He got out of the truck. Even though the sun was setting, the day was finally cooling off, and he’d showered back at his motel, he started to sweat.

Seeing Jen across the field like that . . . He’d written her off weeks earlier. She’d gone to London, just as he’d predicted. She hadn’t called before leaving, just as he’d predicted. She never came back, exactly as he’d predicted.

So he’d done what any lovesick, pissed-off, heartbroken American male would do. He punched a hole in the wall of his motel and had to pay damages, then he’d gone out and gotten drunk. And then he’d tried like hell to get over her. Again.

To do that, he knew he couldn’t go back to Gleann. At least, not to live. He’d keep what few accounts he had left there, with Chris on staff. Maybe if things picked up in the town as Mayor Sue hoped, he could expand and open a full branch, with Chris in charge. While he had no set jobs to speak of in Connecticut, he did have his talent and determination. And even though Hal Carriage had nixed Leith’s best start, Leith still had Rory’s support, and she’d given him some serious leads, talking up his name in her new circle of friends. He’d made a few contacts at the games today, too, and he’d follow up with them this week. He was hopeful.

So he was staying in Connecticut. Starting over. And he was throwing again, which sent him flying high in a way he’d nearly forgotten. How could he have done that? How could he have ever turned his back on something that fed both his competitive nature and his spirit?

In a way, Jen had been right all those weeks ago. He had been afraid of not winning, thinking that second place would never fill him up like first. What a fucking moron. He’d held his own against Duncan and it had felt so, so amazing. He would make time to train now. No more excuses.

No more worrying that he’d let his father down.

But then there was the matter of Jen Haverhurst. He couldn’t describe how exhilarated he’d felt seeing her face in the crowd that afternoon. She was so damn good at that: disappearing then reappearing in shocking, dramatic ways that had his heart pummeling his ribs and his head telling him to not fall for her again.

Only he had. And this was the second time she’d come back. What was that old saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me? Yeah, no matter what she was going to say to him in there, he had to remember who she was, her MO. He had to protect himself a hell of a lot better this time.

He crossed the short lot and tried the door. Locked. What the—

The latch clicked and the door opened inward. Jen stood before him.

“Hey—whoa.” He couldn’t hold back his verbal reaction as he eyed her strict black skirt and fitted black short-sleeved sweater with the severe V-neck that did killer things for her tits. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail and she wore those glasses, the ones he’d first seen on her through Mildred’s kitchen window.

She cleared her throat and extended her hand, not an ounce of emotion on her face. “I’m so glad you could make it, Mr. MacDougall. Come in.”

He let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Okaaaay.” As he took her hand, he noted absently that she had a great, firm handshake. But of course she did.

She widened the door to let him enter, then locked it behind him. Inside it was strangely dark, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust. Only three pieces of furniture—two cushioned chairs facing a long, narrow table—were set right in the center of the room. On the table was Jen’s fifth limb, her open laptop, connected to a small projector. A square of bright, white light streamed from the lens and struck the empty, back office wall.

“What is this place?” he asked.

But she just gave him a polite smile and said, “Please have a seat.” She gestured to one of the chairs facing the lit wall.

As he lowered himself to the chair that smelled and felt brand new, she walked around the table. It was impossible not to notice her legs in that skirt, how they ended in towering black heels with red soles, a delicate strap wrapped around her ankle.

Focus, Dougall. Keep your head.

“So what’s up?” Anticipation mixed with frustration, and that wasn’t the best combination. Especially since lurking just underneath it, ready to stab its way through to the surface, was base lust and . . . hope.

Why are you here, Jen? Why are you back? Why?

Jen picked up a small remote from the table and stood just to one side of the square of light. “I am a businesswoman. I love staying busy. I love making clients happy. I love laying out a plan and carrying it out.”

He opened his hands. “Yes. I know.”

“And I love my phone and this computer, as you can attest to.” He had to crack a smile at that. “But what I don’t love—something I’ve come to realize over the past weeks and months—is working for someone else. I thought once that dragging as many pretty, vapid models to a product rollout actually fulfilled me, that it would be what set me on top.”

Leith held his breath and straightened in his chair.

“But I was wrong.” Jen clicked a button on the remote and the screen burst with understated, simple color.

Jen Haverhurst. Strategic Planning and Events.

“You’re sitting in my new world headquarters,” she said with a smile. “Here. In Connecticut. Not New York.”

Holy shit.

“My new company will focus on bringing suburban and rural communities, small businesses, and entrepreneurs together to put on fantastic events within their budget. I will meet with clients to strategically plan functions that enhance their brand, expand their influence, and are just plain fun.”

She spun through a series of slides, going through her marketing plan and potential clients, like he was some sort of investor. Maybe he was. Because every sentence, every word she said drove into his brain, slowly making him realize that she wasn’t running away. She wasn’t leaving him this time; she was joining him. This place was only half an hour from where he’d chosen to base his own new company.

“You were right. I didn’t love my job before. Working in Gleann, I discovered what I do love, and it’s this.”

“Wow.” He just sat there, stunned into silence, surely looking like a fool with his mouth hanging open. “I—”

“I’m not finished.” She held up a teasingly prim hand, then walked across the projector beam to the other side. As she did, the light cast her figure in silhouette—the gentle swing of her ponytail, the curve of her ass, the proud lift of her chin—and it mesmerized him.

She extended out a slim metal pointer with a balled tip.

“This”—she advanced a slide and slapped the pointer with gusto to the wall—“is why we belong together.”

On the wall, in bright rectangles of color, was one of her famous charts. He ground his molars into his cheek to keep from smiling.

On scales of one to one hundred, she’d bar-graphed the following categories: Sense of Humor, Mutual Respect, Future Goals, Sexual Compatibility, and Physical Proximity.

“Sense of Humor,” she began in that same businesslike tone. “You and I are at one hundred. It’s why we became friends in the first place, right? We laugh at the same things, make jokes no one else gets—”

“Relocate Mayor Sue’s outdoor doghouses to the lawn of Town Hall.”

“Ahhh, now there’s an idea to file away for later. Put that on our Action Item list.”

“Will do.” He leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Go on.”

“Mutual Respect. As you can see, I’ve divided this column into two. One for you, one for me.” She turned serious, the pointer dropping as she faced him. The light from the projector reflected off her glasses. “My respect for you is one hundred, as high as it can possibly get. I want you to know that. I need you to know that.”