A pure, emotional song floated up from the kitchen.

Was the radio playing?

There was no band, or accompanying instruments. Ethan stilled so he could listen for a few more minutes, then headed for the stairs. It had to be Noelle.

How had she managed to infiltrate his life in only a few hours?

He hadn’t slept. He could hear her talking to her cat. Smell her in the bathroom. The cheery, full-of-sunshine personality he couldn’t tolerate.

Ethan ambled into the kitchen. “What time did you get up? Or did you even sleep?”

“I couldn’t sleep. So I made coffee.” She pointed at the back door. “I found Trapper in the kitchen this morning. I’m not sure how he got down those stairs, but he kept nudging the doorknob with his nose, so I assumed he wanted out. I hope it’s okay.”

“Trapper won’t go far,” he mumbled, working to grind out every word.

Morning communication was akin to talking with a wired jaw. Nothing came out clearly. He expected her still to be in bed so he could conveniently slip out the door—avoid any interaction—but no, she was in his kitchen, serving coffee, making breakfast, and letting his dog out. The whole scene was way too domestic.

The circa-1980 clock radio on the window ledge was silent. “It was you singing.”

“Did I wake you?” Her blush matched her fuzzy pink shirt and bunny slippers. She pulled an elastic band off her hair, then bundled, twisted, and efficiently wrapped it in a practiced motion. She glanced at him, then back at the skillet. “I like to sing. It’s a song I’ve been working on, and sometimes I get lost in the melody and carried away.”

“As in one you wrote?”

She glanced at him. “Song writing is my therapy. Some people do yoga. Some meditate. Some journal. I write songs.”

“What are your songs about?” he asked, before considering whether the question would lead to a barrage of information.

“Pretty much everything.”

He cringed. That mystical grin of hers, the one that demanded a response, twisted him in knots each time she aimed it at him.

“Love songs, I bet.”

“Some. But lately I’ve been exploring some deeper topics. Life isn’t all puppies and flowers, you know. Love is hard—complicated.”

Love was hard. Too damn hard. His heart shriveled a bit more, and he pushed out a breath. “What topics are you exploring?”

She shrugged. “I’m working on a song about what it would have been like to meet my father. He died in a motorcycle crash before I was born, and I’ve always wished I could have met him, at least once. The refrain goes like… ‘Would he be my daddy? Would he be the person I hoped he’d be?’”

Her rich, alto tones reminded him of his mother’s sweet and savory whiskey steak sauce. She might be brown sugar sweet, but her voice had a certain tang that drew him in and forced him to pay attention.

The notes floated and expanded and transported him to another place. The passion behind the melody was raw—perfect.

She didn’t move, just let the music emerge and do its magic all on its own. The song oozed into every nook and cranny of the kitchen, until there was nowhere else for the song to go. When the song ended, she looked at him. He didn’t breathe.

The song was captivating.

So was she.

When he didn’t say anything, she picked up a sponge to clean the sink, and the moment shattered into a million tiny shards.

“You didn’t have much in the way of food.” She chattered on as if the last few minutes hadn’t touched his heart. She cleaned, but his brain only translated the melodic chirping of a bird, twittering her morning greeting, full of spirit and enthusiasm. He could hear about every other word, and had to decipher the conversation. Just like the swallow outside his window, he didn’t get what she was saying, but he liked the way she filled the silence with beautiful sounds.

He slid onto a stool at the kitchen island and took a large gulp of coffee, desperate for the caffeine to work its magic.

Noelle held a plate in front of her. An expectant look was the only clue she’d given him.

“You want me to eat that?” He pointed at the plate of fluffy eggs, squinting against the morning sun streaming through the normally closed blinds. Maybe if he just kept quiet she would give up and he could get back to the business of being numb.

“You need to eat something.” She plopped the plate on the counter in front of him.

He propped his head up with his fist, the curiosity seeping in again. “Why do you care if I eat solids?”

“Everyone needs to eat, especially if you’re going to be taking care of other people.”

“My protein drinks are full of essential vitamins and minerals.”

“And, if it tastes anything like my friend’s wheat germ drink, it tastes like sawdust. She has to add yogurt and fruit so she can gag it down.”

