Free The Wishing Season by Denise Hunter Page A

cute.”
    “Trust me, it’s not a compliment.”
    “He’s awfully good-looking.”
    PJ glared at Madison. “Can we talk about something else?”
    Madison’s lips twitched, her eyes widening, innocent. “Of course.”
    It was after nine when Madison and their mom left. The kitchen walls were finished, the brush and rollers washed and drying in the bathroom sink. PJ was tired and hungry, and she had to get up early for work.
    The drone of a saw carried into the house. She followed the sound to the kitchen window and stared across the backyard to the light shining through the shed windows. Cole had been out there since shortly after he’d gotten home.
    She thought about her cookware, the window . . . It hadn’t been far from her mind all night. Her mom had even commented on how quiet she was. Madison had covertly quirked a brow at PJ, as if she had the inside scoop.
    The truth was, whatever chemistry she and Cole had or didn’t have was irrelevant. The man was out to steal her dream, and she wasn’t letting him get away with it. Her heart beat faster.There was nothing sunshiny about the thoughts she was having. And there was no use putting off a confrontation. She’d just go home and toss and turn.
    She slipped out the patio door and into the muggy night. The first fireflies of the season flashed over the flower garden, and the smell of rain hung heavily in the air. The loud whine of the saw grew sharper as she neared. She hoped he didn’t plan to work much later or they’d have angry neighbors.
    The old wooden door swung heavily on its hinge as she entered, and the smell of sawdust assaulted her. Big enough for a car, the room held only some old boxes and a makeshift saw table Cole had set up. He hunched over it, his back to her, guiding a piece of plywood under the blade.
    Sawdust littered the cracked cement floor. He wore a ratty T-shirt, a pair of paint-speckled jeans, and work boots that had seen better days. When he finished the cut, he slid the board to the floor and began measuring another.
    PJ watched him work, reminding herself to remember what he’d done. To remember the beautiful cookware she’d spent her very limited cash on. Money she’d have to pay back with interest. Maybe the open window hadn’t caused any lasting damage, but it could’ve. What if she hadn’t come over tonight? What if he did something worse next time?
    “Something on your mind?”
    She jumped, not realizing he was aware of her presence. She lengthened her spine and raised her chin, though he couldn’t see her; he was still hunched over the table.
    “Where’s my cookware?”
    He took his time measuring. Marking. “Finally got up the nerve to ask, huh?”
    “That’s not an answer.”
    He looked over his shoulder, drilling her with those green eyes. “I didn’t take your cookware.”
    “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with the window, either.”
    “What window?”
    “The window you opened last night. While it was raining. The window that let in a ton of water and practically flooded my dining room. Lucky for you, there was no permanent damage.”
    He straightened, turning. His nostrils flared. “I don’t know anything about an open window. And I didn’t take your pots and pans.”
    He was good, she’d give him that. Firm tone, direct eye contact. She almost believed him. But the evidence was even more convincing. She supposed it was possible she’d forgotten to shut the window, but someone had taken her cookware, and no one had better opportunity or more motive than Cole.
    “You don’t believe me.”
    “Should I?”
    “I’m not a thief.” Something shifted in his eyes, and he raised a brow. “And why would I try to flood a house that’s going to be mine?”
    Cocky, arrogant jerk. She narrowed her eyes. “We’ll see about that.”
    “I will win this house. But I’ll do it fair and square.”
    “Don’t be so sure. The Grille will make a profit. Crossroads will be a financial