Bluegrass Blessings. Allie Pleiter

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      He walked in the door about half an hour later—thick dark hair neatly combed, a yawn crossing his clean-shaven face. Cameron had the sleeves pushed up on the rust-colored wool sweater he wore over black jeans and his glasses were gone. With an expensive-looking watch and leather shoes, he looked everything and nothing like the man who had invaded her kitchen last night. He walked toward her with the shuffle of someone who hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

      “Good morning,” she said cheerfully, as if she didn’t feel a twinge of regret for imposing on her new neighbor and/or landlord so severely. “You’ve earned free coffee for the entire week.”

      “I’ll need it.” He yawned again. “Did you get a repairman to come out?” He didn’t ask the question with a tone of concern—it was more defensive, as if confirming he’d have his kitchen to himself from here on in.

      Dinah nodded and handed him a cup of her strongest brew. “He’ll be here at eleven. I just hope it’s an easy fix.” She pointed over to a sideboard where she kept the cream and sugar in wildly colored ceramic jars, but he just took the cup and downed half of it right in front of her. Evidently the man took his coffee black and fast. Very New York.

      “You and me both.”

      Dinah handed him one of the last two blueberry muffins. “Not to worry. Even if the oven’s a goner, I can work through the evening using my own oven and get enough baked ahead of time to make it through another day. Can’t say I’m looking forward to a week of baking twenty-four-seven if I have to replace it, though. Pastor Anderson might let me take over the church kitchen’s two ovens if it looks like a long haul.”

      Cameron scratched his chin and got a thoughtful look on his face. “Anderson. Middleburg Community Church? Aunt Sandy’s church?”

      Dinah grinned. “Yep. So I guess that means I’ll be seeing you Sunday mornings?”

      “I suppose so,” he said in a way that didn’t let on if he found that good news or bad.

      Never one to beat around the bush, Dinah opted for the direct approach. “You a churchgoin’ man, Mr. Rollings?”

      He chuckled and took another swig of coffee. “I still can’t get used to that New Jersey-esque drawl.”

      “I have folks tell me it’s endearing.” Dinah lifted the towel off a batch of whole wheat dough that was rising on the shelf beside her. “A unique combination.” She noticed he hadn’t yet answered her question. The man’s verbal dexterity told her he spent a lot of time in negotiations.

      “Oh, unique is the word. I can tell you I’ve never heard anything like it ever before. How long have you been out here?”

      “About a year and a half.”

      Rollings practically choked on his coffee. “That short?”

      Are you saying I look old enough to have been here a decade? “I have a highly adaptive personality,” she said defensively. “I can be at home in any situation.”

      “Or any kitchen.” He reached into his pocket and removed a bottle of red sparkle nail polish, which he placed on her counter. “You left this on my kitchen table. Aunt Sandy had a field day when she found it. She didn’t believe it was yours—she says redheads don’t wear red.”

      Nobody told Dinah Hopkins what to do. She raised one leg and pointed to her toes, which were a delightfully sparkly crimson that matched the shade on the bottle. “It depends where.” She snatched back the bottle of polish and tucked it behind the counter.

      Cameron finished his coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trash can by the door. “And by the way, yes, I am a churchgoin’ man. Can’t wait for Sunday, as a matter of fact. I gotta see what kind of church can handle you and Aunt Sandy in the same congregation.” With the closest thing to a grin she’d seen out of him yet, he pulled open the door and headed off down the street.

      “Well, well, I do declare,” Dinah drawled as she put the Back in a Minute sign on her door and hoisted the tray of dough for a trip to the apartment oven. “What hath the Good Lord brought unto Middleburg?”