And the bald truth is guys who look like Killian simply don’t bother with me. They never have. So why now? Is he bored? Slumming?

Whatever the case, I’m both unsettled by his presence and annoyingly curious about the guy.

Killian, on his hands and knees, weeding, should be diminished in size. If anything, he seems larger now, his shoulders broader as they move beneath a faded Captain Crunch T-shirt. His coffee-dark hair falls in tangles around those shoulders, and I have the urge to offer him a haircut. I don’t mind longer hair, but Killian’s is just a hot mess. I swear the man doesn’t own a brush.

But he has shaved. The sight initially threw me because I’d been expecting that backwoods beard when I heard his voice earlier. But instead of a fuzzy face, I was greeted by the smooth, clean sweep of his jaw, a stubborn chin, and a big, dimpled smile. How is anyone supposed to resist that?

“How did you learn the difference between weeds and plants?” His black velvet voice envelops me, but he doesn’t look up from his task. The little furrow of concentration between his brows is kind of endearing. “Because it all looks the same to me.”

“My grandma taught me.” I clear my throat and rip at a particularly tenacious weed.

“Grandmas are good like that.”

I can’t imagine him hanging around a grandmother. Or maybe I can. She’d probably serve him milk and cookies and chastise him about taking better care of himself. I point out another weed. “Eventually it gets easier to spot them.”

“If you say so.” He doesn’t sound too happy but keeps working.

We’re silent again, going about our business.

“Top-secret spy?”

I jerk my head up at Killian’s question. “What?”

He waggles his dark brows. “Your job. Still trying to figure it out. You a spy?”

“You found me out. Now come with me.” I incline my head toward the house. “I have something to show you inside.”

White teeth sink into his plump lower lip. “Unless it involves spanking, I’m not going.”

I snort, despite myself.

“Sex-toy tester?”

“Ah. No.”

“Erotica writer?”

“Why are all the options suddenly sex-related?”

“Because hope springs eternal.”

“Better hope I don’t accidentally, on purpose, nut you.”

“All right, all right. Home shopper?”

“I hate shopping.”

“Yeah, I can see that about you.”

My head jerks up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, completely unrepentant. “A girl who stomps around in worn out Doc Martens isn’t usually the type to squeal over a new sale.”

I sit back on the heels of said Docs. “Okay, I’m not big on fashion. But that doesn’t have to mean I’m not a shopper.”

“You just said you hate shopping. Like, just said it.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t be able to tell simply by looking at me.”

His nose wrinkles as he scratches the back of his neck. “I’m confused.”

“Maybe I’m addicted to buying dolls. Maybe I have a whole room of them at the back of the house.”

Killian gives a full-body shudder. “Don’t even joke about that. I’ll have Chucky nightmares for months.”

I think about a room of dolls staring at me and shudder too. “You’re right. No dolls. Ever.”

He winks at me. I have no idea how he manages to do it without looking like a smarmy ass, but it’s cute instead. “See?” he says. “Not a shopper.”

“And you are, what? A detective?”

He sits back on his heels too. “If I was, I’d be a pretty shitty one since I can’t figure out what you do.”

We stare at each other, his dark gaze drilling into me, waiting. It’s surprisingly effective, because I swear, I’m starting to sweat.

“Fine,” I blurt out. “I’m a book cover designer.”

He blinks as if surprised. “Really? That’s…well, the last thing I’d have guessed, but totally cool. Can I see your work?”

“Maybe later.” I go back to weeding, though really, I’m hacking the same spot over and over. There isn’t anything left but a dark scar of soil. Smoothing a hand over the cool earth, I eye him. “And what do you do?”

He’s good; he barely flinches before covering it with a wide and easy smile. “I am currently without employment.”

I’m about to ask what he did before, but something brittle and pained lingers in those coffee-colored eyes of his, and I don’t have the heart. Yesterday he was drunk on my lawn. I don’t think life is going his way at the moment, and I have no desire to pick at that wound.

He covers the silence by pointing at a green vine. “Pull this?”

“No. That’s a tomato vine.”

It becomes apparent that Killian isn’t comfortable with long silences. “So was this place ever a working farm?”

I’d think he talks to hear himself, but he looks at me with genuine interest every time he asks a question. I take a moment to look at the land around me. Collar Island is part of the chain known as the Outer Banks. While the northern end has a town and multiple grand vacation homes, the southern tip—where my grandma’s house is located—is fairly isolated. Nothing but a few scattered houses and waving green and tawny grass, surrounded by sandy beach and vivid blue ocean.

“Back when my grandparents were young,” I say. “They farmed rotating vegetable crops. Same with the owners of the house you’re staying in. Now I just attend to the land nearest the house and let the rest grow free.”

“Beautiful place,” Killian admits. “Kind of lonely, though.”

Can’t say much to that. So I merely nod.

We go back to work. Which is good, fine. Until Killian reaches behind his head and pulls off his shirt to tuck it in his back pocket.

I’ve already seen the man naked. But that was different. I was too pissed and too busy trying to get him clean to fully notice the particulars. Now he’s in the full sun, his tan skin already glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He’s lean and strong, his muscles a work of art. The massive tattoo that covers his left shoulder and torso is actually a vintage map of the world, like a spread-out globe.