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said. Weren’t you paying attention when he was talking to us?”
    Zander shrugged, digging through his mother’s purse for her container of quarters. “He was kind of hard to understand.”
    Molly felt her heart sink. Zander’s new teacher wasn’t the warmest person in the world. In fact,she’d come away from this morning’s meeting with the feeling that the man was less than pleased about the addition of Zander to his classroom. In fact, the first thing he’d said after the school principal had introduced them was that he had no intention of learning sign language.
    No one expected him to learn sign language, and his statement came off sounding defensive and hostile.
    “He had a funny voice,” Zander continued.
    Mr. Towne had had a rather thick Southern drawl. And he had a large, droopy mustache that had no doubt prevented Zander from being able to read the man’s lips accurately.
    And Zander would be in his classroom for not just the remainder of this year, but for all of next year as well.
    “Hey, Zander. Molly. How’s it going?”
    The faintly raspy voice was unmistakable, and it made Molly’s pulse leap. It was none other than Preston Seaholm, King of the Island, and newly crowned Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year. She’d seen him on the TV news the night before—wearing the same ratty clothing he’d had on when he’d helped her with her roof. He was still soaked, andhe hadn’t looked very happy that the news teams had caught him that way.
    On camera, Pres had looked nothing like the billionaire playboy that he was. He’d looked more like a romantic, handsome castaway, forced to live by using only his wits and his physical strength. And with his wet T-shirt clinging to the hard muscles of his chest and arms, it wasn’t hard to imagine him succeeding.
    Fantasy Man, indeed.
    Molly finished pouring the detergent powder into the washing machine, using the opportunity to take a deep breath and steady herself before she turned to face him.
    He was smiling, and despite the glare of both the fluorescent lights and the afternoon sun pouring through the plate-glass windows, he managed to look as good as he had the night before.
    Better.
    He casually leaned against one of the washing machines. “These are my going-out-in-public clothes,” he said. “What do you think?”
    He’d shaved at some point between then and now. And instead of his ratty T-shirt and worn-out shorts and sneakers, he wore a dark pink poloshirt that hugged his trim upper body and emphasized the powerful-looking muscles in his arms. He also had on a crisp-looking pair of brown Bermuda shorts. On his feet he wore simple leather sandals and on his left wrist was an expensive-looking gold watch. His eyes were still hazel, though, and still quite warm.
    “You look … well behaved without being too stuffy,” she told him, turning back to her laundry, suddenly aware she’d been letting herself stare. “The shorts and the polo shirt are traditional, but a pink shirt … It gives you an air of individuality. And the watch is a nice touch, of course—there to remind the masses who you really are.”
    He laughed. “The masses?”
    “Zander and me, for instance.” Molly glanced around the nearly empty room, taking in the rows of humming washing machines and the clothes being tossed about, visible through the glass portholelike windows in the fronts of the dryers. “Please tell me you’re not here to do your laundry. There must be some law that prohibits persons in a certain tax bracket from washing their own clothes.”
    “Actually, I saw you come in, so I followed you.”
    “No,” Molly said sternly.
    Pres blinked, his Robert Redford smile slipping slightly. “Excuse me …?”

FOUR
    “No,” M OLLY SAID AGAIN . “I figured we could get this out of the way so that you’re not wondering and I’m not waiting.”
    Preston looked confused for only the briefest moment, then he smiled again, amusement making his hazel eyes sparkle.