Terri doesn't quite trust her friend's ex-husband. But she wants him anyway.
After her fiance's tragic death, Terri Clark has spent two years in mourning. She moves to Shepherdsville hoping to start over, but she's finding it impossible to forget that last, horrible night. Now, her hope of a fresh start begins to crumble when restoring the town's ballpark forces her to work with the ruggedly handsome Sam Bradley. The last thing she wants is to work side by side with someone as cold and uncaring as Sam. He isn’t quite the man she thought he was, though. Can she bring herself to risk her heart again?
A single dad, Sam takes fatherhood seriously. He's determined to restore Shepherdsville's ballpark to its former glory to make up for the turmoil in his young son’s life. He refuses to let anything stand in his way—not even being saddled with Terri Clark's help. A friend of his ex, Terri had a front row seat to his divorce, and now she thinks he’s a first-class jerk. Still, he finds himself fighting a growing attraction to a woman who might be helping his ex-wife take away custody of his son. Can Terri forgive him for his past? More importantly, can he forgive himself?
From the Inside Flap:
“Let’s have a look at that leg.”
“My leg is fine,” he said. How was it he couldn’t seem to do anything right when she was around?
She set the drill down and sat back on her heels. “I heard the sound when it hit you, and I can see that tear in your jeans.”
“I didn’t hear any sound,” he muttered.
“That’s because you were too busy screaming,” she said. “Now, let me see.”
“I didn’t scream.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She leaned forward, grabbed the cuff of his jeans, and yanked upwards.
“Don’t be such a baby.” She looked down at his shin. “Where’s your First Aid kit?”
“I don’t need a—oh.” He followed the direction of her gaze. Two inches above the top of his boot, an angry red gash split his skin, blood seeping from the middle in a small trickle.
She pushed up from the floor. “Under the front counter, I assume?”
“It’s… Yeah… Wait. I don’t need—”
“You might as well stop arguing,” she said, ducking behind the counter. “You’re getting a bandage.”
He swiped at the blood with his finger. “It’s no worse than a paper cut. I’m fine.”
“It’s a gash, and unless you want to bleed all over your pretty new cabinets, you’ll cover it up.” She returned a second later with an alcohol swab and a bandage. “Hold still.”
He grabbed at the swab. “I’m perfectly capable of dabbing a few drops of blood from my leg.”
“You’re a horrible patient, you know that?”
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