She had an enormous orange cat in her arms that was comically bandaged around its head. Justin had a feeling it might be a mistake to laugh at the cat, which was glaring at him with baleful dislike. She juggled its bulk to offer a slender hand.

“Justin West?” she asked.

He took a steadying breath and accepted her hand. It was cool and soft and small—and packed a jolt like a shock from a circular saw with a bad connection in a rainstorm. He held her grip a fraction longer than might have been necessary. The cat shifted its weight, forcing her to withdraw her hand or let the cat slide down her front.

“I’m Bridget Daisy. Thank you for coming.”

So he did have the right address. She was Fred’s friend, though obviously not his lady friend in the way Justin had imagined. He glanced at her ring finger. Bare. Lord have mercy!

“Come in.”

He stepped by her, aware of a lovely fragrance, light and sweet, as he moved directly into her living room. The room increased his sense of being big and male, clumsy and uncouth. There were trinkets, potted plants, a vase of fresh flowers on the floor at the edge of the couch. If he breathed, he was going to break something.

“Have a seat,” she suggested.

Where? Everything in the room was small and frail-looking, not man-size at all. The tiny sofa was set on curvy legs and was covered in a fabric that looked suspiciously like ivory silk that would be destroyed by his just-finished-work-for-the-day jeans and T-shirt.

His gaze caught on an old leather wingback that looked slightly sturdier than her other furniture. The chair was rump-sprung, as if it was the favored spot of someone with a little more meat on their bones than her. Justin beelined for it, but her delicate cough stopped him just short of sitting down. He glanced back at her.

She smiled apologetically. “That’s Conan’s chair.”

Conan? He felt a wave of relieved disappointment. Ring fingers didn’t really tell the story these days. But he should have known a girl like her came with a guy named Conan. Muscle-bound. Big. Territorial. Couldn’t the roommate build her washstand or whatever she wanted?

She moved by him and set the cat in the chair. “Isn’t that right, Conan?”

Conan was the cat? The cat inspected the spot carefully, turned two full circles, then plopped himself down. The chair groaned, and the cat gave Justin a look of naked dislike, as if it was somehow his fault the chair was making noises. Then Conan dismissed their visitor by delicately lifting his tail and beginning his bath.

“I didn’t want you to get hair on your clothes,” Miss Bridget Daisy told him.

He looked down at his clothes. Like a little cat hair would hurt? But she gestured to the sofa, and he reluctantly perched on the corner, trying to make as little contact with the highly soilable silk as possible.

She took the far end of the same sofa, and now that she wasn’t hiding behind the cat, he could see she was wearing a businesslike suit in an unflattering color that flattered her nonetheless. Despite her slenderness, she had curves in all the right places. When she sat down, the tight skirt edged up, revealing the most adorable little kneecap.

“Sorry?” he said, realizing she was saying something.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. Fred said you were very busy. How do you know him?”

“He’s my godfather. He and my dad were best friends since they were kids.”

She folded her hands primly over that delicate little knee and regarded him solemnly. “How long have you been building, Mr. West?”

“Justin,” he corrected her. “Uh, ever since I can remember. It’s a family business. Between my grandad, my dad and me, we’ve built just about every building in town.”

“Oh.” She looked very pleased by that. She slid a little clipboard out from behind one of the cushions and made a mark on it. “So is your work guaranteed, then?”

He realized, stunned, that he had somehow become an involuntary participant in a job interview. He ordered himself to wake up and quit looking at her kneecap, to take charge of this situation by letting her know in no uncertain terms he wasn’t going to be insulted with an interview. That’s not how it worked.

He came in, looked at the job, gave her a price. Take it or leave it. Unfortunately her eyes were every bit as distracting as her kneecap.

“I stand behind my work,” he said shortly.

“Of course you’d sign something saying that?”

Devastating kneecaps and eyes aside, he could feel himself starting to get annoyed. “What kind of job do you have?” he asked. He hadn’t even said he’d do the job, and she was talking about signing something? He had houses to build. He was doing her a favor by being here!

Almost shyly she reached behind her pillow again and came out with a thick manila folder, which she passed to him. The shyness—her dropping her thick lashes over the amazing green of her eyes rather than holding his gaze—made him bite back his annoyance and take the folder.

“This is my project prospectus,” she told him happily, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away. Was she blushing?

He tore his eyes away from the heightened color in her cheeks and felt the weight of what had been passed into his hands. It was thicker than the Hunter’s Corner telephone directory. What the hell was her project? A new shopping mall? The Taj Mahal comes to Ohio?

He opened the cover of the folder. A full-color eight-by-ten glossy of the cat was clipped to the first page. In the photo the cat was wearing a knitted purple sweater and he looked none too happy about it either.

Justin shot Bridget Daisy a wary look. Was she nuts? What a shame that would be, but of course that would explain why a woman this gorgeous but single had gone undetected on the Hunter’s Corner bachelor radar. Not that, God forbid, he was on the lookout for single women. After having had responsibility for his ailing father since high school, Justin West was enjoying freedom.

Getting tied down would not be his idea of a good time.

An evening with those kneecaps, though, no strings attached…

He looked hurriedly down at her “prospectus.”

“I’ll go make us tea while you have a look at that.”

“Great,” he muttered, but kissed his fantasy of an evening with her kneecaps goodbye. Tea? If the offer had been for a beer or, better yet, a whiskey, there might have been hope, but he could see there was not. She was not his kind of woman.

While she busied herself in the kitchen, he reviewed a two-page letter that invited him to study the Statement of Work—in brackets, SOW—for the installation of a Cat Door and Yard Fence and then sign the Contract for Work (COW) if he was in agreement with the SOW.

With growing consternation he studied her invitation. Lettered from A to I, she required a firm price, payment schedules, commencement dates and completion dates, warranties of workmanship and materials, proof of insurance, four references and any other information he felt might be pertinent.

He listened to the kettle whistle in the kitchen, eyed the door, thought of Fred and took a deep breath. He opened page one of her twelve-page Statement of Work.

On page three he got it suddenly. He peeked up from the document and saw her in her kitchen arranging cookies on a plate.

He slid a look around the living room. There had to be a hidden camera somewhere. The guys loved a practical joke, and this was a good one. Imagine them roping Fred into playing a part in getting him here. Pure genius, that one. This probably wasn’t even her house. She was an actress, maybe even a professional one, though Justin wasn’t sure how you went about finding someone like that in Hunter’s Corner. He decided he’d play along until she said, “Smile, you’re on…”

She came back in with a silver tea tray and set it on the coffee table. The teacups looked as though they held about a thimbleful of tea, which suited Justin just fine. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker. He watched, reluctantly fascinated, as she poured. He didn’t think the queen could do it any better.