I’d been to McBride’s once before after Lindsey and her friends engaged in a bout of underage drinking on prom night. At the time, he’d been renting a fixer-upper with an option to buy. According to the local grapevine, which boasted a 95 percent accuracy rate, he’d since made an offer and was now the proud owner of a handyman special. A spanking-new mailbox with MCBRIDE neatly stenciled along one side marked the drive. As the gravel crunched under my tires, I began to doubt the wisdom of my decision. Kona coffee and fresh-baked blueberry muffins aside, it wasn’t as if McBride and I were buddies. Our relationship was strictly professional—except when it wasn’t. Like now. I spotted him casually reclining on the porch steps, beer bottle in hand. He’d exchanged his starched navy blues for cutoff jeans and … nothing else. My mouth went dry at the sight of his bronzed torso and well-defined abs. A hint of five o’clock shadow along his square jaw only added to the sexy image.
