the garden.

He’d mentioned the blackberry thicket was on the western boundary, so she headed there first. She walked along the sweep of lawn and onto a meandering forest path. She heard Flynn before she saw him, a colorful string of swear words floating to her on the breeze.

She found him in a small clearing that was dominated by a huge, bristling wall of blackberry bushes. The scattering of cut canes at his feet suggested he’d already launched his assault, but for the moment he was standing with his head bowed, a pair of hedge shears and thick gardening gloves at his feet as he examined a scratch on the back of his bare hand.

She took a deep breath. “Hi.”

His head snapped around, the frown sliding from his face when he saw her. “Hey.”

Even though her toes were curled inside her boots with self-consciousness, it was impossible not to feel warmed by the welcome in his eyes.

“You’re up early,” she said.

“I’ve never been good at sleeping in.”

“Me, either. Is it bad?” she asked, gesturing toward his hand.

“I’ll live.” His gaze shifted to the brush-cutter slung over her shoulder. “If that’s what I think it is, I may have to kiss your feet.”

“I told you I’d bring it over.”

He didn’t say anything and she knew they were both thinking about the way she’d bolted last night.

She cleared her throat. “Have you, um, used one of these before?”

“Only as a line trimmer.” He crossed to her side as she lowered the head of the cutter to the ground.

“It’s pretty simple. You prime the engine here, then use the pull cord. It usually starts the first time, but if it doesn’t, try priming it again. Here, I’ll show you.”

He moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers as she angled the motor so he could see the priming button. She tried to ignore the smell of his deodorant as she pumped the primer a few times, then pulled the cord. The engine sprang to noisy life.



“Look at that. More reliable than my car,” he said.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that he was smiling, but she didn’t dare look directly at him. She couldn’t. He was standing too close.

“So this is the throttle, yeah?” he asked, pointing to the orange control halfway down the shaft. “And I assume this is the safety stop switch?”

“Exactly. I brought you some protective gear, too. The blade kicks up a lot of debris.”

She handed the brush-cutter over and watched as Flynn put the harness on so that the strap ran diagonally across his chest, the weight of the machine balanced near his hip. He frowned, adjusting it first to one side of his body, then to the other.

“It’s sitting a little high,” she said. “You’re taller than me.”

“I’m not sure an inch really counts.”

“I thought inches always counted with men. Sometimes twice.” She had no idea where the comment came from, but it was out her mouth before she could catch herself.

He let out a crack of laughter.

“Sorry,” she said automatically.

“What for? For being funny?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes. Owen had hated her smart mouth. “Women don’t tell jokes,” he’d once told her. “It’s unfeminine. And let’s face it, you need all the help you can get in that department.”

She’d gotten used to guarding her words, in the same way that she’d gotten used to thinking twice before she did anything.

“If you stand still, I’ll adjust that for you,” she said, indicating the harness.

She stepped closer. The adjustable buckle lay low on Flynn’s belly, above the waistband of his jeans. Her fingers brushed hard stomach muscles through his sweater as she lifted the strap away from his body.

“Can you take the weight off the harness for a moment?” she asked.

He did so wordlessly, lifting the brush-cutter so the harness hung loosely. She fed more strap through the buckle, lengthening the harness by a good couple of inches.

“There. That should do it.”

She made the mistake of looking up before she moved away. His blue eyes, clear and sharp, seemed very bright this morning as they looked into hers. As though he could see all the way through to her soul. “Thanks, Mel.”

Flustered, she bent to collect the safety equipment, passing over the hearing protectors and face mask.

“I feel like I should be terrorizing teenagers in Friday the 13th,” he said as he pulled on the mask.

“Trust me, five seconds from now you’ll be grateful for it.”

He engaged the throttle experimentally before moving in on the blackberries for an experimental pass, the brush-cutter buzzing like an angry hornet. She stood to one side, watching his technique. After a few seconds she strode forward and touched his shoulder to get his attention.

He turned his head, eyebrows raised in question.

“Sweep it in more of an arc,” she yelled over the noise of the engine. “And it spits stuff out to the left, so if you keep stepping right, you should avoid walking into anything.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. She retreated again and watched as he followed her advice. After a few seconds he glanced at her for feedback and she gave him an okay signal.

He let the brush-cutter slow to an idle and pushed the safety mask high on his head.

“Thanks for this. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Hang on to it as long as you need it. And it’s four-stroke, so if it runs out of fuel it takes plain unleaded.”

“Noted, thanks.” He hesitated a moment, then took a step toward her. “Listen, Mel—”

The sharp ring of a cell phone filled the clearing. Flynn looked rueful. “You ever wonder what we did before these things?” he asked as he slid a sleek handset from his back pocket.

“We waited till Monday.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah, we did, didn’t we?”

He glanced briefly at the display and the smile faded from his mouth, his gaze sharpening as he took the call.

“Mom,” he said into the phone.

Mel turned away, not wanting him to think she was eavesdropping.

“How long has he been gone?”

His tone was unexpectedly curt and she glanced back at him. His expression was stony, his body tense as he directed all his energy to the phone call.

“Have you called the police?”

She frowned. It sounded as though there had been a break-in. Or maybe someone was lost.

“Don’t worry about that. Call them. I’ll be there as soon as I can. And Mom, don’t worry. We’ll find him, I promise.” He ended the call.

“I have to go. Sorry.” He started shrugging out of the harness. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin, straight line. Clearly, whatever was going on was an emergency.



She stepped forward, hand extended. “Here, give it to me. I’ll pack all this up and leave it in the garage so you can tackle the job another time.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it, Mel.” He handed the brush-cutter over, but hesitated before heading off.

“Go. Seriously,” she said, shooing him off with her free hand.

“I owe you.”

She shooed him off again and he smiled briefly before turning on his heel and heading for the house, his stride long and urgent. Within seconds he’d disappeared around the bend in the path.

She collected his gloves and hedge clippers, stowed the safety gear back in the bag and hoisted the brush-cutter over her shoulder. She walked toward the house, wondering all the way what could possibly have happened to make him so tense and worried so quickly.

Whatever it was, it was obviously a private matter. Otherwise he would have said something.

She was approaching the house when she heard a high-pitched mechanical whine. Both her father and brother were mechanics and she’d absorbed more than her fair share of know-how from them over the years. The whine sounded exactly like an old-style starter motor failing to catch. Again and again the motor protested, but the engine didn’t fire. She dumped the equipment by the front steps and hurried around the side of the house.

Flynn was propping up the hood of the Aston as she approached, his movements tight with frustration and urgency as he leaned over the engine. “Flynn.”

His head came up and she tossed him her car keys. He caught them automatically, his hand closing around them in a tight fist.

“It’s not what you’re used to, but it’s got a full tank. Get it back to me when you can.”

The relief in his face said more than any words ever could. “How will you get home?”

“It’s five minutes away, and I have these things called legs. Go,” she said, shooing him off for the second time that day.

He surprised her by taking a sudden step toward her and dropping a quick kiss onto her cheek. “Thank you.”

He was gone before she could respond. She could still feel the warmth of his mouth against her skin as she shut the hood. She checked the ignition and wasn’t surprised to see his keys were still dangling there.

She locked the car, then took the brush-cutter around to the garage and propped it in the nearest corner, along with the safety gear. Then she walked home, his keys heavy in her pocket.