Drew gave me a protein bar when we reached his truck. He motioned to it with his hand and his chin, indicating that I should eat it. I surmised we were now past the point where he felt it necessary to issue verbal commands. Mere gestures had become completely acceptable.

The only time Drew spoke to me during the drive was when I reached for the brown leather-bound notebook in the center console of the truck.

“Don’t touch that.” He snatched it away from me and placed it in the driver’s side door pocket.

I held my hands up, gripping the empty protein bar wrapper in one fist. “Fine. I wasn’t going to read it. I was just moving it so I could put the wrapper in the cup holder. What is it, anyway, your diary?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he appeared to be tremendously intent on the road even though he could probably drive these switchbacks blindfolded.

Abruptly he ground out, “It’s field notes. Don’t touch it again.”

We didn’t speak again during the drive, and soon I was lulled to sleep by the ups and downs and twists and turns of the mountain road.

I woke up on a couch that I didn’t recognize in a very dim, unfamiliar room. I must have slept a long time because I could see the moon through a series of windows that spanned an entire wall. The moon cast everything in a pale, silvery light that reminded me of Drew’s eyes…and that thought made me feel warm and discombobulated. Therefore, I pushed it away.

Then I noticed that I wasn’t wearing my jeans.

I twisted my neck to get a better look at my surroundings. The other three walls were lined with bookcases, which, if my eyes could be believed, were stuffed with books to the point of overflowing. Other than the shelves, the room was outfitted with the brown leather couch I was laying on, a large wooden side table, two big leather club chairs, and a thick wooden coffee table. An acoustic guitar rested on a stand in the far corner.

I decided I liked the room. It felt like a real place, a place where I could knit and read, or lay in the moonlight and watch shooting stars as I gazed out the wall of windows.

I was covered with a sheet, which I tugged to the side, blinking as I sat upright and listening for a sign as to where I was and what I should do next. I heard a noise and spotted light from under a door I’d initially failed to notice. Feeling like the door was the obvious choice, I gained my feet and walked to it.

Once opened, I followed the sounds of dishes and pots, which also happened to be the source of the light. Tiptoeing around the corner, I found Drew at a gas stove stirring a steaming pot of something that smelled delicious before tasting it and adding salt.

He asked without looking up. “How are you feeling?”

I leaned against the doorframe. “Thirsty and…confused.”

Drew’s eyes flickered to mine, his brows drawn together. “Let me get you some water.”

I watched him as he moved around the kitchen, grabbing me a glass and filling it with tap water. He was wearing dark blue jeans that fit him quite nicely, low around his hips, accentuated by a thick brown leather belt. Regrettably, he wasn’t shirtless; he had on a white T-shirt that also fit him quite nicely. He walked toward me holding out the cup of water.

I accepted it with thanks and downed its contents, fresh and pure as a mountain stream, and felt instantly better. He stood in front of me, his hands resting on his hips. I felt his eyes moving over my body, which was still shrouded in his giant (and now dirty) T-shirt.

His belt buckle was rather big; the entire thing was the word SAVAGE. He was also barefoot, and I noticed that he had nice feet.

“Do you want more?” He asked as his eyes moved from my feet to my neck then to the purple bruises on my arms.

“No, thank you.” I licked my lips and glanced around the room.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.” My eyes were consuming the sight of his kitchen. It was perfect. The counters were thick butcher block; his sink was oversized porcelain. The cabinets were painted a slate gray, almost blue, and the walls were pale yellow. It was uncluttered and charming and spacious. It looked like it should have been part of a movie set.

“I love your house.” I said this without knowing I was going to say it.

Drew took the glass from my hand, our fingers brushing. The contact startled me and brought my attention back to him. His hand loitered, covering mine for several seconds as our gazes clashed.

He cleared his throat before responding. “Thank you. It’s a good spot.”

“A good spot?”

“Yeah. We’re on Bandit Lake.” He tipped his head toward the window above the sink where nothing was visible except an inky night sky.

“Whoa…really?”

He nodded. I noted his expression was one of hesitant pride. He should be proud; owning a place on Bandit Lake was more difficult than convincing a pig to take a shower. The houses were deeded to families and couldn’t be sold. If the owners wanted to leave, they had to sell to the federal government because the land was part of the national park.