Her scrunched-up, just-ate-a-lemon face was adorable. Too adorable. “You get used to the taste after a while.” He stabbed at the eggs with his fork. “Didn’t you say you wanted to look for another place to stay? I do live out of the way if you’re here to see friends.”

“I would like to be closer to town, so I talked to my mom this morning. She’s looking.”

Hope made him look up. Noelle was like a moth and he the flame. The sooner he could get her away from the heat the better.

“Did she find anything?”

“She’s calling around, but, as expected, so far the places are booked solid.”

Bummer. Ethan stuffed a wad of eggs in his mouth, then paused to let the savory bliss of fresh bell peppers, mushrooms, and onions combine with just the right amount of salt and pepper. “Wow. This is good.”

Noelle walked to the back door and opened it, automatically grabbing a towel to wipe Trapper’s paws. When she leaned over, he closed his eyes to avoid seeing the wonderland of delectable curves and her flawless, sculpted bottom.

“What did you expect?” Noelle folded the towel on the counter. “Maggie had us kids working in the restaurant as soon as we could see above the countertop.”

“No. I mean like orgasmically good.” The praise rolled off his tongue lickety-split, before his brain fully engaged.

The smile on her face was like watching a kid spoon fresh whipped cream off the top of hot chocolate.

“Orgasmically good? It’s just an omelet. I would hate to guess what your sex life’s been like if you think that’s equal to an orgasm. I could make you my grandmother’s flourless cake. Now that chocolate butteriness is truly orgasmic.”

If only he could stuff all her cuteness in a paper bag and take it to the urgent care clinic to hand out to the nurses. Those ladies needed an extra dose of smiles and appreciation.

“You’re right. Bad word choice,” he mumbled, hoping the words came out sounding like an apology.

“Orgasmic is an utterly sexy choice.”

He groaned inwardly. Figures she wouldn’t let the slip drop.

Sex was technically a bodily function term.

Not something spicy or savory.

Being in the company of a woman who used “sex” and “orgasm” as non-clinical terms was a turn-on, and proved he’d been surrounded by doctors, nurses, and technicians way too long.

“I need to get to work. I’m sure there are some runny noses and coughs I need to be treating.”

He wasn’t about to spend the rest of the morning exploring the nonclinical definition of orgasm with a cute blonde. Ms. Perky was sure to come with a set of emotional expectations. She wasn’t the type to use sex as a tension reliever. He hadn’t been raised that way either, but in Africa he’d changed, adapted. Something about being surrounded by a culture that saw the human body and its urges as sacred, to be honored and celebrated, reworked the way he viewed things. Sex was as natural as the sun rising, and a fun way to relieve tension.

His daughter, Callie, was conceived during one of those steam-blowing-off sessions. He and Brigitte had dated on and off for several months, and eventually she moved into his small apartment, a short bus ride from the hospital. Neither had considered marriage since both their careers were ramping up. But a positive pregnancy test made him reconsider. And when he held Callie in his arms for the first time, his life changed forever. When his precious baby wrapped her small fingers around his, he was irreparably smitten. He swore to protect her—and yet he failed.

He pushed back from the counter.

“Do you mind if I take Trapper for a walk today?” She grabbed a rag and wiped down the kitchen counter. “His back legs seem a bit stiff this morning.”

“He’s old, but does need his exercise.”

“I know he’s old. His face has more gray hair than Santa Claus, but I think he’d like to get out, read the newspaper.”

“Read the what?”

“Check out who’s been in the neighborhood. Dogs like to sniff around, smell what’s been going on lately.”

I need to get away from this woman. She’s too sweet. Or is it savory? He took another step back. “I usually take Trapper into the office on the days my schedule is light.”

“Oh, okay. Then do you mind if I make some cookies and brittle?”

“Weren’t you the one lecturing me about diet?”

“Yes, but I always make my grandma's recipes at Christmas. I was hoping you would let me borrow your kitchen since my mom is staying in a cabin that only has a microwave and hotplate.”

The remembered, mouthwatering smell of his favorite cookies and treats in the oven made his mouth water. “What about fudge?”

