For the umpteenth time since getting Ben’s text, I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing.

This house is like something out of a designer magazine, complete with staging, but it’s not a freaking stage. This is where they live.

In a historic mansion on the most exclusive street in Saint Paul. If I hadn’t just discovered that my mother coerced Hunter into being my date for Rochelle’s wedding, I would've told Ben to call his father.

Or maybe not. He’d sounded afraid. Sincerely frightened to have his father talk to the game shop owner. For some reason, I could relate.

“No,” I say to Hunter. “I didn't agree to pretend to be his mother, but I did agree to be here for moral support when he told you about it.”

“Why?”

I hold the urge to argue with him. Or smack that sharp anger right out of his scary blue eyes.

He’s been pissed since I walked through the door. At first, he was shocked, that was plain to see, but then there was just this nuclear, slow burning anger.

I should tell him Ben said he was afraid because his father had become a full-time grouch the past couple of years, spending most of his time in his office, which also doubles as a library.

I can’t imagine any room in this house doubling.

The place is huge and gorgeous, history seeping out of every wooden pore. I’ve only seen the front lawn, with the brick walkway lined with stone planters holding an array of colorful mums still thriving despite the weather, the front foyer with its grandiose double staircase, and this, the formal living room.

I’d give my eyeteeth to see the kitchen. I’ve taken tours of these old mansions built for railroad and shipping magnates at the turn of the nineteenth century, when they’ve been open to the public, and I adore everything about them.

“Let's try this again, Wendy,” he asks firmly. “Why?”

“Because Ben asked me to,” I answer before my mind drifts any further off point.

“Really? Is that what you do? Just go around being moral support for random kids on a regular basis?”

The way he’d made the quotation marks with both hands while saying moral support does more than irritate me.

“No!” I shrug. “Probably about as often you go around –” My turn to make quotation marks in the air – “Making deals to be a wedding date.”

“Didn’t have a choice. That was the only way your ma would agree to hire Ben.”

“We always have a choice,” I say.

“Did you say 'hire Ben?'” Ben asks. “Hire me for what?”

“A job,” Hunter snaps at Ben before telling me, “You had a choice, too.”

Superiority, control, power oozes from him, and just steams me up more. “Not exactly. Ben was afraid.”

“Ben has nothing to be afraid of.”

“Yeah? Then why was he so afraid I’d already told you about the game?”

“A job?” Ben asks, as if still processing that quietly.

“Yeah,” Hunter answers. “A job.”

I’m holding my breath, having realized what I’d said, hoping he doesn’t catch on. The glare he casts at me tells me he has. Crap.

“What do you mean by already told me?” He points a finger my way. “When did you know about the game?”

“Yesterday,” I answer regrettably.

“Yesterday? And you didn’t bother telling me? You knew this morning and you didn’t bother telling me my son was a thief?”

“He’s not a thief.” I’m not sure who I’m defending, Ben or myself. “It was a mistake.”

Hunter nods, the inner fury and struggle clear in his expression.

“A job where?” Ben asks, clearly so astonished by the idea that nothing else is entering his mind. “Doing what? Why?”

“Working at the bakery!” Hunter answers. “So you can pay off the damages to Wendy's van and the cake that got ruined.”

My heart goes out to Ben, but I hold my tongue, mainly because something else doesn’t seem right.

A sense. A smell. A sixth sense, maybe.

Hunter throws his hands in the air, then lets them slap his sides hard. “That was before I knew about the game. They may not hire you now. Do you know what kind of a black mark that's going to leave? No one wants to hire someone who steals, no matter what kind of petty theft it is.”

I'm about to argue back, tell him that we've had several hires over the years with non-violent felonies on record, but I hold my hand up, catching Hunter’s attention. “Do you smell something...burning?”

He goes stock-still, and silent, then looks at Ben. “You did take that food out of the containers before it went in the oven...right?”

Ben doesn’t have time to respond before Hunter’s rushing past him as an alarm sounds.

“Damn it, Ben!”

I pat Ben’s arm, then follow Hunter. Something's definitely burning. Plastic. Cardboard, too, maybe.

Both have a distinct smell. He runs through the foyer and down a long hallway. I’m on his heels, and enter a kitchen where smoke rolls out of an oven door in thick gray puffs.

One of three oven doors, I should say.

