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Frankie studied him over the rim of her cup. He sat kicked back in the kitchen chair, one hand wrapped around the chipped mug she’d scrounged up. His eyes moved constantly, the mirth evident, though something deeper lay under his gaze.

“A job this big is too much for you to do on your own. What about your family? They must be worried about you, down here, all alone.” He spoke casually, but she sensed he was probing. Similar to tactics her social worker had used whenever she got kicked out of another home.

“My problem. Not yours,” she retorted evasively. With both forearms on the scratched kitchen table, Frankie leaned forward. “Look, I don’t know what you want. If it’s cash, I told you, I’m low. Maybe tomorrow I can get some from the bank to repay you for fixing the truck and the supplies.” She pushed away from the table. “Want some more coffee?”

“No. I’m good.” Rico stretched his arms, sinewy roped muscle rippling beneath the thin, sweaty T-shirt fabric. She turned to pour herself another cup before she got caught gawking.

“So, when are you returning to New York?”

Frankie stopped mid-pour. Other than her name, she hadn’t told him about herself. “What makes you think I’m from New York?”

He shrugged. “I must’ve heard it in town.”

Frankie chewed her lip. She supposed he could have. She did recall mentioning it to one or two townspeople she’d met.

“What part?” he asked.

“Brooklyn.”

“What about your parents?” He watched her carefully even as he rubbed at a scar on the table. Her eyes fixed on his hand. Long, strong, calloused hands, good for construction work or strangling women.

Frankie blinked and tried to remember what he’d asked.

God, she must be more tired than she’d thought. She shoved the vision away.

“What is this? Twenty questions?”

He laughed, a deep rumbling sound, and he relaxed more into the chair. How anyone could look that stress-free, she had no idea. Must be Caribbean life. Frankie hoped in a year from now, when the renovations were over—if they ever would be—she could kick back and relax as easily as Rico.

“Just some friendly talk to pass the time.”

Frankie took her mug back to the table. “Time is something I don’t have much of.” She looked at the sunshine-yellow clock on the whitewashed plaster wall of the kitchen. “It’s late. You should be going.”

“Wish I could, but the roads up here are treacherous. Besides, I need a lift back into town and I don’t think Old Yeller out there can make anymore trips.”

“Guess you’ll have to walk.”

“Aw, you’d kick me out after all the nice things I did for you?” His hand over his heart, he gave her a fake pained look.

Frankie didn’t want to smile but she couldn’t help it. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re charming?”

“Mi mami.” He flashed her a smile.

Frankie rolled her eyes. “Fine. You can stay the night in one of the guest rooms. Might as well get used to strangers sleeping under the roof if I ever want to make Casa Verde a successful bed-and-breakfast.”

Rico gave a low whistle. “Ambitious.”

“You’re not kidding.” She held the warm mug between her hands and looked down into the dark swirling water, hoping to see a vision of her future, but it remained black. “When I inherited this place, I had no idea what I was in for, but it’s all I have.” She swallowed the uncertainty that lodged in her throat. “I’m determined to make something good here.” Her voice came out hard, even to her ears.

When she looked up from her beverage, she saw Rico studying her. “What?”

“Nothing.” He grinned. “Just thinking what a gutsy girl you are.”

“Gutsy. Never been called that before,” she mumbled under her breath before taking a sip of her coffee.

“What are your dreams for this place?” he asked.

A simple enough question, no harm in telling him. Yeah, right. People had a way of tearing your dreams down before you even had a chance to build them. Was Rico the type? He observed her with friendly interest. But so had a number of do-gooders who always wanted what they thought was in her best interest. All her years riding the system, based on feigned concern for her future, ultimately to be spit out on the street. Dreams? She had no dreams. Frankie Montalvo was a hard-core realist. Working her way from a simple cleaning maid to the front desk manager at one of New York City’s premier boutique hotels. She may not have the fancy degrees or the wads of cash to make Casa Verde a smashing success, but she did have determination.

And the reality was that if she couldn’t make Casa Verde work for her, she’d be out on the street again, or worse, crawling back on hands and knees to her old boss to beg for her desk manager job back. If there was one thing Frankie Montalvo did not do, it was beg. But she also knew the deep chill of being broke, homeless and desperate.

Not this time. Never again.