“I make the best peanut butter fudge.”

His nose closed in, and his taste buds retracted. “Peanut butter. That’s almost sacrilege.”

“Maybe you should shake up your life once in a while. It doesn’t hurt to try something new. You’ll love my peanut butter fudge. I guarantee it.”

“If you say so.”

A smile lit up her face like a stupid Christmas tree. “I’ll make chocolate fudge just for you.”

Before he could respond, her orange cat announced his presence, walked two steps, stretched, then waddled his way over to Trapper’s bed. The chubby feline licked the dog’s head, then nested in between his forelegs for a catnap.

The whole Norman Rockwell scene destroyed his determination to stay numb.

“Feel free to do whatever you would like.”

The gratitude in those soft green eyes kicked him in the man parts, and he felt an ache all the way to his toes.

He might have just met the one person on the planet who might give his Brigitte a run for the woman of the year award. His wife had been perfect in every way, and why she loved him, he never understood. She was his rainbow in the storm clouds.

Guilt pressed in as he flicked away the comparison. “Sing. Bake. Makes no difference to me. I’ll be working anyway.”

“Right. You’ll be taking care of those runny noses and coughs.” The teasing laughter dancing across her face set off a disturbance in his chest.

“You know,” he leaned in close, “it is flu season. You should be careful teasing the only doctor in town.”

“You’re not the only doctor. Besides, your uncle loves me. He’s given me my shots and physicals since I was born.”

Another reminder that his uncle had been part of the town forever. Tom was like one of the statues in the town center. Permanent. Strong. Rooted in the community. Ethan wanted to be that person, but somehow he always ended up stranded on the edge watching everyone else. Story of his life. “Come, Trapper. Let’s go to the office. I’ll shower there.”

He took, one, two, three steps before pausing, missing the noise of the dog scrambling to his feet and brushing past him to get to the front door. “Aren’t you coming?”

Trapper lifted his head, and nestled his muzzle on top of Cheddar’s stomach, then settled again. Ethan looked from Trapper to Noelle.

“What did you do to my dog?”

She looked at him with more patience than he felt. “Don’t blame me. He seems to have taken a liking to my cat. Cheddar’s easygoing, and gets along with everyone.”

Just like his owner. He studied the two animals curled together on the round fleece pillow in the corner of the kitchen.

Callie and Trapper had been inseparable. Where there was one, the other was never far away. It had never occurred to him to wonder if Trapper might need a companion. Lord knows, he was never there for the dog. Sure, he fed him, took him for walks, brushed him, took him to work on slow days, but he was never really there. Trapper reminded him of Callie, and the memories were too close to the surface some days.

Noelle checked the dog's nose and lifted his ears. “There’s no heat. He’s not sick. He can stay with me today. I don’t mind.”

Traitor. “Fine, as long as you don’t give him any sugar. He gets the farts if he eats sweets.”

“Dog farts are the worst.”

When she scrunched her nose, she looked so cute the only thought in his morning brain was—rruuunnnn!

When he was halfway up the stairs, the singing began again. The pure tone eased a hidden ache inside. He slumped down on the step to listen.

Brigitte was more of a classic rock kind of lady. Everything she did was with big, bold strokes. She lived loud. She crossed boundaries. He’d loved her the best he could, but he never felt like it was enough.

The last time he saw her she’d been restless, fidgety, as if the thousand-square-foot apartment had become too small. Late that morning she decided to take Callie for some last-minute Christmas shopping and begged him to come along. On the way out the door, the hospital called.

He had to go. They needed him. The brilliant Dr. Brennan.

He scoffed at his own importance.

Later, he wondered time and again if he even said goodbye. Why hadn’t he gone with them? Why had he chosen his work over his wife and child?

He closed his eyes to see those last few seconds. The picture played over and over and over in his mind, but the rich alto voice from below kept the image from forming. He grabbed the railing to stand.

An ever-present, ever-faithful guilt cut like a scalpel across his vein.

He needed Noelle out of his house.

Actually, he needed to leave. This place wasn’t his home. He’d never have a home again, not without Brigitte and Callie.