“Aunt Martha?”
Devon waved an idle hand, forestalling his curiosity. “Not my real aunt. She was actually my grandmother’s best friend,” she admitted with a fond smile. “And she was a real character! I adored her.”
Lucas looked around again, and saw only beauty. Not a speck of dust marred the shiny wood headboard or the gleaming windowsill. His shoes had left oval scrape-tracks across the freshly vacuumed carpet. The faintest hint of lemon tickled his nose.
“You’re being wasted at the flea market,” he murmured. “If you ever decided to remodel homes professionally, you’d make a fortune!”
Devon stared up at him in shocked wonder. She’d been struggling all her life to prove her skills. How ironic that this man should understand what her own family never had been able—or perhaps willing—to
