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of July family football game.
    Emma looked at her watch and then stood to rinse her coffee mug. “Time to hit the road.”
    It wasn’t until she’d climbed behind the wheel of her truck and was watching him expectantly that Sean realized he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever ridden shotgun to a female driver. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked to be the one in control.
    But she’d be signing his paychecks for the next few weeks, so she was the boss. He slid in on the passenger side and closed the door, only to find himself white-knuckled by the time they reached the highway. She didn’t drive any better than she claimed she cooked.
    They spent the morning at a three-million-dollar summer home on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee, where he had the joy of turning a pile of rocks dumped next to the house into stone walls outlining what would be the perennial beds, whatever the hell that meant.
    It was good physical labor that worked up a sweat, but it didn’t make him nearly as hot and bothered as watching Emma work. She didn’t whine. Didn’t worry about breaking a nail. She just worked alongside him, humming country tunes under her breath, and he found out the hard way how attractive a hard-working woman could be.
    Ten feet, he thought. Ten feet between his bed and hers. A few steps.
    Then she bent over in front of him to adjust a rock and he dropped the one he was holding onto his toes, which made a dozen curses echo through his head, though he managed not to say them out loud.
    Thirty days with Emma was shaping up to be one hell of a job.

Chapter Four
    “It’s not Disney World, Sean. You get in, you get what you need and you get out.” If Emma had known shopping with him was going to be like this, she would have hidden a cattle prod in her purse.
    “I’m shopping.”
    “No, you’re meandering.”
    He stopped the cart—again—to look at something on the shelf and then resumed walking at a snail’s pace. “I might see something I need.”
    “I have a list. See?” She held it up. “I know what we need.”
    “That’s your list. Do you have salt-and-vinegar chips on it?”
    “No. I don’t like salt-and-vinegar flavor. Makes my tongue burn.”
    “See? If we sprint through the store, just getting what’s on your list, I won’t have any salt-and-vinegar chips.”
    “Maybe if you’d written down a few notes about yourself, I would have put them on my list.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t come with an owner’s manual. Sorry.”
    She pulled on the end of the cart, trying to make him move a little faster. “The store closes in six hours. You might need to pick up the pace.”
    He stopped so abruptly the cart jerked her arm. “You need to relax.”
    “No, I need to get the shopping done so I can move on to the next thing.” She glared at him, willing him to shut his mouth and move his feet.
    “You know, for a long time I’ve had what Uncle Sam saw fit to issue me and what my family could send in a care package,” he said quietly, and her impatience fizzled and died like a match dropped in a puddle. “When I got back stateside, I bought some necessities, but not a lot because I was on the move. I’d like to browse a little bit.”
    “I’m sorry.” She let go of the cart and blew out a breath. “Here you are doing me a huge favor and I’m being all…intense.”
    “Bitchy,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.
    “I prefer intense.”
    “Intensely bitchy.”
    Between the amusement lurking at the corners of his mouth and the fact he was right, Emma decided to let it go. Not only his less-than-flattering assessment of her mood, but the stress of her grandmother’s impending arrival. What was the worst that could happen if this didn’t work? Gram would be angry and see this little escapade as proof it was all too much for Emma. She’d sell the house and Emma would rent an apartment and life would go on.
    And that thought made her want to cry, so she shook it off and tried to be