Even in the midst of the stench and chaos, I can’t help but gaze around. I knew this room would be amazing, but holy Toledo, this is beyond a cook’s wildest dream.

It’s not only beautiful, it’s huge, with every modern convenience a person could think of.

Then Ben brushes past me again, furiously trying to help his father.

Snapped back to Earth, I move forward, toward where Hunter has dropped open the door and is waving aside the smoke to see into the oven. Having lived through a thousand kitchen disasters – the number of people who enter culinary school without simple kitchen knowledge is astronomical – I push him aside.

“The first thing you want to do is shut the oven off,” I say, while doing just that. “Go open some doors and windows and shut off the smoke detector!”

Once he’s out of the way, I check for live flames and find none. I open nearby drawers until I find a towel to wave aside enough smoke so I can see into the oven.

Take-out containers. Plastic ones that are melting through the oven grates and paper ones that would have caught flame in a few more seconds.

I pull open the drawer that I’d seen oven mitts in and grab several. “I need a baking sheet. A big one. Hurry!”

Hunter looks confused.

“A pizza pan? Cookie sheet?” I say.

He nods, and a second later, has one in hand. “Put it on top of the stove.” While he does that, I pull out the top grate, set it on the pan, and then pull out the second grate. “Where’s the closest outside door?”

“Down that hall. Right through the dining room.”

I grab the pan with both grates on top of it and bolt, keeping my head to the side because the melting plastic is burning my eyes. The door is open and I carry everything outside to a marble countertop. Holy crap, there’s an entire outdoor kitchen out here. As remarkable as the one inside.

Wishing I had more time to examine things, but knowing I don’t, I head back inside.

The smoke has cleared out considerably, but there are still pieces of plastic on the electric element and the bottom of the oven. “We have to wait for that to cool down a bit. It’ll come off easily enough then.”

“Why didn’t you take the food out of the containers?” Hunter asks Ben.

“We never do,” Ben replies.

“When we eat it right away, Ben!”

“We eat the leftovers out of the containers, too,” Ben says sheepishly.

Hunter sighs, pointing at the stove. “That’s not a microwave. It’s an oven. You could've burned the whole place down!”

“Sure. Then you would've been rid of me for good!” Ben shouts, anger flicking in his eyes. He points at me. “Just like my fake mother. Just like real mom. Fire took her easy. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He turns, wiping at his face, storming out of the room.

“Ben, for fuck's sake...that’s not what I want. Can't you see I love you, son?” Hunter's words are too late to reach him.

That's when my heart almost breaks for this man. He's standing there, all alone, the stench of smoke in the air, hand against the wall like some dark, wounded beast.

His other hand goes to his head, rubbing one temple. He’d trailed Ben as far as the doorway and stopped. Confused. Defeated. Drained.

It's harrowing.

The compassion I feel right now, the ache inside me, is stronger than I’ve ever known. Just seeing this father and his son tearing each other up from enough mistakes to fill a tragic comedy. I don't even have kids. But it hurts just the same.

I walk up behind him and lay a hand gently on the back of his arm. “Go talk to him. I'll watch this mess.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know what I’d say.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“No, I won’t. The boy needs space. Fire...it's like a family curse.” Hunter turns slowly, facing me with his gorgeous eyes a sea-dark shade of blue. “He was two when the bigger fire happened. Doesn’t even remember it.”

The pain in his eyes is so raw, so real, it nearly steals my breath away.

“But he’s heard about it,” I say.

He nods. “He was curious, of course. So I told him there'd been a fire, an accident. That his ma died. Nothing anyone could do. Juno just died and we moved here to Minnesota afterward, trying to put together a normal life. Trying like hell to give my son the kind of life Cory would've –”

He stops mid-sentence, his eyes widening like he's said too much.

Cory? It's at the tip of my tongue. But the look he gives me is all warning – Sugar, don't. So I listen.

“Where'd you move from?” I ask, a less dangerous question.

“California.”

I nod, unsure what else to say. I'm totally in over my head.

I shouldn't be so curious. I shouldn't be so concerned. I shouldn't physically ache with the need to help this crazy, clumsy beast put his happy broken family back together again.

“Well, it's your call, Hunter. But maybe...just maybe, you need to tell him more. He's not quite a child anymore. Kids need roots when they're his age. They need to know where they came from while they figure out where they're going.”

