“I’ll do my best to see this as a new beginning.”

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Early Saturday morning Amanda carried her coffee to the study, then went to the window as she did most mornings to watch the birds at play. Today their unremarkable brown color was relieved by the vivid scarlet of several cardinals as they gathered in the shade of the huge oak tree.

The study had always been her favorite room, and it was here that she did most of her work. Her drawing board was centered in front of the window that faced south. Her paints and other supplies were there, too, in a small metal cabinet. Bookshelves, filled with beautiful old books and a variety of items Grace had collected over the years, lined the rest of the room. To her right were her computer and printer along with reference books and her collection of books on art.

At the drawing board, Amanda pulled up her stool and studied the colorful illustrations she had completed the previous day. Then, reaching for a clean sheet of paper, she took her pencil and began to sketch. She was a gifted artist, a talent that seemingly came from out of the blue since no one in the family that Grace could remember had ever exhibited even a passing interest in art.  Amanda illustrated children’s books, and her work was always in demand. By most standards, her freelance business paid well—just not well enough, or regularly enough, to satisfy any of the banks she had approached.

An hour later, she was deeply immersed in her work when she was startled by a knock at the door. She jumped, hitting her knee against the small cabinet that held her supplies and the cup she had just refilled. The dark liquid sloshed over the rim, spreading over the cabinet top. “Damn,” she muttered as she reached for a roll of paper towels, hoping that it hadn’t ruined anything.

Sam had told her he would always call ahead whenever a prospective buyer wanted to see the house, but maybe he had forgotten. Amanda stopped for a moment to check her appearance in the hall mirror, wiping a pencil smudge off her face. Then she tucked her shirt into her denim skirt.

When she opened the door, she was stunned. Standing there was Price McCord. Again. All heart-stopping six feet of him. With his arms propped on either side, he seemed to fill the doorway and tower over her. She wished she could say that she hadn’t thought of him during the two days since he had first appeared at her door, but she had. More than she cared to admit—more than she should have.

She wished he would say something, anything. But Price just stared at her in the strangest way, like he was seeing her for the first time. Uncomfortable with this intense scrutiny, Amanda reached up to tuck her hair behind her right ear. It was a nervous gesture, something she did when she was feeling self-conscious, like she was now.  

“I made an appointment,” he said finally, as he stepped forward, a slight frown on his face as if he were irritated at himself for being here, and maybe feeling a little foolish.

Amanda stepped back, pulling the door she still grasped back against the wall. But this time his spectacular looks took a back seat to her temper. “I don’t remember inviting you in,” she snapped, “but that doesn’t seem to bother you at all, does it?”

“This is not a social call, Amanda. You do have a FOR SALE sign up, and this time I followed the rules.”

“Do you think that sign means that I have to open my house to anyone who comes along?”

“But I’m not just anyone, am I?” Price asked, giving her one of his most charming smiles. That, combined with his blue eyes and dark hair, usually got him what he wanted.

When she failed to return his smile, Price continued. “Sam warned me that you might not be too hospitable if he didn’t call you ahead of time,” he said, looking away into the living room, “but I told him not to bother.”

Amanda ignored that and asked, “You talked to Sam about the house? Why?”

“I might buy it—if I like what I see,” Price replied.