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he’d take great satisfaction in trying to ruin her.
    Rosie shuddered. Exposing herself to Dean’s abuse wasn’t an option. Better she pray that her mounting problems would develop silver linings.

CHAPTER THREE
     
    E ver since he’d come perilously close to kissing Rosie for real last night, Sam had been imagining her in the role Bill described, despite the fact there was no real reason for her to consider such a proposition.
    She was practical, and except for the whole attraction thing he couldn’t seem to shake, she was convenient too. Dependable. Today she was mostly distracted and nervous. He’d be willing to bet that was his fault after that “sweet dreams” stunt he’d pulled. 
    “You sure you’re all right?” he asked for the third time, determined to get to whatever was bothering her.
    “Yes! Really. I’m fine. Why do you keep asking?”
    With a pointed look in her direction, he said “One.” He walked to her pantry, retrieved the plastic baggie of leftover pizza she’d deposited there and crossed the room to put it in the refrigerator.
    “Two.” He retrieved a chilled but empty soda can she’d placed in the fridge and threw it in her recycle bin on the porch.
    “Three.” He resumed his seat across the kitchen table from her and stilled hands which were rapidly shredding a sauce-stained paper napkin.
    She squeezed her eyes closed, and he imagined her counting to a furious ten. Beneath his hand hers was cool and silky-smooth, like satin. He resisted the urge to rub his thumb across the soft surface.
    “I’m a good listener,” he offered before ending the physical connection. He didn’t want to bring more attention to his lame excuse to touch her last night, unless it truly was a problem. Another thought occurred. “Did your date end badly?”
    “What?” She looked startled. “No. It wasn’t that kind of date. Claire Larkin and I try to have dinner together once a week. She’s a good friend and a health nut who occasionally indulges my passion for pepperoni deep dish.”
    “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
    “You’ve never met her. Claire moved here a couple years ago. She works at the Curl Up & Dye, next door to my shop.”
    “So, she’s not the problem, and it’s not guy trouble?”
    Damn. He hated digging like this, but he needed to know whether she was currently involved with anyone.
    “There’s no guy. It’s a work thing. Nothing I can’t handle.”
    Hearing that, he relaxed against the chair. “I don’t doubt that. But if you need to talk, I owe you—big time. Remember?”
    He wasn’t likely to forget all those hours she’d sat with him on the banks of Sweetwater Creek the summer after his parents were killed in a car crash. Whether he’d been silent or yelling and angry, she’d hung in there through his grief. Even as a young girl, she’d been loyal and unselfish.
    She glanced up, eyes startled. “That was a long time ago. We were friends.”
    “Still are, aren’t we?”
    She averted her gaze. “It’s complicated.”
    He waited, almost wishing she would refuse his offer. If it was advice or a second perspective she needed, that was easy. But what if it was more—big enough for him to negotiate a solution into a temporary marriage? He’d have to take advantage of the opportunity. Some friend he’d be, using her like that.
    Too bad he had no choice in the matter. Not a half-hour ago, he’d tucked his daughter in for the night. Sweet-smelling from her bath and sleepy, she’d looked the picture of vulnerable innocence. He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t —let her down again by providing Jasmine with another chance to mistreat Lorelei. The stakes were too high.
    Rosie frowned and pursed her mouth. The action drew his attention to her fuller lower lip, pink and pouty, as if she’d just been thoroughly kissed. Had it always been that sensual?
    She ran an index finger across it. “This is different.”
    Huh ? For a split second he thought he’d voiced the