Sorrow covers his face like a shadow. “I can’t.”

“Why?” I hiss softly.

“Because I don’t fucking know more, Wendy. I never do.”

He walks past me then, clearly done with this, stopping near the large white marble-topped center island that wouldn't have been in a kitchen built when this one was. But it looks like it's belonged here since day one.

It's funny how every piece of this house is perfect except for the two men in it.

“He'll ask questions. And I don’t have answers to anything he might ask. I've been looking my whole life.” He sighs heavily. “None.”

“Then that’s what you tell him. You don't know. It's okay not to know something, Hunter. It's human.”

He turns around, settling those lightning blue eyes on me that are full of pain, of uncertainty. I can only imagine what it's like in a man his size. With his brawn and bulk, how strong that turmoil inside him must be.

I don’t have any words of wisdom to give him, so go with my gut. “For him, knowing that you don’t know, it wouldn't be the worst. It's better than for him to think you don’t want him to know the truth, whatever it is.”

He contemplates for a moment, his sharp, chiseled jaw going tight. Then he nods. “That makes sense.”

“Go. Talk to Ben.” I point to the stove. “I’ll get the rest cleaned up. That's more important.”

“Leave it, I’ll –”

“No, it’ll come off now, while it’s still warm. Once it’s completely cold, it may never come off.”

“Sugar, I have cleaners. Three of them. They're professionals and they're perfectly capable of handling a mess like –”

“Then I'm saving them some work,” I say sharply, reaching for a dish towel.

Sensing he needs yet another nudge, I say, “Ben, Hunter. He needs you. He’s your concern right now.”

He nods finally. While he’s walking to the door, I move to the oven and grab two wooden spoons from a carousel utensil holder.

“Thanks, Wendy.”

I glance his way and nod. “No problem. Really.”

On the outside, I’m hoping I look calm and collected. Because on the inside, deep down, hearing him say my name is doing some really crazy things. My heart jackhammers, and butterflies swarm my stomach.

He nods again and then walks down the hall, his heavy footsteps echoing behind him.

I take a deep breath, which doesn’t help. So I just kneel down, wait a few minutes for things to cool down, and stick my head in the oven, concentrating on getting each and every piece of plastic out.

That doesn’t take long, so I find some cleaner in the laundry room I’d passed through on my way outside and wipe out the entire oven.

Surprisingly easy. It’s so pristine, as if rarely used, that I can’t help but peek into the other two ovens. They're the same. Like brand new. Very well could be. Or it could be that they're just rarely used and cleaned perfectly the next day by his household crew.

Having also seen a box of trash bags in the laundry room, I carry one outside and toss all the melted mess from the grates in a bag, then dispose of it in the can near the door that must lead to the garage. I force myself not to look to make sure.

Once I start peeking, I won’t stop. And peeking leads to snooping. I know myself too well.

I also can’t help but wonder what Hunter is saying to Ben. It’s none of my business, but I certainly have made it mine.

When that text came from Ben this morning, I couldn’t help but respond.

Nor could I stop myself from agreeing to come over after he’d begged me to be here when he told Hunter about the game.

I carry the oven grates into the house and close the door. It’s aired out enough. Or I’ve just gotten used to the smell. Once the grates are washed, dried, and placed back in the oven, I close the door.

This kitchen is twice as big as the one in the bakery, and far more modern.

The cupboards are all glossy white and the back-splash is a mosaic of blacks and grays. Simply stunning. Gorgeous. The floor is black and white tile. The only thing it needs are a couple mats to ease the fatigue of standing around because cooking in here would be so wonderful, I’d never want to stop.

In this case, I can’t help myself.

After a quick peek around the doorway to make sure the coast is clear, I start hunting. I shouldn’t. I know that, but once I start, I can’t stop.

The built-in fridge. The mammoth freezer. The endless array of storage. The appliances. Not just the major ones – stove, fridge, and microwave – but the minor ones, too. I search them all, taking inventory.

Then the built-in stand mixer that rises up from a hidden door on the countertop, the dual sinks, the pots, pans...everything. I could move right in and start cooking today.

I close the cabinet door under the island and take a deep breath.

Tell myself to stop. Just stop.

But something won't stop gnawing at me.