Each house sat on several acres and surrounded an exceptionally pristine lake at the summit of the mountain just ten miles from the parkway.

The lake used to be a gold mine in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It was eventually abandoned, and the gaping hole was filled with water. The lake allowed only trolling motors—so no gasoline engines—and had no runoff from fertilizers or other chemicals. It was on the top of the world and was one of the cleanest lakes in the United States. It was also very well stocked with fish.

How he’d managed to nab the house likely made for a fascinating story.

“We’re facing west. The sunsets are momentous.”

I quirked a smile at his use of the word momentous to describe a sunset.

“I’ll have to check it out sometime…” I said, and with these words I remembered where I was and who I was with and why I was confused by both. “Hey, so, why are we here?”

Drew stared at me for a beat and seemed to struggle—like he was restraining himself—before he turned back to the stove.

“What you do you mean?” His attention was once again focused on his pot of steaming something.

“I mean, why didn’t you take me home?”

“I stopped by your house. Cletus packed a bag for you; it’s in the bathroom.”

“Why didn’t you just leave me there?”

Drew sighed. “Because someone needs to take care of you, and your brothers have their hands full right now with your momma.”

This logic made no sense at all.

“I can take care of me,” I said, pointing out the obvious.

His gaze lifted from the pot where he’d just added a pinch of mystery spice, and pinned me where I stood. His expression was unreadable and unnerving. I felt like he’d decided something about me since we’d last exchanged words. He was much cooler and more reserved now. The light in his eyes had dimmed considerably.

Finally, he said, “I know.” Then he looked back at the pot.

“You do?” I asked the room, making no attempt to hide my confusion. “Then why am I here?”

This elicited a sigh. “Because you need to eat, and I need to eat, and I have soup and bread and pie.”

“You have soup and bread and pie?”

He nodded, still studying the pot.

I sniffed the air, realizing that the room smelled like chicken soup, fresh bread, and mystery pie of the dessert variety. My stomach noticed too, because it rumbled. Suddenly I was starving. Soup and bread and pie sounded really, really good.

“What kind of pie?” I stepped farther into the kitchen and searched the counter for pie.

“Pecan pie.”

I shrugged to hide my pleasure. I loved pecan pie. So did my momma. Suddenly, I felt guilty for having pecan pie. Maybe I could bring her back a piece. Maybe she could have a bite.

“Your stuff is already in the bathroom. Go take a shower. Then we can eat.” Drew basically dismissed me by turning from the steaming pot and busying himself with the dishes. I stared at his back for a few seconds and noted that his hair was damp. He must’ve already showered.

I glanced at my hands. They were dirty and scraped. In fact, I was dirty all over. I hadn’t really noticed.

On autopilot, I shuffled out of the kitchen and down the hall. I had made it ten steps when I heard his voice call out, “It’s the third door on the left.”

With these instructions, I found the bathroom easily. He was right. Cletus had packed me a bag. It contained exactly two pairs of underwear and three sets of tank top pajamas. Unfortunately, he’d neglected to include anything else, like appropriate clothes, a bra, or toiletries.

I leaned out the bathroom door and hollered to Drew, “Can I use your soap?”

There was a brief moment of silence before he called back, “Yeah, sure. Use whatever you need.”

I surveyed the shower-tub combo, found soap and shampoo. I also found his razor by the sink and shaving cream. For no good reason other than the satisfaction I would get by dulling his razor, I decided to shave my legs. Besides, what did he need a razor for? Didn’t Vikings manscape using knives?

I snooped around the cabinet looking for conditioner. I was pretty sure he used conditioner. His blond hair was long and wavy and lustrous. It looked soft to the touch….

These thoughts made me mentally facepalm, because I shouldn’t be thinking about Drew’s lustrous locks when I was about to get naked in his house. In fact, I made a mental note to never think about Drew’s lustrous locks.

I was about to shut the cabinet when several bottles of dark brown glass caught my eye. I picked one up and read the label.

“Ketamine….” I whispered to the bathroom. I glanced up at the mirror and saw that my eyes were large and wide. Ketamine was a controlled substance and was used as an anesthetic. The fact that he had multiple glass bottles of it stocked in his bathroom cabinet only served to solidify his image in my mind’s eye as a marauding man of mystery.

