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didn’t want it. Didn’t want her awakening yearnings he couldn’t act on. Wouldn’t act on. And still his eyes met hers.
    ‘You should come in,’ she said finally. ‘It’ll be fun.’
     
    Maude Thompson lived alone in a small brick house surrounded by an acre of truly stunning cottage garden. Widowed at nineteen – according to Roly – Maude had single-handedly managed her late husband’s sheep station until well into her sixties before selling up and retiring to town. She grew prize-winning roses, spent two mornings a week listening to primary school kids read, was a founding member of various town committees and didn’t want for money.
    Asking her to bake pies for the pub was – in Roly’s opinion – a complete waste of time.
    Being an optimist, Billie ignored him. But as Maude Thompson straightened from her weeding, her steel-grey hair in an immaculate bun at the nape of her neck and her faded blue eyes sharp and assessing, Billie began to suspect that Roly had been right.
    ‘So you want me to make pies,’ said Maude before Billie had uttered a single syllable.
    Word traveled fast in this town.
    ‘I want somebody to make pies,’ said Billie, figuring the direct approach was best. ‘I heard yours were the best.’
    ‘You’ve got that right,’ said Maude. ‘I heard you were fussy about keeping the place clean. Not that anyone who frequents the place is likely to notice.’
    Yes, the Northern Arms was spanking, sparkling clean and destined to remain that way if Billie had any say in the matter. Which, as luck would have it, she did. ‘I’m looking to bring in some new customers,’ she said. ‘And it’s likely their eyesight is good enough that they’ll notice.’
    ‘What sort of customers?’
    ‘Families. Couples. There could even be a kids club.’
    ‘Families, eh? Does Roly know about this?’
    ‘It’s a surprise.’
    ‘Gonna be a big one,’ said Maude dryly.
    ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever seen inside the kitchen at the pub but it’s well appointed,’ said Billie, going in for the sell. ‘Slow combustion stove, a commercial-sized gas oven and cook-tops; they’re old but they work. I’m looking for someone to come in for a couple of hours each afternoon to prepare the pies. No menus, no taking orders. Whoever’s working the bar that night slots the pies in the oven at six-thirty and sets them on the bar twenty minutes later. The trick being that unless those pies are something special they’ll sit there getting cold. I need a pie that can bring a man running from thirty paces.’
    ‘And Roly’s got no idea you’re planning to turn his old-boy’s drinking club into a family establishment,’ said Maude.
    ‘Not yet.’
    Maude’s smile was pure enjoyment, her handshake strong and firm. ‘Girl, you’ve got yourself a deal.’

Chapter Six
    It was the thought of watching the inaugural darts competition with Casey’s spinner bait the prize that drew Adam into the pub on Thursday night. Nothing to do with seeing for himself how Roly’s new manager ran the place and what kind of changes she’d been making. Nothing at all to do with wanting to see her again.
    Billie was doing the rounds for empties when he walked in and she looked businesslike and efficient in tailored black trousers and a crisp white shirt. Not that he’d been expecting a miniskirt, fishnets, and six-inch heels, no, but a man had his fantasies and that one had been particularly vivid. Adam watched as she made her way back to the bar and stacked the glasses directly into a washing rack, her movements smooth and unhurried. She glanced up as he reached the bar, the surprise in those tawny eyes giving way to warmth that sliced straight through him.
    ‘What are you drinking, Kincaid?’
    ‘Middy of light.’
    ‘Try the peanuts,’ she said, nodding towards a bowl on the counter as she slid a glass beneath the beer tap.
    ‘You can’t fool me. Those peanuts are a hundred years old.’
    ‘Not anymore. Maude