"You couldn't possibly. I'm too confused to be thinking anything."

"Okay, what some might think is, hell, Savannah's got a million shops already. It does, no doubt about it. But people love to shop. No doubt about that either. Right?"

"I… I do. I love browsing the Internet shops."

"Sure." He picked up another cookie. "So I'm thinking, location being near the campus, Art and Design. Why not art, crafts. Okay," he said before she could speak. "We've already got plenty of shops and galleries. Artsy, crafty."

" I… suppose."

"Even the style I'm thinking, which would be upscale, isn't new, particularly. Boutiquey. Boutiquesque? You know what I'm saying?"

"Almost." She shook her head, laughed again. "Duncan, if you're using me for a sounding board here, I'm flattered. But I don't know anything about real estate and location and boutiquey shops out there. I don't go out there."

"You know about art and craft." Okay, he was having a third cookie, even if it made him sick. "About creating it. About selling it."

"You mean my crocheting." She waved a hand at him. "That's just a paying hobby. It's just something I stumbled into."

"Okay. How about stumbling my way? I've got this idea. Don't you love getting ideas? I always got ideas, but I couldn't do anything with most of them. Now I can. It's a rush, let me tell you."

"So I can see."

"The idea is arts and crafts by Savannahians. Products created only in Savannah. Only Savannah," he repeated, narrowing his eyes. "Might be a good name for it. I should write that down. Savannah arts and crafts," he continued as he dug out his cell phone, cued up his memo function. "Created by Savannahians, displayed and sold in a gorgeous two-story wooden house that symbolizes Savannah. It's got this great porch, or it will be great. I know this guy who does amazing furniture. Tongue and groove. And this woman who does amazing things with wrought iron. So we could… getting ahead of myself," he said when he noted she was just staring at him.

"You want to carry some of my crocheting in your shop?"

"Essie, I want to carry buckets of it, trunkloads of it. I want to have it spread all through the place. What do you call them-doilies?-on tables, throws on the sofas. You said you did bedspreads, right? How about tablecloths, like that? And clothes. Sweaters, scarves."

"Well, yes, b u't… "

"See, we'd have rooms set up. Just like a home. Bedrooms, dining room, parlors. So we'd display your work that way. For sale, sure, but also part of the ambience, you know? Baby stuff in the nursery, scarves, sweaters in the wardrobes. You could keep doing your own Internet sales if you want. But we could take care of that for you, expand it."

"My head is actually spinning." She laid her hand on one side of it as if to keep it centered. "Why do you think I could do all that?"

"You are doing it. You'd just keep doing it-except for the boxing and shipping, depending on how you want to handle it. Here, come with me a minute." He grabbed her hand as he pushed back from the table, pulled her into the dining room.

"What do you call that?"

She frowned at the long runner she'd designed in soft pastels for the dining room table. "A runner."

"A runner. Got it. So, if you were to make one just like that and sell it, what would you charge?"

"Oh, well." She had to calculate. She'd made one very similar for a client once, and several shorter ones for others over the years. She gauged the price as best she could without a calculator.

Duncan nodded, did some rapid calculations of his own. "I could give you fifteen percent more than that, and still make a decent profit." Her cheeks went white, then flushed warm pink. "Fifteen percent more?" She grabbed an end of the runner. "You want it now? I'll box it right up for you."

He grinned. "You keep that one, and start thinking about making more. And whatever else you've a mind to make. I'm going to need some time to get this up and running, but I guarantee we'll be rocking by the Christmas shopping season." He held out a hand. "Partner?" Duncan considered it a really good day if by seven, regardless of what had come before, there was pizza and beer on the veranda.

He'd lit candles, as much to discourage the bugs as to add some light. His bare feet were propped on the padded wicker hassock. He'd left the TV on in the living room, angling himself so he could watch some basketball action through the window if he wanted. Or just listen to the play-by-play and stare off into the soft dark.

He'd had enough of people for the day. As sociable as he was, he hoarded his alone time. And he liked to listen to the sounds of the game, but he just simply loved the sounds of the night.

The quiet swooshing of air through the trees, the hum of insects, the incessant music of peepers entertained him. It was a good spotveranda, chair and hassock-and the best time of day to figure things out. Or to let them go.

He'd been tempted to hang out in Essie's kitchen until Phoebe came in from work. So why hadn't he? Hang around too much, he decided, and become a fixture. Or an annoyance. It was all a matter of balance, to his way of thinking. And intriguing the woman in question so maybe she was just a little off hers.

Besides, every time he saw her, he wanted to grab her. Considering what she'd been through, he didn't think she was at the grabbing stage yet.

He finished off a slice of pizza, contemplated another. Then glanced over at the sound of a car. His brows lifted when he realized the car wasn't passing by but heading in.

He didn't recognize it, but he recognized the woman who stepped out of it. And this, he thought, was a better way to end the day than pizza and beer.

"Hey, Phoebe."

"Duncan." She pushed at her hair as she walked to the veranda. "I was at the bridge before it occurred to me you probably weren't here, and then it was too late not to keep going. But here you are anyway."

"I'm here a lot. I mostly live here."

"So you've said."

"Want some pizza? A beer?"

"No, and no. Thank you."

The formal tone had him lifting his eyebrows again. "How about a chair?"

"I'm fine, thanks. I want to ask what you're doing with my mother." Okay. "Well, I asked her to marry me, but she avoided giving me an answer. I don't think she took me seriously so I settled for the cookies."

"I'm wondering how seriously you take her, or yourself."

"Why don't you tell me why you're pissed at me, and we'll go from there?"

"I'm not pissed. I'm concerned."

Bullshit, he thought. He knew a pissed-off woman when she was standing on his veranda ready to chew holes in him. "About?"

"My mother's bursting with excitement over this business you talked to her about."

"You don't want her to be excited?"

"I don't want her to be disappointed, or disillusioned or hurt."

His voice was as cool as his neglected beer. "Which would be the natural consequence of excitement over the project we discussed. Which, as I recall," he added, "doesn't involve you."

"My mother's state of mind very much involves me. You can't come in there talking about some store you're thinking of opening in some house you're thinking of buying, and how she's going to be a part of it. It's your business how you do business-"

"Thank you very much."

"But," Phoebe ground out. "You got her all worked up, making plans, making designs, talking about how she'll be able to help more with the expenses. What happens to all that if you change your mind, or it doesn't come through, or you just find something more interesting to play with?"

"Why would I change my mind?"

"Aren't you the one who opened a sports bar, then sold it?"

"Sold a piece of it," he corrected.

"Then a pub. And I don't know what else." Which was the crux of it. She didn't know, and he was taking her mother into territory she hadn't mapped out. "You bounce, and that's fine for you, Duncan, that's just fine. It's not fine for my mother. She doesn't bounce."