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Mom cuts her off. “He’s a good friend of our family who is running for sheriff and serious about purchasing some property, which is why I’m giving him to you as your first client.”

“Yeah, that’s the only reason,” Kolter mutters under his breath before focusing on Dad. “What’s left in the car?”

“Just a few more boxes and the garbage bags shoved in the passenger seat that feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each.” He looks at me, raising a brow.

“Sorry, those are all my shoes.” I might have been able to sell or donate most of my things, but there was no way I was getting rid of my shoes or most of my clothes.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to help you unpack?” Mom asks a few minutes later, after the guys have brought in the last of my things.

“No, it’s okay. I’m going to find my pajamas, shower, and go to bed.”

“All right, honey.” She walks over and gives me a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the office when you’re done with your showings.”

“All right.” I let her go and hug Dad, Anna, and Kolter, then stand in the doorway until they all back out of the driveway. I close the door and turn around to face the living room, which is now filled with my things, and let out a tired sigh as I grab the overnight bag off the couch I used while traveling and cart it with me down the hall to get ready for bed.

With one high-heeled boot on, I dig through the garbage bag I ripped open in the middle of the living room, searching for the other one. When I finally find it, I almost shout in victory. I get to my feet and hop awkwardly down the hallway putting it on, almost falling twice in the process.

Out of breath, I stumble into the bathroom, where my shower bag is still on the counter from last night, and curse myself under my breath when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the sink. The bun I tied my hair in before I went to bed is askew, my eyes look tired, and there is no time for the coffee I desperately need. I am not up early like I planned—the alarm I set before I went to bed did me no good because I forgot to plug in my phone, so it died sometime in the night. I only woke up this morning after hearing a constant thud against my bedroom window, which turned out to be a red bird that was either trying to get inside or attempting to kill itself as it threw its small body against the glass.

Needless to say, despite being exhausted last night, sleep did not come easy. I must have lain in bed staring at the ceiling with my eyes burning for hours. I don’t know if it was because I lived in a building for years where I knew what every sound around me was or if it was just being anxious about being back home. I do know it didn’t help that I’m one of those people who believes in ghosts, so my aunt mentioning that Mrs. Carberry claimed there is a ghost living in the attic is now stuck in my head. So every time I heard a creak or a strange noise, I was sure that a spirit was going to appear through the ceiling like Casper the Friendly Ghost did to Kat the night they met.

After fixing my hair, I brush my teeth, slap some moisturizer and a little makeup on my face, then rush to my bedroom to find my purse and keys. I get out of the house just ten minutes before I’m supposed to meet my client, and I send him a message as soon as I’m behind the wheel of my car, letting him know that I’m on my way in case I’m late.

I really hope I’m not late.

In my mind there is nothing more unprofessional than someone who has no regard for other people’s time. And I’m guessing that if this guy is running for sheriff, he’s probably a stickler about that kind of thing. Plus I normally like to show up before my clients arrive so that I can turn on lights and be there to welcome them. So running behind is stressing me out.

With my GPS leading the way, I make a right on Fog Meadow Farms Road and realize that I’m pulling into a new subdivision with larger homes, big yards, and a view of the mountains out of every front door. I know that the house I’m going to is not a new build, so I start to worry that my GPS is messing up until I’m led out the back of the subdivision to another main road and ordered to take a sharp right on Lavender Hill. As I drive down the dirt road with forest on either side, I try to remember what I read about the property and really wish that I would have taken a few minutes last night to look over the listing. It’s something I would normally familiarize myself with and planned on doing this morning, but there was no time, and now all I can pull from memory is that the house sits on ten acres.

Eventually the road opens up, and a large cream-colored two-story home with a wraparound porch and extravagant woodwork around the doors and windows comes into view. Even with its worn appearance, it’s beautiful, especially with the trees out front that have already changed from green to gold with fall in the air.

I park next to a rusty pickup that looks like it hasn’t been driven in years and shut down the engine of my car. Leaving my purse behind on the passenger seat, I get out and walk up the front steps and open the lockbox attached to the handle on the door. It takes me three tries to get it open, but once I’m able to get inside the house, I find the interior is less than spectacular. The wood floors need to be polished, the rugs are threadbare, and the walls are scuffed and in need of a coat of paint. But as I make my way through each room, turning on the lights, I fall in love. I have always been enamored with older homes and all their charm, and this one offers it in spades. I’m even more in love when I come across a library—a real library with dark shelves, an old fireplace, and leather seating that is worn but still looks comfortable. Leaving the library behind, I walk down along the hall and step through a doorway into the kitchen. The space is not anyone’s definition of a dream kitchen, but there is something charming and warm about the dark-green cabinets and butcher-block countertops.

Taking out my phone, I lean against the kitchen island. I pull up the listing and read over the details of the house before I start making my way up a set of stairs in the kitchen to turn on the lights of the second floor.

“Hello.” I hear a deep voice call out from the front of the house when I’m halfway up the stairs. With the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end for some odd reason, I answer, “Welcome home.”

It’s something I’ve always said when greeting clients. Is it cheesy? Yes, but there is something about it that I believe makes people imagine themselves living in the home they are entering. Placing a friendly but professional smile on my face, I walk back down the stairs, out of the kitchen, and down the hall, then freeze when I see the man standing inside the house, in front of the closed door. He’s not the kind of man that I would normally find attractive, with his unrefined appearance, but there is something about him that has stopped me in my tracks. Maybe it’s the raw masculinity that seems to ooze from him, even though he hasn’t done more than look at me as I’ve taken the time to dissect him. To study the thickness of his dark hair, the heaviness of his brow, the way his jaw is a tad too sharp, the lightness of his eyes—which is fighting in contrast with the darkness of his lashes—and the curve of his full lips. Things I doubt I have ever noticed on another man before.

“Genevieve?” He steps toward me, and the forest green long-sleeve thermal and jeans he’s wearing move along with him, accentuating the power of the muscles underneath his clothes.

“Yes.” I attempt to shake off whatever spell I’ve been placed under.

“Wyatt.” He walks toward me with his hand out.

This is the guy running for sheriff—isn’t that what my mom said? I’m not normally someone who stereotypes people because I don’t like it done to me, but in my mind the sheriff of any small town should be at least fifty, showing that they have years of experience. They should also have a beer belly that indicates they are so good at their job they no longer have to chase down criminals.

“Impossible.”

“Pardon?” His thick brows drag together, and I realize I just said that out loud.

Shit.

“Sorry.” The tips of my ears warm. “What I meant to say is ‘Nice to meet you.’” I hold out my hand, and when his warm, rough fingers wrap around mine, a zing of something unexpected travels up my arm, startling me. I pull my hand from his quickly and clench it into a fist.

“So this is it?” He looks around, obviously not feeling what I just felt.

“Yep.” I follow his gaze as he takes in the entryway, the winding staircase and the woodwork that was probably beautiful before it was painted over. “I just got here and haven’t had a chance to explore much, but as you can see, the owners haven’t done much in terms of updates.” His gaze comes back to me, and I’m once more struck by just how handsome he is. Forcing my eyes from his, I turn on my heel and start down the hall to the kitchen. “I’m not sure you read over the detailed listing that my mom—I mean Elsie—sent you, but this house was built in 1908 and is in need of some pretty big repairs.”