Shaking my head, I walk to the doorway and force myself to continue down the long hall, to the foyer, where my coat hangs inside a walk-in closet beneath one of the elegantly curved staircases that circle up two stories. I could wander around here for hours, from room to room, and never find Hunter and Ben.

As I enter the formal living room to collect my purse, I feel as if I’m sneaking out on them. Crazy thought.

I didn’t expect this. Not when I agreed to come over for Ben’s sake. I thought I’d tell Hunter my deal with Ben overrides his with my mother.

I shouldn’t be shocked that she’d have done such a thing, trying to drum up a man to be my date. It doesn't get more pathetic than that.

Then again, no one seems to get that I’m dateless by choice. I have other goals right now, and they take all my focus, all my time. All my soul.

I stop near the couch to collect my purse and notice the tray of drinks on the coffee table. Poor Ben.

He'd tried so hard to make this go right. And if it wasn't for that stupid fire, I know it would've.

Being a teenager is tough.

As crazy as she can be at times, at least I had Rochelle. A sister. A friend when I needed it, a confidant.

The sympathy rolling around inside me wins out and I pick up the tray.

In the kitchen, I set it on the counter and look at the stove. The meal that was ruined.

Ugh. I’ll think about them all night if I don’t do something about it, won't I?

I already know my way around the kitchen, so I gather what I’ll need to whip up a quick dinner.

Baked spaghetti and meatballs – not fancy, but proven. It's not five-star cuisine, but it’ll have to do.

There’s also some frozen garlic sticks and mixed vegetables. Jars of sauce are notoriously tasteless, even the high-end brands stacked neatly in the Forsythe pantry, but I spruce it up with a few things from the spice rack once it's simmering on the burner.

There’s also a box of chocolate and white cake rolls. Fancy, again, but unimpressive. The gross store-bought things that make me shudder. Still, tonight, they’ll work for a quick dessert in a pinch, so I take out a couple packages of those and a box of instant chocolate pudding.

In no time at all, I've got a life saver supper ready, and it doesn't smell half bad.

There's another perk, too. Cooking in this kitchen feels as splendid as I thought it'd be, even if I’m truly just heating things up and throwing them together.

While the sauce is cooking, I mix up the pudding and put it in the fridge to set, then cut the cake rolls into inch size slices. I stack them sideways, three high, a perfect circle on a plate – truly wishing I had a glass cake stand.

Okay, so the white swirls stacked on top of each other do look cute, even if they're not made from scratch. Then, spooning the pudding in the center, I top it with canned whipped-cream and put it back in the fridge to fully set.

By the time I have the vegetables spread out on a baking sheet, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with various seasonings, and the garlic bread on another baking sheet, the pasta water boils.

I pop both sheets in the pre-heated oven, drop the pasta in the water, and add the meatballs to the sauce. Timer on.

Then, I set the table in the eating nook off the kitchen, except for the dinner plates.

I’ll fill them and get them on the table right before I leave. If Hunter and Ben aren’t down by then, I’m confident they know how to use the microwave.

Being reheated one more time won’t damage this meal in any way, shape, or form.

Still...a small, shady part of me wouldn't mind seeing their faces when they come down to fresh food.

I get my wish a second later when I hear Hunter's deep voice.

“Something smells delicious, doesn’t it, Ben?” He sounds lighter than he did earlier. That alone makes me smile.

Lifting the boiling pot of pasta off the stove so I can drain it, I glance at the doorway. Two hungry men are standing there in amazement.

“Sure does, Dad,” Ben says.

They're both smiling gratefully. Frantic relief washes over me.

Although I’d tried not to, I’d been thinking about them the entire time.

“Sorry it took so long,” Hunter tells me, patting Ben’s shoulder as the boy walks farther into the kitchen.

“No problem.” I gesture toward the eating nook. “It gave me just enough time to whip up something for you two.” I purposefully don’t mention the flammable disaster meal. “Go ahead and sit down. It’s almost ready.”

“But...why's the table only set for two?” Ben asks.

“Because there are only two of you in this house,” I answer, dumping the pasta into a colander sitting in the sink. My face reddens more than it should.

He's a good kid after all. I knew it before, but I can see the considerate, kind-when-he-wants-to-be apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

“Surely you made enough for three.” Hunter gestures at the stove, a friendly demand in his eyes. “We can’t let you leave hungry, Wendy. Not after all this.”

