Charity City, Texas Mid September, two weeks before the bi-
annual town auction
Desmond O'Donnell was back. Like the Terminator. Or a bad
penny. Or both.
Molly Preston watched him walk past her classroom window,
wishing he looked like a troll. But, where Des O'Donnell
was concerned, her luck had never been that good. Now was
no exception. All she could see was his profile and that
was still to die for.
She was dabbing green paint on construction paper with one
of her kids, when he entered her classroom and began
looking around. She took a good look, too. The rumor mill
had been working overtime since Des had returned to
Charity City, and reports of his hunk quotient bordered on
the stuff of urban legend. The reports were annoyingly
accurate.
Ever since she learned the Charity City Foundation had
awarded First Step Preschool the money for a new wing of
classrooms and Des had won the contract to build it, she'd
known their paths would cross. Again. But he'd picked a
bad time to drop in. Not that any time would have been
especially good, but it was craft time for her pre-K kids
and when paint was involved, it was always uncharted
territory. On top of that, a handsome stranger's
appearance was like a shot of adrenaline to her four-year-
old charges.
They weren't the only ones. Her twenty-five-year-old
hormones whipped her heart into a serious palpitation. And
her hands were sweating. She was no good around men —
never had been, never would be — especially not around one
who looked like he should be on the cover of Carpentry
Quarterly.
Still, she'd been preparing herself to deal with him. But
this time she wasn't an overweight, orthodontically
challenged, four-eyed high-school girl, easily dazzled by
the PHAT — pretty hot and tempting — captain of the
football team.
This time, she was a woman, and a professional. More
classrooms meant more kids getting a head start on
learning — a start that would make them kind, caring and
productive members of society.
Seeing Des again was no big deal. Probably he was no
longer a jerk. Probably there was a Mrs. Des at home.
Besides, Molly was so over him. She was prepared to be
polite and helpful because there was no longer any reason
to hate his guts.
Brave self-talk, but as she walked over to the man from
her past who was standing just inside the classroom door,
her tongue felt suddenly three sizes too big for her mouth.
"Hello," she managed to say.
"Hi. I'm Des O'Donnell from O'Donnell Construction."
That sounded an awful lot like an introduction. Their
previous acquaintance, such as it was, would suggest
dispensing with introductions. She blinked, then stared at
him, waiting for some hint of recognition on his part. She
saw none.
When she didn't say anything, he continued. "I'll be
building the new wing for the preschool and I'm here to
look over the construction site."
"I see."
"This classroom will be affected. In the office I was told
that this is Polly Preston's room. That would probably
make you Miss Preston. May I call you Polly?"
"Sure." Her stomach knotted but her inner smart aleck
picked up the slack. "But I can't promise to answer."
"Oh?"
"My name is Molly. Molly Preston."
"Sorry. My mistake."
He didn't look sorry, Molly thought, then reminded herself
she didn't need to be snarky because she didn't care. "No
problem."
He grinned his charming grin and that was a problem. "Nice
to meet you, Molly."
Clearly he didn't remember her or her name. She wasn't
sure whether or not that was more humiliating than him
taking a payoff to date her. After a socially dismal
beginning to her freshman year, her father had paid Des to
date her and ensure her high-school popularity. Des should
have gone into acting. He'd pulled it off without her
suspecting a thing. She'd never have known his interest in
her was a sham if a disgruntled girlfriend hadn't ratted
him out.
Des had used her as a stepping stone to success. He'd got
what he wanted, then hadn't had the decency to break it
off with her face-to-face. He'd simply stood her up then
left for college.
Screw the high road, she decided. His betrayal had
unraveled the fabric of her self-esteem. Now he didn't
even remember her? She would never be grown up enough to
not care about that, and she felt justified in her
crabbiness.
"Yeah, nice," she lied. "Look, Mr. O'Donnell —"
"Des," he interrupted.
"Des," she repeated, annoyed at how easily his name
slipped from her lips. She hoped that only she noticed
that her voice had dropped into the seductive range on the
single syllable.
