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was a perfectly nice little place,
not to mention Miss Amaya would only be staying there for three
nights before relocating to the resort in Jackson Hole next
weekend. He sensed that Jane was still uneasy about the
arrangements, but he had been honest about the lack of options.
There was simply nowhere else for Miss Amaya to stay that would
meet her demands.
    Since Jane had a good hour or two of
unpacking to do, Lars said he’d be back to pick her up at 5 p.m. to
take her to dinner and then to the Best Western to check into a
room of her own.
    Frankly, he was glad to get back in the
empty van and drive away from the cottage. Aside from the fact that
he was uncomfortable and embarrassed by Jane’s reaction to the tidy
little cottage, two burning questions had been driving him crazy
for almost an hour:
    What grown woman walked around sucking on a
pink lollipop? And what red-blooded man was supposed to be able to
concentrate on anything she was saying when she kept taking that
pink lollipop in and out of her mouth, for crissakes?
    It’s not like she was trying to be sexy with
it. He would have known if that was her game. It wasn’t. Most of
the time she had it wedged in the back of her cheek. But, she
couldn’t keep it in there indefinitely. It had to come out every
time she said something. In and out, in and out, and incredibly distracting.
    As he made his way back to the small office
of Lindstrom & Sons, he considered Jane Mays. She might be pretty, but it was hard to tell under her baggy sweatshirt,
glasses and cap. She definitely wasn’t the kind of girl that caught
Lars’s eye. That didn’t change the fact that he was sort of
fascinated by her.
    She was incredibly quirky, liking the same
obscure music genre he did, softly singing along to the songs all
the way to Gardiner. She wore that Red Sox cap low over her eyes
like she was shielding herself from the world, but then she made
all of these quick, witty, smart-ass comments that surprised him,
kept him on his toes, and made him chuckle genuinely, not just
politely. And just when he thought that was all there was to her,
she put her hand on his arm and assured him that she wasn’t the
snob that her boss was, showing him a womanly, softer side of
herself before popping that pink lollipop back in her mouth. His
breath came out in a whoosh , remembering. He definitely
didn’t have her figured out.
    That, in itself, was new to Lars, because it
had never been tough for him to figure out women. He was good at
picking up on female body language, reading between the lines of
what they said and what they meant. He knew when a no meant maybe
and a maybe meant yes. Unlike many members of his sex who were
constantly stumped by women, Lars had always felt comfortable and
confident; he had cracked the secret code so long ago, he took it
for granted.
    And it didn’t matter if the women were
pretty or plain, they all seemed to want to be with him, disarmed
by his easy manners and enticed by his hard body. So, Lucky Lars
had the pick of the litter and naturally he chose women that turned
his head: exceptionally pretty, above-average beauties who—after a
mild or overt flirtation—ended up in his bed.
    Which is why it was out of character for him
to be spending so much time considering Jane Mays. Aside from a
mischievous smile and those twinkling, minx-y eyes, she was…well,
sort of plain next to the women he generally pursued. Unless she
was really hiding herself under those baggy clothes, she wasn’t
pretty enough to tempt him. So why was she getting under his
skin?
    Most women didn’t joke with him; they
lowered their lashes and flirted. Most women would have taken off
the cap and the sweatshirt, run a hand through their hair and at
least tried to show off their assets, but she didn’t seem to
care how she looked. Most women wouldn’t have gushed over ’60s
music, softly singing along in the car next to him—they wouldn’t
have known any of the words, anyway. Most