I wasn’t exactly made anxious by the discovery; more like creeped out and uneasy. Not helping matters, an owl chose that exact moment to hoot. It gave me a shiver and an intense sensation of hootiedoom.

I fought another shiver, telling my overactive imagination to hush, and abandoned my search for conditioner.

Stripping naked, I jumped into the shower. I soaped and rinsed twice. I washed my hair twice. Then I shaved my legs. When I was finished, the faucet was running cold. I had used all the hot water.

It felt good to be clean.

I frowned at this thought because my shower earlier in the day hadn’t felt nearly as cleansing or necessary. Even though, one could argue, I was dirtier this morning after a showerless week than I had been after a rabid raccoon attack.

I dressed in my pajamas—similar to the ones Drew had seen me in when we’d first met and I’d twisted his nipple—and made my way back to the kitchen using his comb to brush my hair. Drew was just placing bowls of hot soup on the table. I noted that two slices of homemade bread were also at each place.

“Where do you keep your utensils?” I walked to the drawer closest to the dishwasher and opened it, searching for spoons.

“On the end, top drawer….”

Something about the way he said drawer made me stop and look up. He was frowning at me.

“What are you wearing?”

I glanced down at myself then back at him. “My pajamas.”

“Are you staying the night?” His voice was tight.

I shrugged, growing irritated, my neck heating. “How am I supposed to know? I didn’t know I was going to be eating here either. This is all Cletus packed. It’s a bag full of pajamas and no bras.”

He did that slow-eye-closing thing again and his chin dropped to his chest. When he spoke next, he spoke to the floor. “Would you feel more comfortable in one of my T-shirts?”

I studied him for a beat, a bit taken aback by his reaction to me in my PJs. I noted the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were balled into fists. Sandra’s words of warning echoed in my head while I tried to bat them away with facts.

Fact One: His perpetual grumpy face whenever I was around.

Fact Two: If he were interested in me, then why had he disappeared and avoided eye contact for the last two weeks?

Fact Three: Fiction-handsome meant vessel of Satan.

I knew I wasn’t making any sense. I had no idea in that moment what I thought—about Sandra’s prediction or anything else—other than food smelled really, really good for the first time in almost three weeks, and I was going to eat it and like it. I’d just flashed a bear Mardi Gras style and fought off a rabid raccoon. I was starving.

Drew might be attracted to me. As well, he might find me crass, trashy, repugnant, and annoying—a nice piece of ass, a pretty face, with a low class accent. His propensity to avoid looking at me could mean either of those things, especially since we were about to eat.

Because I found the former theory (attracted to me) inconvenient and outside the realm of my comfortable reality, I decided to embrace the latter (annoyed by me) instead.

I rationalized it this way: better to be oblivious to a flirtation than mistake kindness for flirting. One made you clueless; the other made you pathetic.

And none of this mattered, because he lived in Tennessee and I lived in Chicago, and nary the twain shall meet.

Therefore, I asked, “Would you feel more comfortable if I were wearing one of your T-shirts?”

His eyes lifted to mine, his mouth a firm line. He looked both bothered and hot…or maybe hot and bothered. I couldn’t tell which. Drew nodded.

“Fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glanced at the stove, feeling tremendously self-conscious. “Go get me a T-shirt. I’ll grab the spoons.”

I wore one of his clean T-shirts—extra-large, black—and again I was swimming in it.

We ate in silence until Drew volunteered—after my second helping of chicken soup—that we weren’t eating chicken soup. It was pheasant soup, not to be confused with peasant soup, which is what I thought he’d said at first.

This conjured images of Drew the Viking chopping up serfs for dinner.

“Many of the local hunters like to leave gifts of game for the rangers and wardens.”

“Well, either way—peasant or pheasant—it tastes like chicken. My patients bring me gifts too. Things like gift cards…and viruses.”

Finally, Drew cracked a smile, his eyes losing some of their wariness. I was relieved that my comment seemed to break the weird tension that had plagued the evening since I’d walked into the kitchen wearing my pajamas. Eating in shared silence usually gave me heartburn.

He surprised me by asking, “So, you like poetry?”

