the magazine, give her back her good name and prove to Chance Brennan she really was somebody, after all. So those shots were worth whatever the cost. An hour or two of emotional discomfort seemed reasonable enough.
She’d survived last night, hadn’t she?
Seeing the success he’d become juxtaposed with her failures dredged up old insecurities with a vengeance, and pushed this job higher on her necessity scale than just a means to a steady paycheck.
Adding to that misery was her realization that, in spite of the animosity between them, Chance Brennan still had an effect on her mentally and physically—an over-the-top effect.
Yesterday in the sheriff’s office, she’d had some freedom to move around. But, last night at Max’s, she’d been trapped for three hours in the torture of his occasional touch. Keeping a safe distance today was her only hope of coming out of this with pride and dignity intact.
Jaci had been adamant the strategy-of-choice today was to be an outrageous flirt, talk incessantly about Rick Warren and make it sound like they were a hot item, then leave without a backward glance. And Jaci could probably pull that off. Flirting came as natural as eating for her.
Kyndal, on the other hand, had been unable to finish a piece of pizza or a breakfast roll since Chance made his suggestion to go back to the cave. If eating didn’t come naturally, where did that leave flirting?
She unclenched her jaw. Decision made. Strategy set. No flirting. No Rick discussion. No way. No how. Friendly—but distant. All business. Casual business. And above all, no touching.
Two reflectors and a mailbox with the numbers 343 stenciled on the side signaled Chance’s driveway. She quelled the trembling in her hands by gripping the steering wheel. The long gravel path meandered uphill through the woods, which were ablaze in the fiery reds and yellows of maples and wild dogwoods. In the spring, it would be a fairyland of creamy-white blooms—a stunning shot she quickly pushed from her mind. No returning to this place after today. Blooming dogwoods could be found anywhere in Kentucky come spring.
The chimney, followed by a roof and the second story of a charming old farmhouse rose into sight as she approached the summit of the hill. Its fresh coat of white paint stood out against the fall colors, yet it didn’t look at all out of place. The trees surrounding the house had grown tall, and their branches spread shade across it like protective arms. They’d obviously been there a long time—living proof some things were meant to be together.
A porch wrapped around the front and side of the house, inviting with its cushioned wicker chairs and couches and a swing at one end.
She squeezed the steering wheel a bit more tightly when she spotted Chance waving a folded newspaper in welcome. No doubt about it—he looked as good in person as he had last night in her dreams.
Idiotic dreams!
A chocolate Lab jumped from the front porch and ran to meet her, carrying a Frisbee and wagging its tail.
Kyndal brought the car to a slower-than-necessary stop, hoping it appeared she was careful rather than stalling. “Today will bring the perfect shot that will make me somebody. No flirting. No touching,” she whispered, plastering on her most confident smile.
As soon as she stepped from the car, the Frisbee was offered at her feet. She laughed and picked it up, much to the delight of the dog whose tail wagged vehement approval. The Lab shot after the spinning disc the second it left her hand, stretching and jumping to bring it down from midflight.
Kyndal clapped in praise.
“You’ll be sorry you did that.” Chance’s voice startled her with its nearness. She turned to find him only a foot away, a cup of coffee poised at his lips.
She shifted her weight and took a step back, holding her palms out to check them for mud. “Why will I be sorry?” The gesture gave her a couple of seconds to examine the striking form in front of her—something she hadn’t really had the opportunity to do the day before.
The day was warm enough that they’d both chosen
T-shirts. His black one stretched across his chest, showing the outline of very pronounced pectorals, hidden the day before under his sweater. He’d been put together nicely during high school, but he’d never had biceps like these, threatening to burst the seams of his sleeves.
As she put her hands down, her eyes drifted up to his face. Boyish charm had been replaced