Nick Rawlinson gazed from his family room window in disbelief at the house next door. He’d assumed some company specializing in home renovations had purchased the ramshackle old place with the crumbling front steps and the sagging roof. Apparently not. Two men were scuttling back and forth up the front path, burdened with a sage green loveseat, a flat screen television, a sleek black desk. But it wasn’t the sight of the furniture that had Nick rattled, it was the woman in tight blue jeans and high heels, clutching a small dog and giving the men directions. She was his ex-wife. Disbelief turned slowly to anger. What the hell was she playing at? He slammed down his beer and made for the door, wrenching it open and striding across the lawn. She looked up, their gazes collided and Nick faltered. He clenched his fists furiously—the divorce had been final for a year, and still those big gray eyes made him come slightly undone, made him forget who and where he was. Grimacing, he continued his approach.
