Bluegrass Blessings. Allie Pleiter

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      Cameron found himself in an empty kitchen in the middle of the night, kneeling in front of an iron stove that looked as if it had lived through World War One, in pink flip-flops.

      The new year was not off to a good start.

      If anyone had told him even two months ago that he’d find himself in this circumstance, he might have called security and had them thrown out of his office.

      Until, of course, his boss had called security and had Cameron thrown out of his own office. Funny thing, those bosses. They don’t take kindly to being told their companies are corrupt. Not at Landemere Properties where Cameron worked—ahem, used to work—before he was told, in terms persuasive enough to make an employment attorney salivate, that his desk should be emptied and his resignation should be on the boss’s desk within the hour.

      You know, Lord, when I said that prayer asking what to do about the moral problems I was having with work? I wasn’t really asking to leave my job. Or the state.

      Cameron was just pondering his new sorry circumstances when Dinah Hopkins returned. In a lime green T-shirt slightly nicer than what she’d had on earlier, jeans and beaded green flip-flops. Maybe the woman really did own three dozen pairs—the greens matched exactly. She brushed her hands on the legs of her jeans. “Did you get it going?”

      Other than stare at the iron monstrosity and twiddle a few knobs, Cameron realized he hadn’t done anything. He was more of a microwave-frozen food kind of guy—he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d turned on the oven in his old apartment. “Nothing doing. The pilot light’s on, though.”

      “Well,” she said sitting back on one hip with her arms crossed, “I know that.” She paused for a moment, running a finger absentmindedly through a lock of red hair. That couldn’t be her real color, could it? Tomato-red like that? Then again, with those freckles, maybe it could. It wasn’t like anything else about her was subtle. “Okay, then,” she said abruptly, grabbing the remaining tray of sticky buns. “We’ll have to use yours, too.”

      “What?”

      “You. Your oven. Between the two ovens, I might be able to get enough buns and muffins baking to see me through the morning.”

      “Oh, no.”

      “Hey, you’re up and all.”

      He reached under his glasses to rub his eyes. “I don’t want to be.” She parked her hands on her hips. He guessed she thought she was giving him a fierce look, but he’d seen far fiercer any given workday—her “ferocity” was mostly just entertaining. Like he’d just been launched into a bluegrass I Love Lucy episode without his consent. “This oven, as I just said, is not my problem to solve. I was merely trying to be helpful, but you look very resourceful—I’m sure you can get by on your own.” He reached down to remove the hideous flip-flops, which didn’t even make it halfway down his feet anyway, and handed them back. “I’m going back to bed, Miss Hopkins.”

      She put her hand out to stop the transfer of footwear. “You know my name?”

      Cameron yawned again. “It did come up in the real estate transaction. Pertinent detail and all.”

      She pushed the flip-flops back toward him. “Well, as I see it, my oven is your problem.”

      It was becoming a struggle to remain civil about being roused out of bed by a flame-haired, loud-mouthed tornado in the middle of the night. “Not according to my paperwork. And believe me, Miss Hopkins, I read my paperwork.” He thrust the pink monstrosities back in her direction.

      “Well, if I can’t open my bakery, I can’t earn money. And if I can’t earn money, then I can’t pay my rent. So, unlessen you want to start off the year badly, I reckon it is your problem.”

      The Southern phraseology in her East Coast accent was just absurd. He glared at her. “Exactly what part of New Jersey are you from?”

      That stopped her. “Exactly how much do you know about me?”

      Exactly too much. And none of it prepared me for this. “I’m going back to bed now.”

      “By all means. I won’t need any supervision from you. I’ll just slip in and slip out, moving batches in and out of your oven. You’ll never even know I’m there.”

      Oh, he doubted that. “No.”

      “Look, do you understand the concept of a bakery? It generally involves baked goods. That means baking. And you know, Mr. I’ll-just-show-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-and-scare-the-pants-off-my-new-tenant, my day is off to a really bad start.”

      Cameron took off his glasses and gave her his most domineering I-am-immovable-on-the-subject look. “And you know, I can’t imagine what that feels like.”

      That set her back a bit. As if she’d just realized most of the civilized world didn’t take kindly to rising so painfully early. So early it was actually still late. The pity was just a flash across her features, replaced almost immediately by a sharp scowl. “Well, fine, then. Be like that. Just what kind of heartless beast did Sandy sell to, anyway?”

      “Her nephew,” he shot back. He hadn’t intended to let her know that just yet, but his growing exasperation pulled it out of him. Aunt Sandy told him Dinah could be a handful.

      Which was sadly funny, because Aunt Sandy usually exaggerated.

      Chapter Two

      Knock. Pause. Louder knock. Pause. Bang.

      “Aw, for crying out loud, Dinah, will you give it up already?”

      “Cameron?” Knock.

      Cameron thrust his head under the pillow, moaning. Kentucky was proving to be the most miserable retreat on Earth. “Go away!”

      Bang. “Cameron Jacob Rollings, don’t you talk to me like that, young man.”

      Cameron shot straight up. Nasty, shiny sunlight invaded his bedroom while the sickening smell of cinnamon assaulted his nose. “Aunt Sandy?” He hauled his protesting body up off the bed.

      “What’s gotten into you?” Sandy Burnside’s unmistakable drawl came through the door. “Open up right now.”

      Cameron checked his watch as he shuffled to the door. It seemed way too bright to be seven-thirty. “Coming, coming.” She swooped into the room the minute Cameron got the door open. “You have a key, Aunt Sandy, you could have just let yourself in instead of breaking down my door.”

      She poked a finger into her mass of blond hair as if to replace a stray strand. He always found that gesture odd on her—there was so much hairspray on that head he doubted gale force winds could pull a hair out of place. “I do not invade the privacy of my tenants. No matter how rude they are.” She paused, taking in the strong scent of the room. “I haven’t had a tenant in this apartment since Dinah moved in. Does the bakery send that powerful a smell up here all the time? I’ll have a word with Dinah. Mac in the office downstairs has never complained about it before—of course, it is a nice smell at that. Not that you’ll be here that long once your house is built.”

      Aunt СКАЧАТЬ