“Yeah! C'mon, Wendy, stay and eat with us. Please?” Ben sounds more like a little boy, perched between that weird line between childhood and adult anxiety.

How could I possibly say no?

He looks so much like Hunter, minus the light-blue eyes. His are dark blue right now, heavy, pleading.

“You heard him,” Hunter chimes in. “We'd love to have you.”

I surrender. A solid flair of excitement nearly makes me drop the kettle. “Okay! Go sit down then, and I’ll fix your plates.”

“Awesome, I’ll set another spot at the table,” Ben says, whistling to himself as he goes.

“What can I do? You know what they say about idle hands.” Hunter smiles, holding his up, reminding me just how big and vast and rough they are.

For a rich man, his hands are thick. Calloused. More like a man who's spent a lifetime as a mechanic or oil worker.

I wonder if they're leftover from his military days. Then I have a wondrous, scary flash of the things they could do to me, trailing down my spine, then lower and lower until my legs –

“Um. You can take the dessert out of the fridge and set it on the table,” I say, shaking my head to snap out of it. Our makeshift dessert will have to do for a centerpiece.

It's overkill, maybe. Perhaps even silly, but for some reason, I want this to be special for them. A peace offering of sorts. A reset.

“How'd you do all this, Sugar?” Hunter asks, walking toward the fridge, when he knows Ben isn't in earshot. “We weren’t upstairs that long. Were we?”

“No, you weren’t. And this didn’t take long because all I did was scrounge a few things out of your freezer and cupboards. Presto, pasta dinner. Just like Grandma Boschi used to make.”

I smile, fondly remembering my old Italian grandmother. I know she'd approve of the dinner, but what would she make of this man?

He opens the refrigerator and lets out a whistle. Holding the pudding cake with both hands, he shakes his head. “Damn. You're telling me this was in our kitchen the whole time? There’s no way.”

“It was,” I say, pulling the veggies and bread out of the oven.

“Wow,” Ben says, just as impressed as his father.

I laugh because it reminds me how Hunter looked and sounded when he saw the unicorn cake this morning. Was it really less than twenty-four hours ago? It feels like a whole month has passed since then.

“That looks too good to eat, doesn’t it, Dad?”

“Sure does,” Hunter agrees. “That's what you get with a real baker. I'm no slacker when it comes to dinner, but baking, desserts...I'm glad you're here for us, Wendy.”

Here.

For us.

My heart swoon-dives in my chest and I nearly fall over. Then he shoots me that smirk, and I'm grateful for the counter to lean on.

Otherwise, I'm positive my knees would give.

“You're welcome, guys. Better eat it up while it's fresh.” I smile at both of them. “Because I didn’t make it for you to sit and stare at.”

“Oh, we'll demolish it, all right. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a good home-cooked meal. And I'm glad to have a night off for once.” Hunter puts the cake on the table. “Grab yourself a milk or soda, Ben. I’m going to get a bottle of wine from the den for Wendy and me.”

Ben gives him a salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”

They both laugh, and so do I. It’s nice to see them both happy over something so simple.

For the first time together, they really seem like a happy family. Father and son. In sync, just as it's meant to be. My eyes moisten more than they should, maybe because I'm remembering how rare this sort of moment is with my own family. Or mother. Hell, even Rochelle, ever since she turned into bridezilla.

By the time Hunter returns with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, I have all three plates assembled. I top the spaghetti off with some cheese, dried parsley, and fresh cracked pepper before carrying the plates to the table.

“Wow,” Ben whistles again. This time it’s more a whisper of astonishment now that he's seen everything together.

“I’ll show you the picture of the unicorn cake after supper,” Hunter says, holding my chair for me to sit.

“You told him about the cake?” I ask, somewhat amazed.

“Yeah, I did. And if your mother's still willing, Ben wants to go to the interview on Monday.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her about the game. Answer all the questions. Honest.” Ben gives me a look that's so honest, it almost hurts.

I flinch inwardly but smile. “That's the right thing to do, even if there's no police record or anything.”

I'll also do the right thing by talking to my mother before Monday. Then another obstacle comes to mind. “Ben, you do know the bakery closes at three on Mondays? What time do you get out of school?”

“We don’t have school this Monday. Teacher workshop.” He glances at Hunter.

