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From that moment on, she’d kept the men in her life at a distance. She’d dated and enjoyed some passionate short-term affairs, but she’d kept her heart locked away. Most men found her approach attractive and enjoyed the no-strings sex. And though most of her lovers would have been happy to continue, Regan had always been the one to end it.
As she continued to watch the fox, Regan thought about all the photos she’d taken as a wedding photographer. People said she had a way of capturing emotion in her photographs of inanimate objects—rose petals on a white runner, a wedding program left on a church pew, a veil tossed across the back of a chair. She mixed these photos with stunning candids and beautiful portraits, capturing the day in a way that no one else could.
It was easier to believe in the fairy tale when she stood behind the camera. It was like a filter that took away the everyday realities of love and marriage and froze the moments of perfection for all time.
A soft breeze buffeted the dead leaves that covered the roadside, sending them onto the pavement in swirls of color. Suddenly, the low morning light finally broke through the trees. Horizontal shafts of illumination reflected off the moisture in the air and the colors shifted, becoming supersaturated, an emerald so vivid it seemed unreal.
She brought the camera up again and began to shoot. The fox sniffed at the wind, then flicked her tail, turning its attention to the road. Regan held her breath as she continued to shoot. It was as if the fox sensed that Regan meant no harm. In fact, she wanted her photo taken.
The sunlight moved up the facade of the chapel and had nearly covered the fox with a diffuse light. Suddenly, the fox’s ears pricked up and she cocked her head. Regan let out a soft gasp as she heard the sound of singing echoing through the woods.
“Give me some men, who are stout hearted men, who will fight for the right they adore.”
In a heartbeat, the fox bounded off into the woods. Regan looked up from her camera, cursing softly, as the voice grew louder. A few seconds later, she saw a runner approaching from the opposite direction. He wore running pants and trainers, but he’d removed his long-sleeved shirt and tied it around his waist. His chest was bare to the cold and gleaming with moisture.
He continued to sing the song until he caught sight of her. Then he stopped in the middle of the road, as if he were startled to see somebody out so early in the morning. Steam seemed to swirl around his body—from the cold air meeting his warm skin—and for a moment, Regan wondered if he was real.
They stared at each other for a long moment, like predator and prey, although Regan wasn’t sure which one of them was which. She wanted to scream at him and throw rocks and sticks until she punished him for ruining her photo session. But all she could manage was a frustrated shriek and a sarcastic “thank you.”
She spun on her heel and started back toward her grandmother’s house. The family of foxes would have been a cute photo, one that she could have turned into a postcard for the tourists who flocked to Pickett Lake every summer. Instead, some bonehead more concerned about his washboard abs and muscled calves than appreciating nature had ruined it.
A few seconds later, the runner caught up to her. “Did you just thank me?”
“I wasn’t being grateful,” Regan said. “You just scared away my shot.”
“Your shot?”
“A fox. Sitting on the chapel steps. Perfect light.”
“All the better,” he said. “You might’ve killed me.”
Regan held up her camera, waving it in his face. “Not that kind of shot. Though the way I feel right now, I could kill you,” she said. “It was going to be a beautiful picture, and you ruined it with that ridiculous song.”
“You know that song?”
“My grandfather used to sing it every year when we dragged the dock down to the water.” Regan couldn’t help but smile at the memory of all the grandchildren lined up on either side and marching the heavy wooden structure down to the water. It was an annual rite of passage. No one was allowed to swim in the lake until the dock was in.
“Well then, I suppose I do owe you an apology. I’m sorry for ruining your shot,” he said. “And I guess if you’re determined to shoot me there’s nothing I can do about it.”
He ran a few steps ahead of her, then turned to face her, jogging backward and holding his arms out. “Go ahead, I’m ready to accept my punishment.”
Regan couldn’t help but smile again. She’d been so angry with him just a few moments ago and now he’d made her smile. Who was this man?
She raised her camera and snapped a few frames. He clutched his chest and stumbled slightly. “I suppose I deserve that.”
