“No,” she said, knowing that was only partly true. “It’s just, you’re a guest. You’re here to relax, and…do whatever it is you want to do. You’re not paying to stay here so you can help with chores. Much less rescue your hostess or be attacked by the local psycho kitten.” She scooted around him as soon as they were both in the kitchen and went immediately to the cupboard below the sink where the first aid kit was stashed.

“I’m pretty sure feeding me dinner wasn’t part of my room and board, either. I was simply returning the favor.”

“I fed you because you saved my life. I owed you, not the other way around. We’re even. Well, if you can consider chicken and mushroom casserole an even trade for a life.” Knowing she was babbling, but seemingly unable to stop, she braced herself and stood up only to clutch the kit to her chest when she realized he was standing right beside her. She winced a little when the kit rubbed at her scratched stomach.

He took the kit from her and then did that quick, half-smile thing she was coming to realize he did when he was amused but trying to be polite.

If only he knew just how impolite she’d been with her thoughts of him.

“What?” she said as he placed the kit on the counter. She reached out to help him unclasp the safety latch on the front of the kit.

“I was just thinking that, in the end, all we were both trying to do was help the poor, defenseless little kitty cat, and look at the both of us.” His tone took on a wry note. “I’m thinking maybe she’d have been better off left to her own defenses.”

Her own lips twitched. “You might have a point.” She went to draw her hand away, but his fingers brushed over hers as he went to lift the lid off the kit, then more deliberately when she didn’t move them away. She looked at his fingertips as they lightly stroked over the backs of her fingers, as if she was having some sort of out-of-body experience. Except her body was experiencing all kinds of things at the moment and she felt every electrifying one of them. She didn’t lift her gaze to his, not fully prepared for what she might find in those green eyes of his. Was she making this up, too?

“Kirby.”

She took another millisecond to decide, so he lifted his fingers from hers, to her chin. One little glimpse of his eyes, that intensity, that focus, so close up, so…intimate. And she knew right then, if he asked her to clean his wounds, or…or something else that had absolutely nothing to do with kissing her senseless, well, she would not be held responsible for her actions.

“Am I the only one who can’t stop thinking about this?”

“A-about-this?” she said, sounding more than a little breathless. She was okay with that. Sentence ability was gone, but at least she was still capable of forming words.

“This,” he said, and began lowering his mouth to hers.

She let her eyes drift shut. Her body tensed. Everything tensed. Everything that wasn’t quivering in anticipation, anyway. And all she could think was…finally. Well, that, and thank God she really wasn’t a pathetic, sex-starved, hallucinating moron. Okay, one out of those three, anyway.

“Kirby!” a deep voice barked from the back of the house. A sharp rapping on the door to the backyard followed.

Brett jerked his head up just before his lips brushed hers and swiveled around to see who was calling her name.

Even through the thick clouds of pheromones, Kirby recognized the voice. She was tempted-so tempted-to just yank Brett right back around and demand he finish what he damn well started.

“Kirby? You in there?” More rapping.

Kirby swore under her breath and Brett’s eyes twinkled in open amusement at her unladylike outburst, muttered though it was. She supposed she should be thankful he had a good sense of humor. Where she was concerned, apparently he was going to need it.

“Shouldn’t you go see whoever that is?”

“I shouldn’t, no. But it’ll only postpone things.” She cleared her throat, pushed her hair from her face, and tried not to look like a woman who’d just been prepared to be thoroughly kissed. Or ravished. Taken right there up against her own kitchen counter. Goddammit. “What is it, Clemson?” She stepped around Brett, who stopped her with a hand to her arm. Such a big, nice, warm hand it was, too. A shame it wasn’t cupping her face right about now. Or more sensitive areas, for that matter.

“Need any…assistance?” he asked.

Oh, he had no idea the depths of assistance she’d like to have from him. “I’m fine. It’s just the farmer who owns the land on the other side of the mountain, up the hill behind me. Stay here. No point in both of us being exposed to his crotchety attitude.”

As if to underscore her statement, there was another sharp rap on the door, followed by, “Kirby! We need to speak! It’s a matter of great importance.”

“It always is, Clemson,” she muttered softly. She caught the way Brett’s mouth was quirking again, though not so subtly this time, and impulsively stuck her tongue out at him.

“Careful where you aim that thing,” he warned, that green twinkle suddenly all glittery hot. He ran his fingertips up her arm to her shoulder.

She swallowed against a suddenly parched throat. It was the only thing parched about her at the moment. Clemson suddenly seemed like the easier task. At least she knew what she was dealing with where the old coot was concerned.

She scooted away from Brett, and his glittering green eyes, and big warm hands, and stepped onto the back porch, swearing she heard Brett chuckling behind her. “What can I do for you, Clemson?”

“You can start by telling me why you thought it was okay to poach one of my prime mouser’s offspring. And don’t bother trying to tell me a story, I can already see the thing right there on your porch. Same coloring as my Matilda. You got a mouse problem in this inn of yours, get your own damn cat. Don’t come stealin’ mine.” The way he said the word “inn” made it clear what he thought of someone-namely her-running an establishment such as this, on property he’d made it perfectly clear was only suitable for crops and cows.

She’d long since given up trying to have any rational conversation with the man. Like explaining that she hadn’t exactly come along and built the inn there, that the house had been on the mountain almost as long as he had, and that at least it was renovated, occupied, and being put to good use.

Kirby stepped out on the porch and glanced over at the kitten. Who was looking remarkably adorable and innocent, all curled up sleeping. Though how it could sleep through all of Clemson’s banging and barking, she had no idea. Apparently it took a lot out of a kitten to play demon monster during its waking hours. She looked to Clemson, who was wearing a dark green John Deere T-shirt under a pair of denim overalls that had seen better years. Decades, possibly. And a heavy green and black plaid jacket. What was left of his white hair curled around the perimeter of the shiny dome of his head. He was tall and rangy, holding an old grease-stained tractor cap crushed in one fist and pointing at her with the other.

“Now, you see here,” he began, only this time Kirby cut him off.

“Clemson, calm down. I didn’t poach anything. Your little rat catcher there was up my tree and about to fall off. I climbed up and almost killed myself getting her down. I was just holding on to her until I figured out where she came from. How’d you even know she was here?”

A bit of a sheepish look crossed his face, but it quickly returned to a scowl. “Caught a couple of ’em a few days back heading over the peak. Figured when I couldn’t find that one she’d headed down this way. Was headed down to find her and there she is, right on your back porch. What’s a man supposed to think? And what the hell kind of contraption you got her in? She’s no pampered house cat. She’s straight from two of my best mousers.”