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younger, more beautiful version of Julia Roberts.
     
    Clay put his forehead down on the table and groaned.
     
    He knew everyone was probably gawking at him as if he’d lost his mind, but he couldn’t help himself. He knew even before the fever flooded his face and arms and legs and that particular hot zone in between  . . . he knew exactly who this stranger was. It was, unbelievably, Annie Fallon.
     
    He cracked his eyes open a bit, still with his face in his plate, and glanced sideways at her where she still stood, equally stunned, in the doorway. Neither of them seemed to notice the hooting voices surrounding them.
     
    How could he have been so blind?
     
    How could he not have seen what was happening here?
     
    How could he not have listened to the cautionary voice of the bellhop who’d warned of destiny and God’s big toe?
     
    All the pieces fit together now in the puzzle that had plagued Clay since he’d arrived in Memphis. God’s big toe had apparently delivered him a holy kick in the ass. Not to mention the fever He’d apparently sent to thaw his icy heart.
     
    Clay, a sophisticated, wealthy venture capitalist, was falling head over heels in love at first sight with a farmer. Old McAnnie.
     
    Donald Trump and Daisy Mae.
     
    Hell! It will never work .
     
    Will it?
     
    He raised his head and took a longer look at the woman who was frozen in place, staring at him with equal incredulity. It was a sign of the madness that had overcome them both that the laughter rippling around them failed to penetrate their numbed consciousnesses.
     
    He knew for sure that he was lost when a traitorous thought slipped out, and he actually spoke it aloud.
     
    “Where’s the hayloft, honey?”
     

Chapter Three
     
    A smart man isn’t above a little subterfuge…
     
    Clay felt as if he’d landed smack dab in the middle of the Mad Hatter’s party. It was debatable who was the mad one, though  . . . him or the rest of the inmates in this bucolic asylum.
     
    Love? Me? Impossible!
     
    Elvis music blared in the background— ironically, “Can’t Help Falling in Love With You ”—and everyone talked at once, each louder than the other in order to be heard. A half-dozen strains of dialogue were going on simultaneously, but no one seemed to notice. Good thing, too. It gave him a chance to speculate in private over his monumental discovery of just a few moments ago.
     
    I’m falling in love.
     
    Impossible! Uh-uh, none of this falling business for me.
     
    What other explanation is there for this fever that overtakes me every time I look at her? And, man, she is so beautiful. Well, not beautiful. Just perfect. Well, not perfect-perfect. Hell, the woman makes my knees sweat, just looking at her.
     
    Maybe it’s not love. I’ve never been in love before. How do I know it’s love? Maybe it’s just lust.
     
    Love, lust, whatever. I’m a goner.
     
    But a farmer? A farmer?
     
    “How come you and Annie keep googley-eying each other?” Johnny asked.
     
    “Shut your teeth and eat,” Aunt Liza responded, whacking Johnny on the shoulder with a long-handled wooden spoon.
     
    “Ouch!”
     
    Meantime, a myriad of platters and bowls were being set on the table. And Aunt Liza assured him this was an everyday meal, no special spread on his behalf.
     
    Pot roast (about ten pounds, give or take a hind quarter) cut into half-inch slabs. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Thick noodles cooked in beef broth. Creamed spinach. Pickled beets. Succotash ( Whatever the hell that was! ). Chow-chow ( Whatever the hell that was, too! ). Tossed salad. Coleslaw. Homemade biscuits and butter. Pitchers of cold, unhomogenized milk at either end of the table sporting a two-inch header of real cream. Canned pears. Chocolate layer cake and vanilla ice cream.
     
    There were enough calories and fat grams on this table to fatten up the entire nation of Bosnia. Yet, amazingly, everyone here was whip-thin. Either they’d all inherited good