Regan raised her camera again, this time focusing on his face. He continued to increase the distance between them as she continued to shoot, and when she pulled the camera down, he was twenty yards away. She opened her mouth, ready to ask him to stop. She wanted to know more about him, where he came from, what he was doing on the road so early in the morning. But in the end, she let him escape. He finally faced forward and continued down the road, singing the song boisterously.
Regan quickly grabbed a few shots of his retreat, then stood in the middle of the road and listened to the last echo of his voice. She’d had a lot of strange encounters on her early morning walks, mostly with wild animals. She could say with complete confidence, though, that she’d never had an encounter with such a handsome man.
She realized it had been a long time since she’d enjoyed being with a sexy man. And she had a few months before she headed to Arizona for the winter. Regan glanced at her watch. If he ran on a regular schedule, she might catch him out here again tomorrow morning. Then she might be able to find out where he lived and who he was. And she wouldn’t be so...so tongue-tied.
Regan hurried back to the house, slipping silently inside and heading for the kitchen. She pulled the data stick out of her camera and plugged it into the laptop she’d left on the kitchen counter the night before. Tapping her finger impatiently, Regan waited while the images loaded. The instant they had, she brought up the pictures of the stranger.
Clicking on his face in the first one, she enlarged the photo until she could see every detail. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared into his deep blue eyes. “Oh, my,” she murmured, pressing her hand to her chest. Her heart was pounding beneath her palm and she tried to draw a deep breath again.
The photo showed the mist and the sunlight filtering through the trees and catching the sheen of moisture on his face and body. It all combined to produce a beautiful image of an incredibly stunning man. Regan swallowed hard as she reached out to touch her computer screen.
In the image, he was holding his arms out, challenging her to shoot. His smile was playful, teasing...as if he knew exactly how to make her laugh. And she had laughed.
Handsome and sexy and funny. Exactly what she looked for in a man. Since Jake, she didn’t need to worry about anything else—like fidelity or honesty or loyalty. She never allowed her relationships to reach the point where those qualities made a difference. She wasn’t looking for Prince Charming anymore. But that didn’t mean she’d didn’t want a man in her bed every now and then.
She had twenty-four hours. Then she’d walk the road again and hope that this charming, sexy guy was a creature of habit.
* * *
A BRISK BREEZE sent leaves skittering across the main street of the small town of Pickett Lake. Jamie Quinn got out of his pickup and looked both ways before jogging to the opposite sidewalk. He climbed the front steps of the old hardware store, reaching into his jacket pocket for the business card of a local real estate agent.
He’d arrived in town yesterday evening, taking a room at a local motel. After a decent night’s sleep, a great morning run, an odd encounter with a feisty photographer and a hearty breakfast, he was ready to get down to business.
Jamie was on a strict schedule that didn’t allow for any flexibility. He had just two more weeks to find a piece of land before he was scheduled to start building his first modular home. After that, every hour would be accounted for on a time sheet that would be analyzed and discussed between him and his two business partners.
He stepped inside the store, the old wood floors creaking beneath his feet as he searched for a friendly face. He noticed that the other patrons were simply piling their purchases on the counter, then going back through the aisles to fetch the additional items they needed.
An elderly man nodded at him. “Can I help you find anything, sir?”
“I’m looking for Walt Murphy,” Jamie said.
“Can I tell him what it’s about?”
“I’m Jamie Quinn. I called him yesterday. I’m looking to lease a lot with lake frontage.”
“You want to rent a piece of property?” the man asked.
“No, just the land...it’s kind of a complicated story. Can you get Walt?”
“He’s in the back. Let me fetch him for you,” the clerk said.
The idea for Habikit had come a few years ago, as he and two friends had gone out for beers after a hockey game. Sam Fraley, an architect, and Rick Santino, a construction contractor, had been arguing about the “tiny house” movement and the potential effects it could have on the construction industry.
But Jamie had argued that it offered intriguing possibilities to provide prefabricated homes to the homeless. There’d been a time in his life when safe and warm housing wasn’t always a given, and he’d been searching for the opportunity to do something to help others in the same situation.
