Megan pressed her lips together and swept her skirt out for his inspection. “Well, your roomie ate my skirt.”

“Are you kidding me? I hope he doesn’t get sick.” He narrowed his eyes at Megan. “Bad enough you tried to steal him, but feeding him your skirt! You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Megan’s mouth dropped open. He was joking, right?

He held out his hand. “Patrick Hunter. Nice to meet you, but don’t do this again.”

Without thinking Megan shook his hand and mumbled, “Megan Murphy. Okay.”

She watched in astonishment while he gave her a funny sort of look, a quick appraisal that lingered for an extra moment at her mouth and ended with a boyish, almost embarrassed grin. He turned on his heel and sauntered away, disappearing behind the scuppernong – grape arbor.

Megan shook her head abruptly. Don’t do this again? she repeated silently. Had he actually said that to her?Of all the nerve. She didn’t care how cute he was- if she ever saw him and his rude rodent again, she’d tell him what for. She smashed the paper bag into the empty cider cup and stomped off to the gunsmith’s shop. “Don’t do this again,” she muttered. Had he been kidding? She wasn’t sure.

Patrick Hunter smiled as he opened the gate to his small, fenced – in back yard. Megan Murphy, he mused. He’d never met anyone so perfectly named. She’d looked like an apparition, standing in the autumn leaves in her colonial dress, with all that glorious silky red hair escaping from her white ruffled cap. She was obviously one of the costumed visitors’ aides who sat in front of the craft shops and took tickets. She was average height and seemed to be of average build, but there was nothing average about the riot of freckles that marched across her straight little nose and dusted her rosy cheeks. And there was nothing average about her mouth. It was soft and pink and full. He’d almost kissed her!