Free A Small-Town Homecoming by Terry McLaughlin

much success with the resentment part of the bargain.
    “That’s right,” Jack said. “Wouldn’t hurt to let him know just how much Keene Concrete appreciates his business.”
    She glanced toward the office trailer where Quinn stood with a clipboard, paging through a thick stack of papers. “I guess I could tolerate his company for one evening.”
    “Big of you,” Jack said. “And safe. Charlie says he’ll probably turn me down. He’s got a daughter waiting for him at home.”
    “He does?”
    She didn’t understand why the thought of Quinn as a parent should knock her off balance. She’d heard a few vague references to his divorce—bitter, was her impression—and more than one person had mentioned something about a kid. People in Carnelian Cove discussed each other’s business; they always had. But few of them, it seemed, had much to say about Quinn—maybe because he had so little to say about himself. Or anything at all, for that matter.
    Still, she’d assumed his daughter was living with her mother.
    Jack tossed his gloves in the truck’s cab. “Must be tough running a business and taking care of a kid all on his own.”
    “Women do it all the time.”
    “Tough for them, too.”
    He leaned a shoulder against his truck in one of his casual poses. “You don’t like him much, do you?”
    “Quinn?” Tess shifted the bags in her arms. “Define much. ”
    “At all.”
    She shrugged. “Personality conflict. No, wait—that can’t be it. He’d have to have a personality for that to cause a problem.”
    Jack shook his head. “I sure do feel sorry for the guy.”
    “Because he has to work with me?”
    Jack avoided answering her question by flicking a fingertip affectionately down the tip of her nose. “Maybe we’ll discover he has a personality at dinner tonight.”
    “If he agrees to come.”
    “Leave it to me,” Jack said as he climbed into the cab, drenching his words in his thickest South Carolina accent. “I’ll talk him into it.”
    The mixer’s engine roared to life, and Tess stepped back as Jack pulled away. If anyone could persuade Quinn to be sociable for an evening, it was syrup-tongued Jack Maguire.
    She turned and continued toward the foundation forms, pausing near a plank-and-sawhorse table to hand steaming cups of coffee to Phil and Ned. As she chatted with the men and set down the bakery bag beside the cardboard coffee carrier, she noticed Quinn look her way, fixing that laserlike gaze on her as if he were locking on target.
    What would it be like to be the object of that startlingly acute focus in bed?
    She rubbed her hands over her arms and wandered toward the southwestern corner of the foundation, where his crew had begun the pour that morning. With every step, she was aware of those piercing blue eyes tracking her movements, making her skin tingle with a prickly sensation that had nothing to do with the chilling breeze blowing in off the bay. Would Quinn manage to be pleasant tonight, if he came to Charlie’s house for dinner? Or would he stare at her across the table, upsetting her stomach and torturing her with a different kind of hunger?
    She wasn’t sure she wanted to discover whether he could be relaxed and charming. She was having plenty of trouble dealing with him here, in a work setting, where she was supposed to be in control. As much in control of the situation as she could manage, considering she’d spent most of her time trying to avoid him.
    This was not how she normally conducted her affairs, business or otherwise. This was no way to get a building constructed the way she wanted it, and it was no way to maintain the upper hand in a personal relationship—if they were going to have one.
    She turned to face Quinn, meeting and holding his stare, before he frowned and lowered his gaze to the paperwork in his hands. Score one for Roussel.
    It was a silly game, and suddenly she was tired of playing it. Tired of keeping score. It was time to take charge of the