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Abigail Wells watched the sleek black car turn into her long driveway. A spume of dust rose high as the car gunned its way toward the house.
It jerked to a stop at the porch steps, the door opened and two large work boots hit the ground, raising more dust. The man in the boots pried himself out of the car and stood up with a groan.
Idiot ought to know better than to stuff his fool self into a car like that.
Abby had recognized him right away; Jake Bigelow, who had certainly lived up to his nickname of Big Jake, familiarly known as Big. She’d always thought it stupid, but that was high school for you. People, both male and female, idolized the football team, especially the quarterback, the wide receivers and Big Jake, the anchor of the offensive line.
She lowered her gaze to the pan of peas in her lap. Damned if she’d slobber over him the way people had done all his life. She had to admit he’d aged well though. He’d lost that dewy look of youth all young folks seemed to have, but even the rough stubble and the dark hair that brushed his shoulders couldn’t hide the fact he was one fine looking man. She noticed he still hadn’t subdued the errant curl that insisted on falling over his right eye. That curl had been instrumental in the choice of her private name for him. He was still big and it was a sure bet all of it was muscle. He had no business driving a low slung sports car. She sneaked another peek just as he bent over to touch his toes.
Her mouth went dry. Tight jeans molded a fine looking butt and muscular thighs and threw her into memories of the past when her favorite hobby was lusting after this very same body.
He turned and caught her looking. Wasn’t any harm in looking, she thought defensively. Lord knows she’d done enough of it when it came to Big Jake. As usual, she went on the attack.
“Well hey there Jake, this sure is a surprise. Don’t often get rich and famous folks in this neck of the woods.”
He walked up the porch steps and leaned against the railing. “I’m looking for Lee Wells. He still live here?”
“Not anymore. Can I help you?”
“Not unless you’re a carpenter.”
“Just so happens I am.”
“No offence, but I’d rather have Mr. Wells. I know his work.”
“He’s not here.” She blinked rapidly and abruptly decided to quit picking at him. “He’s dead, Superman. Last year. Heart attack.”
He studied her, from the top of her messy ponytail to her bare feet with the chipped purple polish on the toes.
“I’ll be damned, you’re Abby Wells. You’re the only one ever used that name. I never would have recognized you.”
“Things change and so do people.”
“Yeah, you got that right. Sorry to hear about your daddy.” He paused, jingling the change in his pocket. “I’m moving back, Abby. The old man died and left me everything