Time had been good to Des O'Donnell. He'd always been the
stuff of girlish fantasies. Now he was a man, with the
filled-out physique to prove it. His chest-and-biceps-
hugging navy T-shirt brought out the extraordinary
sapphire blue of his eyes. She remembered that his hair
had a natural wave when he needed a haircut, which he
didn't at the moment. She missed the curl. Once light
blond, his hair had changed color over time. Somehow, the
darker shade suited him better.
His face had matured, lines fanning out at the corners of
his eyes. His square jaw gave him a rugged appearance that
was just right on him. And just wrong for her.
The years melted away, turning her back into that
insecure, geeky teenager who'd learned that someone like
her didn't snag sincere attention from men. Bruce the
Bottom-feeder had happened in college. Her mistake had
been believing he was the polar opposite of Des. It seemed
that every time she went on to a higher level of
education, painful personal lessons were involved. Which
made her wary of a postgraduate degree.
But she was no longer in high school or college. She was a
grown-up responsible for the welfare of the children in
her class. It was time to behave that way.
"Look, Des —"
"So I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other during the
construction," he said at the same time.
"It would appear that way."
"Arrangements will have to be made when your classroom is
impacted by the construction. I'll need to go over the
work schedule with you."
Molly tucked her hands into the pockets of her
slacks. "Okay. But it can't be right now."
"Why not?"
"The children are involved in crafts. And that requires my
undivided attention."
She glanced over her shoulder and noticed one of the boys
painting on the table instead of his paper. Thank goodness
for butcher paper and her advance preparation for this
very thing. "See what I mean? Now if you'll excuse me —"
"I won't take much of your time."
"Children are schedule-sensitive. The slightest disruption
can throw their world into chaos."
"Then why did the office send me over?"
"We have a new receptionist. I'll talk to her."
"It wasn't the receptionist who gave me the green light."
He folded his arms over his impressive chest.
"I spoke to Mrs. Farris, the director. She said to tell
you if you need backup while we discuss business to let
her know."
The little table-painter had wandered over beside her.
When he slipped his hand into hers, Molly felt the sticky
wetness and guessed she now had a green palm.
The boy looked up at the tall visitor. "Hi."
"Hey, buddy," Des replied.
Molly knew if this wasn't nipped in the bud, the rest of
her Picassos-in-training would be joining them, resulting
in anarchy. Something any preschool teacher worth her salt
would avoid at all cost.
"Trey," she said to the child, "it's craft time. Are you
finished with your trees?"
"Yup."
She glanced over to where he'd been sitting and saw his
pristine paper with green paint all around it. "Are you
sure?" she asked.
Des followed her gaze. "Looks like Trey thinks outside the
box."
The four remaining children at the table were getting
restless. "Look, Des, this isn't a good time. I have to
clean up this group. The rest of my class is outside on
the playground with an aide and they're due in any minute
for their turn at craft time. I try to stagger it for all
my kids so it's a relaxing and creative experience. So,
Trey, I want you to go wash your hands."
"But I wanna see what he's gonna do," the boy explained,
pointing a green finger at Des. "Do you know Bob the
Builder?"
Des squatted, bracing one denim-clad knee on the
indoor/outdoor carpet as he rested his tanned forearm on
the other. She noticed the way the material pulled snugly
at his muscular thigh, then averted her gaze when her
pulse jumped.
"Trey, I'm not going to do anything fun," he said, his
voice deep, calm and patient. "I'm just going to measure
and write stuff down."
The child looked disappointed. "You're not gonna hammer?"
"Not today."
"How come?"
"Because I don't have anything to hammer. I have to order
wood and nails and I don't know how much I'll need yet.
I'm here to figure that out."
"Oww."
Molly turned at the cry of distress to see a curly-haired
brunette rubbing her head.
"What's wrong, Amy?"
"Kyle pulled my hair, Miss Molly," she said, her bottom
lip trembling.
"Kyle, remember what I told you about keeping your hands
to yourself?"
The towheaded boy nodded. "She started it. She put paint
on my new shoe, Miss Molly. My mom said I couldn't even
get these new shoes dirty or wet."
"Don't worry. The paint will come off. Did you tell Amy
your shoes were new?"
He nodded. "But she painted 'em anyway. She's stupid and I
hate —"