And so the Habikit was born. The materials for a complete two-hundred-square-foot home would be packed in a box and shipped to wherever it was needed. They’d designed each kit to be a module that could be expanded to make a larger home for a reasonable price. Sam and Rick and Jamie worked to make the kit simple to construct, with a minimum of tools and equipment. They’d also focused on making the kits “green” and using recycled materials whenever possible, achieving a nearly net-zero carbon footprint.
It had been a labor of love for the three of them, and after a year of designing, they’d built their first module together, donating it to a homeless housing project in Minneapolis. The tiny home had garnered a multitude of awards, along with the interest of investors. But those investors were looking for proof that Jamie and his friends could make a profit. So they’d devised phase two—using the concept to build a vacation home.
The sale of modular vacation homes would provide a major source of funding for the nonprofit homeless project. But it wasn’t enough to make up a brochure with an illustration. Investors wanted to see a real home built in a natural setting and they were in danger of losing their most important investor if the project wasn’t finished within a month.
So Jamie had set out to lease a piece of waterfront property. Once he’d obtained the proper permits, he’d build Habikit’s first multi-module home, documenting it along the way with photos and videos for the instruction manual.
“Excuse me? Can you help me?”
Jamie turned to find an elderly woman standing behind him. Her pale blond hair was swept into a tidy knot and her smooth skin made it impossible to guess her age. She wore a canvas coat, khakis and knee-high wellies.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t work here.”
She smiled, her blue eyes twinkling. “I don’t need your expertise. I just need your eyes. You wouldn’t think I’d have to carry a magnifying glass around with me, but I can’t read the directions.”
“I can help you out with that,” Jamie said, taking the package of glue from her fingers. He read off the instructions, and when the woman realized it wasn’t what she was looking for, he helped her find an epoxy that would work better.
“Thank you for your help.”
“I was happy to come to your rescue, madam,” Jamie said.
She held out her hand. “Celia Macintosh,” she said. “And what’s your name, young man?”
“James Quinn. But everyone calls me Jamie,” he said.
“Jamie, I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said. “You’re looking to lease some land?”
“I am,” Jamie said. “And it has to have lake frontage. It’s hard to find someone willing to rent a piece of lake property. Especially for the price I can pay.”
“Mr. Quinn?”
Jamie turned to see a middle-aged man approach. He was dressed in a comfortable sport coat and a neatly pressed shirt. His graying hair was shaggy and he looked like he’d been taking a nap. “Mr. Murphy?”
The real estate broker held out his hand. “Walt Murphy. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” Celia said. “Mr. Quinn doesn’t need your help anymore.” She cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Mr. Quinn, I have a lovely little spot that I might be interested in leasing. To the right person.”
“Since when do you have land to lease, Miss Celia?” Walt asked.
“Never you mind.” She gave Jamie a coy smile. “Come along, Mr. Quinn, we have business to discuss.” She handed the package of glue to Walt. “Walter, say hello to your mother for me. And get yourself a haircut!”
“Miss Celia, I seem to recall that your property is held in a trust. You aren’t authorized to lease it to a third party,” Walt said. “Maybe Mr. Quinn should talk to your granddaughter before you make any decisions. Miss Regan knows best.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Celia said. “I can make these decisions on my own. I don’t need Regan’s help. And I do have property of my own. I have Maple Point.”
Walt frowned. “You’d consider selling the point? But I thought you’d—”
“Walt, you know there’s no decent property left on the lake. Unless you were going to try to sell that raggedy little piece of swampland that you own over on the western shore.” Celia turned to Jamie. “Why don’t we go look at my property?”
“All right,” Jamie said.
As they started toward the door, Walt grabbed Jamie’s arm. “Everyone around town loves Miss Celia. We look out for each other here in Pickett Lake. If you do anything to hurt her, if you take advantage of her, the whole town will kick your ass.”
“I appreciate the warning,” Jamie said. “I have a grandmother who I care very much for and if it were her, I would have the same concerns as you do.”
