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He took his time answering, because his brain had just shouldered its way through the rush of pheromones that his shed burglar had unleashed. He figured it was his property. His shed. And, considering the contract he’d signed to purchase the farm had included everything within its dilapidated fence line, he was pretty sure this must behisplane.
A wreck, sure … but an historic wreck. Maybe the farm’s income prospects had just taken an upward turn.
‘I’m the owner of this shed, sweetheart. So, it’s me who should be doing the asking.’ He cocked an eyebrow at her, kept his tone friendly. ‘Who the hell are you?’
She might have blushed. It was hard to tell, given it was hot as hell in the shed despite it being mid-August, and not even those smoking-hot looks could disguise the fact she was covered in dust and sweat and a heck of a lot of grease.
‘Hang on a moment; I’ll climb out.’
He let his eyes drift over her as she levered herself up. Hair the shade of rain-wet straw was pulled back into a curly ponytail. She had on a tatty khaki singlet that did little to conceal the watermelon pink underwear she wore under it. Or the curves she wore under that.
His trespasser was certainly an eyeful. He waited as she swung long legs wrapped in well-worn denim over the rim of the cockpit and slid down the curved wing. He reached out to catch her arm as she made the jump down to the shed’s cracked floor, but she frowned at him. Jerked back a little.
‘I can manage.’
She sure looked like she could. She was tall, and gorgeous, and she had a cluster of red hair elastics around her wrist as though keeping all that hair tidied away was a never-ending pursuit.
‘My name’s Kirsty.’ She paused, then held her hand out for him to shake, and the silence spun like dust motes for a long moment while he stared at her mouth.
Her nose.
The dimple that came and went in one cheek when she spoke.
‘Kirsty Fox,’ she added, because obviously she thought he was a simpleton since he was just standing there saying nothing. ‘I was coming to find you.’
Her eyes were brown, and not just any old brown, but a deep, swirling kind of brown. Like toffee. Or golden syrup. And, yep, turned out he hadn’t stared at her nose long enough because he’d only now seen she had freckles there … just acouple, just enough to make him wonder where else she might have them.
She had a stripe of gunk or dirt or something smeared up the thigh of her jeans that he could probably wipe off if he just reached out and tou—
Woah there. Perhaps the sun really had addled his brain.
He took a minute to hunt down what his own name was, and, luckily, found it. ‘Joe Miles,’ he said. ‘You want to tell me what you’re doing here? And’—he cocked his head in the direction of the plane—‘whatthat’sdoing here?’