Not about to worry about things I can’t do anything about right now, I say, “Well, extra help during the holidays is always welcome. I think you’ll like it. One of the perks is all the cookies you can eat.” I pick up my fork. “Totally free. My own personal fave.”

Ben grins broadly. “Sweet.”

Hunter picks up his fork. “Let’s dig in. I’m starving.”

He isn't exaggerating, either. I watch them attack their plates, shoveling it in with a surprising grace for two men who seem more like starving wolves just now. There are no complaints. And the way it goes down so fast while I nibble at my plate and sip my wine is all the compliment I need.

They both devour two helpings of spaghetti and vegetables. The pudding and cake rolls are half gone by the time they put their forks down for the last time, too.

“That was incredible,” Hunter says. “Compliments to the chef,” he says, raising his glass.

There's a quiet flicker in his eyes. More than gratitude. That look is real, genuine, intense attraction, something primal that brings my eyes back to his hands for sweet mercy. And there's none there, not in those fingers again, which could so easily fist my hair, undress me, bend me over this very table and –

“The best meal I've had in forever!” Ben leans back in his chair, wiping away my insane fantasies. “I can’t eat another bite. You did good, Wendy.”

Hunter lifts a brow, still looking at me. He mock-whispers across the table.

“Now you've gone and done it. I haven’t heard him say that in years.” Grinning at Ben, he repeats, the last word. “Years.”

“It was nothing. I’m glad you both enjoyed it.” The pride inside me isn't warranted.

Jeez, I really just heated up the pre-made food, and should admit it. But these two, smiling at me, Papa Bear with that unmistakable, irresistible glint in his eye.

It's almost too much. Almost.

So I just focus on the praise, the genuine gratitude, and try not to let my brain wander to stranger, darker things involving everything Hunter Forsythe, sans his well-pressed shirt and slacks.

Hunter shakes his head. “Bull. You're too modest. You must have a magic wand or something because I can’t believe you found the ingredients for all that right under our noses. Might have to have you back sometime to teach me a thing or two.”

There's that flush again. I think my cheeks are about to spontaneously combust.

“Nah, just a little luck and good planning. No magic wand needed, unfortunately.” I stand up after my lame joke and start gathering empty plates.

“Hey, hold up. Let me clean up,” Ben says, jumping to his feet.

“How about you help me,” I say. “That way I can check to see if you've got the right dish washing experience. You'll thank me when my mother asks.”

I roll my eyes, remembering when I started at Midnight Morning as a girl. Mother insisted everything be spotless. If a single cup or saucer had so much as a mote stained on it that we couldn't get off, it was taken out of service.

“Aw, yeah, I love a challenge. Let's go!”

Ben takes the stack of plates from me at the same time Hunter lays a hand on my arm. His touch nearly steals my breath away.

Screw nearly. It's gone.

“Sugar, I mean it. Thank you.” He shakes his head. “Don’t know what more to say. You turned a complete shitshow into a nice evening. That's something.”

“Then don’t say more. It really wasn’t anything. I just heated up a few things...tried to help out, to take the pressure off your shoulders so you could –”

“No, woman. I mean it, thank you,” he repeats. “For more than just the meal.” His voice is low, little more than a whisper as he glances into the kitchen. “Truth is, I've needed to talk to Ben for some time now, but didn’t know where or how to start. Tonight, I figured that out.”

I don't dare look at him again. Every word, his whole tone, the appreciation on his face...it's going to make me a blubbering mess. Tender moments aren't exactly my forte. Not without turning into a shameful, red-faced mess.

“You’re welcome. Again. Really, Hunter. I’m just glad I could help out. Very glad.” It's all I can manage. And I mean every last word.

He picks up the half empty wine bottle, flashing me his signature grin. “One more glass with me? In the den, once we have the kitchen clean?”

I should think about how late it’s getting, and that I should probably refuse, but I don’t.

“Sure.” It's the only answer when there's no resisting those eyes. They're just insta-seduction without even trying.

They both help clean the kitchen, insisting every last morsel be put in the fridge for later.

Ben thanks me again for the meal, and for coming over, before he asks Hunter if he can look at the unicorn cake pictures on the computer in his office.

“Sure,” Hunter says, carrying both of our glasses and the wine bottle.

“Great. Thanks, Dad! I’m gonna look at the bakery’s website then to get a feel for it. Maybe type up a quick resume, if you think I should?”