Though his grandmother had appeared in their lives too late to save them from most of their troubles, she had provided a steadying influence to Jamie, as the youngest in the family, during his high school years.
“Well, good, I’m glad we got that cleared up,” Walt said.
Jamie followed Celia out to the street. She withdrew a pair of leather gloves from her pocket, then pointed to a pale yellow Mercedes parked down the street. “Tell me, Mr. Quinn, what do you intend to build on my land? A nice little summer cottage for your wife and children?”
Jamie chuckled. “No,” he said. “I don’t have a wife. Or children.”
“Really?” She smiled. “I’m surprised. Why is that? You seem like a very nice man. Handsome. Successful.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’re dressed well. And you’re interested in my property, which won’t come cheap.”
“I’m planning to build a model home, a modular design that my company produces. We’ll use the home for photos and to show investors. And when we don’t need it any longer, in three or four years, we’ll take it down and return the land to its original state.”
“I could lease you the land,” she said. “But what if I wanted to keep the cottage? Maybe you could just leave it where it was?”
“You’re a very shrewd woman, Miss Celia.”
“I am.”
Jamie helped her into her car, then jogged across the street to his pickup. He made a U-turn and tucked his truck in behind the Mercedes, following her down the main street and along to Shore Road, where they maintained a lazy pace through the tight curves that cut through the thick woods.
He recognized the route. It had been the same path he’d taken that morning on his jog. His mind flashed back to his encounter with the brash but beautiful photographer.
He’d meant to ask about her around town, see if anyone knew who she was. But until now, he hadn’t been sure he’d be staying in Pickett Lake. The resort community was quite close to Minneapolis, which made it an ideal location to build the model quickly. But it was also a small town, and he’d been aware that the chances of finding available and affordable land he could lease would be small. Running into Celia had been a godsend. And if he did secure a piece of property here, maybe he could get to know the intriguing photographer.
He remembered that she was beautiful, and that the color of her eyes had been mesmerizing—a deep, emerald green. And her voice had been soft and melodic, as if she could persuade anyone she met to do her bidding.
Even now, he could imagine that voice, teasing at his ear, saying his name, convincing him to let down his guard, to surrender to his—
Jamie stopped himself. This was crazy. He hadn’t asked the woman’s name because he’d thought he was leaving town. Besides, he was the kind of guy who didn’t like to be tied down. He made it a point to avoid messy romances. He preferred women who wanted nothing more than a night or two of physical pleasure with long intervals between. But this woman was far too beautiful to settle for no-strings sex. He could imagine that she had men hanging on her every word, men lining up to date her. Men ready to pledge their lives to her.
Hell, she was probably married. Or involved. Why hadn’t he lingered a bit longer and introduced himself?
The brake lights on the old Mercedes flashed and Celia quickly slowed the car and pulled it into a narrow paved driveway, not far from where he’d met the photographer. Maybe Celia knew who she was. Jamie made a mental note to ask her just as soon as it wouldn’t seem strange.
The house, or more accurately, the lodge, was made of logs and set in a wide clearing that overlooked the lake. Though he knew there were neighbors around, the trees were so thick that it gave the illusion of complete solitude and privacy.
Celia pulled to a stop in the wide circle drive, then elegantly stepped from the car, smoothing her hands over her hair. Jamie had noticed her air of wealth in the hardware store, but after seeing her house, it was clear that Celia didn’t need the income from her land to be financially secure.
Jamie hopped out of the truck and strolled over to stand next to her. “This is quite a place,” he said.
“My late husband, Kenneth, built it so we could have the whole family here during the summers,” she explained. “But everyone has gone off in different directions, and my husband passed two years ago. The only time the house is full is at Thanksgiving, Christmas and on my birthday in July.”
“How many children do you have?” Jamie asked.
“I have five children and seventeen grandchildren,” Celia said. “Let’s walk out to the point first, and I’ll show you the land.”
They walked around the house to a wide stone terrace that offered a picturesque view of the lake. A second-story deck surrounded the back of the house and stairs led up to a wall of windows. “This is beautiful,” Jamie said. “Like paradise.”
