Frosted and Sliced

Burke was the most antisocial person he knew, not because he tried to be, but because he didn’t know any other way. And why should he change? Misanthropes made the best spies. When a friend asked him to lead a seminar in Maine, he jumped at the chance. If he had a tribe, they would look a lot like reclusive Downeasters. It was his bad luck that the seminar was held in a disgustingly charming inn, and even worse luck that the inn’s owner was ridiculously adorable in every possible way, from head to toe. Like a hedgehog. Burke did not want to be charmed, but Georgette clearly needed a keeper, even if she didn’t realize. What could he do but volunteer for the job, even if he didn’t want it?

Georgette already had two strikes in life, first with a profound hearing impairment and then with the loss of her parents. All she had left was her inn, and she had only herself to rely on. She couldn’t say no to any business opportunity, not even the reclusive hobo who moved in uninvited, declaring himself her handyman, a position she didn’t advertise and couldn’t pay for. Georgette couldn’t fathom her new boarder and vowed to steer clear, an easy task when the former spy was so invisible she sometimes thought he was imaginary. She thought she would tolerate him until he decided to move on, never dreaming how much she might learn to rely on him.

When an unknown threat appears, Burke is well-equipped to dispense it. If only it were as easy to deal with Georgette and the newly inexplicable flutters in his previously unused heart. How do two outcasts fall in love? With a few misunderstandings and a whole lot of hot cocoa.