I smile so hard it hurts. This boy is so precious, going all out, fighting for his first job. I nod.

“You can use my computer for the printer,” Hunter says gladly.

“Nah, I’ll use mine up in my room,” Ben says. “I’m thinking I should really look through my old sports trophies and projects. Gotta list everything to impress, right?”

I bite my lip at Ben’s over-the-top suggestion and at the radiant humor in Hunter’s eyes when he looks at me.

“Sounds good, Ben,” Hunter says. “Knock 'em flat.”

We both chuckle as Ben goes one way and we go the other in the hallway. I wait until we enter the den, which is as massive as all the other rooms – all dark wood, mahogany I’d guess, and another fireplace, with a crisp fire smoldering behind the glass doors – before I say, “Whatever you said seems to have made a world of difference. Nice job, Mr. Rogers.”

Hunter smiles, shaking his head. “Don’t know where he got his ideas, but he thought the fire was his fault. Not the one today...the one in California. He was only two.”

“Kids can blame themselves for many things.” I shake my head, trying not to let my heart break a little more at the thought of Ben thinking he'd had anything to do with their tragedy. “Who knows why, but I’m glad you got it cleared up.”

“I hope we did.” He waves to the leather sofa. “I just can’t for the life of me imagine why he’d have ever thought that.”

We both sit, side by side. “All you can do is make sure he knows it’s not true. Eventually, he’ll forget he ever thought that way.”

“Where'd you learn so much about kids? You got a family of your own hiding away somewhere?” He pours wine into both glasses. There's a sharp, almost jealous glint in his eye that makes me all kinds of anxious.

I laugh. “No! Not at all. It’s just...common sense, I guess. Plenty of little cousins growing up over the years, too.”

“Well, you must have more common sense with kids than I do. Guess I spent all of mine on engineering.” He picks up the glasses and hands me one. I have no idea if it's the one I had while eating dinner or not, but it doesn’t matter.

“To you, Sugar.” He holds his glass up. “I owe you, and someday, I'm gonna pay you back.”

I shake my head, still clinking my glass against his. “No, no, you don’t. I’m just glad all's ending well.”

He nods and takes a sip of wine.

So do I, and our eyes meet across the narrow space. Our gazes lock. Soft, sweet wine sits on my tongue.

God, I can’t swallow. Not with the way he’s looking at me.

There’s some form of silent communication happening here again. I can feel it. Deep inside. That flock of butterflies takes flight in my stomach again, except their wings are flapping with enough force to match a jet lifting off the runway.

“It’s ending very well, Wendy. Thanks to you.”

His voice is so quiet, so husky, so sexy, and so grateful. All at once. I didn't know one man's tone could hold so many emotions.

Then I'm reminded how big an idiot I can be. Wine trickles down my throat, and the next thing I know, I’m choking. Coughing. Throat on fire.

He rushes over, standing at my side. One of those huge, beastly paws goes down heavy on my shoulder. His touch doesn't help anything.

“Wrong pipe,” I say in between coughs. I lean forward to set down my glass, but am still coughing and slosh wine onto the table.

Sweet baby Jesus.

I jump to my feet. Still coughing a few last times in disbelief that there's another mess to clean up. And this time, it's my fault over nothing. Or what should be nothing, like this insanely handsome man touching me.

“Oh, no. S-sorry. I’ll get a towel.”

“Already on it, Sugar. Sit down,” he says, stepping away.

“No!” I hold up a hand so he stays planted to the ground, and then point to myself because another cough strikes. “Just need...water. Hold on.”

Just need...not to die of embarrassment.

I hurry off to the kitchen before Hunter can move, get a glass, and fill it. Pristine water cools my throat. Then, as I’m taking a second drink, I get the sensation I’m not alone.

Turning slowly because the hair on the back of my neck is standing straight, I splutter all over again at the sight of something I don't expect.

A man in the hallway near the laundry room. A stranger. A big – no, huge – man, almost Hunter's size, with long black hair, a black leather jacket with patches, and chains on his boots. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

He grins and steps forward.

I back up, stumble, until my ass hits the counter behind me.

“Wow, darlin'. Long way up on those sweet legs,” he says roughly, still coming forward. “I just want to know what the fuck you’re doing in this kitchen?”