I paused, my spoon halfway between the bowl and my mouth. I didn’t know Drew well enough to know why he’d asked the question or where we were going with it, so I decided to say, “Yes, I like poetry.”

He nodded, stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth.

“Do you?” I prompted, trying to encourage discussion. “Like poetry, that is. Do you like poetry?”

He didn’t answer right away, opting instead to chew slowly and drink his beer. At length he responded with a dodgy, “Yeah.” Then silence.

I waited for him to continue, since—after all—he’d been the one to broach the subject. But he didn’t. He just looked at his food like it was the most interesting thing in the room. Maybe to him it was.

Tired of the silence, I said a little too loudly, “Well, that’s good. Look at all the things we have in common, Drew! Poetry and…T-shirts.” His eyes flickered to mine then back to his soup. If I was reading the sparkle in them correctly, he was amused.

Amusement was preferable to soundless stoicism, so I carried on. “We even use the same soap—at least today we did. I bet we even use the same brand of razor. So tell me more about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” He said this without looking up.

“Anything I guess. Where are you from?”

“Texas.”

“And where did you go to school?”

“Texas A & M for undergrad; Baylor for postgrad.” Drew stood, grabbed my empty bowl, and put it in his. He stacked all the dinner dishes into a tidy pile and carried them to the sink.

“Any hobbies?” I called after him.

He grabbed two new plates from the cupboard. Like before, I watched him walk around his kitchen. His movements were graceful and unhurried, paradoxically lazy and efficient. It struck me that so many things about Drew were contradictory.

Earlier today, he’d stroked my hair, called me sugar, rubbed my back; then, a few minutes ago, he’d glared at me with heated irritation when I walked in wearing pajamas. The last few weeks he’d been avoiding me, not making eye contact; then today, he covered me with a blanket while I slept. When he yelled at me for spending too much time in the den, and he sent Cletus out with fried chicken and potatoes.

He held my mother’s power of attorney and was the executor of her will, but he paid our house bills out of his own pocket. I couldn’t figure him out.

Drew returned to the table carrying two dessert plates, a knife, two forks, and the pie.

Once settled in his seat, he cut into a lovely pecan pie, one of my favorites, my absolute favorite being lemon meringue pie made by my mother.

At last he responded, though I was so focused on the pie that I almost forgot I’d asked a question.

“I like to cook…and read.”

Finally, something!

“Me too.” I accepted the generous slice of pie and immediately took a bite. It was really, really good. I pointed to him with my fork and said, “Well, I like to eat, which is like cooking. This is good pie. I do like to read. See, that’s another thing we have in common—pie and books. So, what are you reading now?”

“Nikola Tesla’s biography.”

“I haven’t read that. What about fiction? What’s the last good novel you read?” I ate two more bites of pie.

His subtle smile flattened and his eyes finally lifted to mine and held. “I don’t like fiction.”

I blinked at him, and I’m sure my eyebrows were doing an interpretive dance of what was going on inside my brain. “You don’t like fiction?”

“No. Never cared for it.”

“Any fiction?” I chewed on a pecan as I considered him. “You’ve never enjoyed any fiction? How come you’re always reading fiction to my mom?”

He shrugged. “Because she likes it.”

“What about movies?”

“I’m not really interested.”

I gathered a slow, deep breath and studied his face. This explained a lot about him, why he was so joyless. A perfect vessel for Satan. Also, I’d finished my pie. So my expression of disappointment was two-fold.

“Do you like fiction?” he asked.

I nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. I love novels. I love getting lost in someone else’s story, thinking about life from their perspective, living their experiences.”

“Why don’t you live your own experiences?”

I wrinkled my nose at this question. “Why would I do that when I can be a hundred different people a year? Live a hundred different lives. Love a hundred times without worrying about danger or risk. And all from the comfort of my reading chair.”

Drew’s frown was severe and, unlike the other times he’d recited Nietzsche, he sounded a fair bit impassioned as he quoted, “‘There is not enough love and goodness in the world to permit giving any of it away to imaginary beings.’”

I stared at him, his serious face, and his serious silvery eyes.

Drew was an odd possum.

“Okay,” I said, twisting my mouth to the side. “Well, I guess we’ve found something we don’t have in common. And for the record, I dislike Nietzsche.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Maybe.”

