The Debutante's Second Chance. Liz Flaherty

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      He hadn’t been thinking that at all, but it was worth the lie to see the look of dismay on Lucas Trent’s face, the quick shimmer of glee that crossed Landy’s features. “Are you free now?” Micah asked. “I could buy you a cup of coffee and give you an idea what I’m looking for.”

      Mrs. Burnside took the pitcher Landy was drying from her hands. “She’s free, but you buy her some dinner, too, Micah. She doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

      “You kids go ahead.” Micah’s father spoke. “I’ll help finish up here.”

      Landy looked as though she wanted to argue, but Nancy Burnside was holding out her black pea coat expectantly. “All right,” Landy said finally, slipping her arms into the extended sleeves.

      Micah put a hand under her elbow as they ascended the basement stairs. She had a hitch in her walk, and he wondered if she was on the tail end of a sprained ankle. He didn’t ask, but when she pitched slightly sideways at the landing, he tightened his hand.

      “I really don’t do much with real estate,” she said. “Taking the course was just one of the things I did to keep busy at a time in my life.”

      “I know you don’t.” Jenny had told him that much.

      They crossed the church foyer, and he kept his hand under her arm, liking its warmth, the way the heat moved through his own veins.

      In a few minutes, they were seated across from each other in the back booth of the café, Jenny’s fresh coffee steaming between them.

      “What kind of house do you have in mind?” asked Landy.

      “Old. Big. Near the river.”

      “Sort of ‘in your face?’”

      “Not really, although I’m sure the Lucas Trents in town will take it as such.” He shrugged. “I can’t help that.”

      “Tell me about you,” she urged, lifting her cup to her mouth. “What have you done with your life?”

      Her hands weren’t like he remembered them, either, not that he’d paid that much attention to them twenty years ago; her other parts had been much more interesting. In addition to the short, unpolished nails and the fingers’ lack of rings, the hands were thin and capable-looking. A few of the knuckles were more prominent than the others, one of the little fingers crooked. She didn’t flutter her hands or fidget with them the way nervous people he knew did; nevertheless, he felt tension emanating from her.

      “I went to college,” he said, “at the University of Kentucky and stayed in Lexington after that as a reporter and a columnist. I loved what I did, even though it didn’t leave a whole lot of time for a normal life. Then a year and a half ago, my mom died. My dad was lost without her, and the only time he ever showed any interest in anything was when we talked about Taft. The paper was for sale, so here we are.”

      “It’s nice to have you back,” she said politely. “Do you want to look at some houses now? I can pick up keys and take you to ones that are empty. I’m afraid I don’t know what’s available, but we can look at the listings.”

      Micah wanted to touch her pale cheek, wanted to murmur, “It’s all right. Nothing can hurt you now,” and convince her the words were true. He kept his hands wrapped around his cup.

      “At least with this rain, you’ll be seeing the properties at their worst, so there won’t be any unpleasant surprises later.” Her tone was businesslike and crisp, and her eyes avoided his.

      “Fine,” he said quietly. “Let’s look.”