It's as much as my life is worth getting off on the right foot with that one."
Maneuvering around the prep counter he darted a wary glance at the rack hanging above him. Like a deranged wind chime it was ornamented with whisks, ladles and other obscure tools Kate couldn't even identify. This was the central hub of Abigail's kitchen and she suffered few amateurs in her domain. Kate had to smile, watching Conor gingerly slide the tins into the oven. He clearly was off on the right foot already.
When he returned, he slid the basket of muffins in front of her and pulled forward a stool, inviting her to sit. "Cinnamon chip. She says they're your favorite."
"You could have a future in this business. You've got a flair for hospitality."
"It's genetic. Now . . . coffee?"
"Oh all right, cut it out. This is my job. Here, sit down."
She went for the coffee pot and Conor sat on the stool, his reserve softened by a hint of laughter. Kate glanced at his profile as she poured. If anything, he was even better looking in the full light of day. His dark eyes were gleaming but still shadowed in fatigue. She took a seat across from him.
"I guess you didn't sleep well?" He shot her an alert questioning glance and Kate shrugged. "Seems like you'd been up for a while when Abigail discovered you 'prowling.' Jet lag?"
He plucked a muffin from the basket. "Maybe, but I'm quite an early riser, anyway. I've been a farmer most of my life."
"And a good one, I hear." Kate watched him over the rim of her mug. "I hesitate to say so, but Phillip told me as much."
Conor winced, lowering the muffin from his mouth. "Sorry. I was too knackered last night to be sensible. You've a right to expect some details about me."
"So, you're going to share a few?"
"Fire away. What do you want to know?"
"That's up to you." Kate pushed back, feeling his eyes follow her as she went to the refrigerator and returned with a ceramic jar of fresh butter. "Listen, respect for privacy is the hallmark of a good Vermonter and a good host." She took a knife from a drawer under the counter. "I try to be both, even though I'll never be recognized as a 'real' Vermonter. I'm a city transplant."
"Which city?" Conor asked.
"New York, born and raised, mostly by my grandmother. My mother died when I was six months old and my father traveled a lot. And married a lot," Kate added with a wry smile.
"Big family?"
She nodded. "Four brothers, one sister. I'm the baby and they find me hopelessly bohemian. Compared to them, I guess I am. I see what you did there, by the way. Are we back to me, now?"
Smiling, he dropped his gaze and studied his hands. "You're good at this. Okay, then. Dingle Peninsula, born and raised. Do you know it?"
Kate shook her head, taking her seat again.
"Well, some say the map of Ireland looks like a sleeping bear cub, its back toward England and its paws facing the Atlantic. The Dingle peninsula is the little claw on its right foot, on the southwest coast. Our dairy farm sits above Ventry Bay, which is shaped a bit like your lake here but a lot bigger, and with the open ocean at one end."
For several minutes Conor seemed to lose himself in the description of his home and its surroundings—its geography, the views from the upper pastures, the day-to-day operations and the layout of the farm. Captivated by the poetic lilt of his words Kate could have listened for hours, and was disappointed when he stopped with a self-conscious frown.
"More than you wanted to know, I suppose."
"Not true. It sounds beautiful."
"It was. Well, still is, sure. Anyway, that's where I grew up."
"You're going to miss it," Kate said gently.
Conor gave a humorless laugh. "I do already. Funny, since at one time I wanted nothing to do with the place. I never wanted to be a farmer. I went off to the Dublin Conservatory of Music when I was seventeen and left my brother Thomas to run the farm, but I ended up back home in the end."
"And was your family a big one?"
"No,