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable when someone challenges you?”

I could feel my blood pressure rising, mostly because Drew looked as though he was enjoying himself, my pie was all gone, and he hadn’t yet touched his own.

Who makes a pecan pie then ignores his own slice? And this was a truly remarkable pie. I’d scarfed mine down and was hoping for another piece. I hated that he had such a firm grasp on his self-control.

I didn’t respond right away, and maybe I waited too long, because he said, “Perhaps if you spent more time with real people instead of fictional people, honest discussions wouldn’t be so uncomfortable for you.”

“I spend plenty of time with real people. You’ve met my friends Sandra and Elizabeth. Do you think I spend Tuesday nights with them discussing the weather? And I have a lot more friends besides.”

“Is that where you would be now if you were in Chicago?”

This thought depressed me. I was missing my friends. “Yes. Today’s Tuesday, isn’t it? I’d be with my knitting group right about now….”

“So you like living in the city?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I shrugged, searching for the words, and coming up a little thin on reasons. I liked my knitting group. I liked that people didn’t know me, didn’t automatically expect me to be Darrell Winston’s trashy daughter. I liked that I’d been able to reinvent myself. I liked that I was respected at my job. I liked my independence.

Finally, I settled on, “I like my friends. And I like the culture.”

His gaze narrowed as he quoted, “In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.”

I glared at him and tsked. “Did you just call my knitting group insane, Nietzsche? That’s not nice, especially after Elizabeth made you that delicious ravioli.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t know your knitting group well enough to label them as insane. But I am calling clustered society insane. Don’t you find conformism and adhering to arbitrary societal norms suffocating?”

“I find small minds suffocating, yes. But there are just as many small minds in the backwoods of Tennessee as in the bustling metropolis of Chicago.”

He scoffed. “Except in the backwoods of Tennessee you don’t have to answer to them; you don’t even have to speak to them.”

“Unless they kidnap you and make you eat peasant soup and pie.”

His grin was immediate, and it looked like it took him by surprise, because he quickly tried to cover it by clearing his throat. “You don’t have pie with your knitting group?”

“Not pie that tastes this good, but I still miss them.”

“Instead you’re here with me, having a great time, and not at all uncomfortable.” He was still fighting his grin.

I couldn’t believe anyone would ever call Drew shy or reserved. He wasn’t shy. He was a bear, and he was pawing at me.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” I snapped, but that was a lie. I was uncomfortable. And I was hot. And I was getting angry. “Maybe I just don’t like bossy, presumptuous, mule-headed men who take forever to eat their pie.”

His smile was wide and immediate. “So, what is your type?”

“I don’t really have a type.”

“Everyone has a type.”

“Fine, what’s yours?”

“Small, petite, blonde, big boobs.” He made a curving motion in front of his chest with his hands, presumably to emphasize the bigness of the boobs, or to demonstrate that he might—in fact—be a big boob. His beard twitched, but his eyes were sober. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or if he was being purposefully irritating.

Because here’s the thing, when a girl asks a guy what his type is, she wants at least one of her physical characteristics to be a match. Otherwise, she’s just been told he considers her repulsive.

Behold the logic of the female brain!

Alas, I am five foot nine; therefore, not small and petite. I have very brown hair and not big boobs, at least, not as big as Drew seemed to prefer.

I nodded slowly, fought against the urge to tally up his physical characteristics and claim swoony allegiance to his outward opposite. Under normal circumstances, I was politely honest to a fault, because that’s how my momma raised me. Drew wreaked havoc on normal, and now I was tempted to irritate him in return.

I sucked in a large, silent breath, and forced myself to elbow past the petty desire. Maybe it was just a sign of my exhaustion.

I ultimately answered with honesty. “Fine. You want to know my type?”

He half nodded, half shrugged, but his eyes were bright and betrayed his interest. “Sure.”

“Okay.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “My type has a romantic soul. He’ll make my brain and my heart fight over who gets him first. He does what’s right, even when it’s not easy—actually, especially when it’s not easy. He knows the value of discipline, education, honor, and restraint. And his strength of character is the only thing that outweighs the strength of his love for me.”

Drew’s eyes flickered across my face as I spoke. The earlier sobriety in his gaze sharpened; otherwise, he held perfectly still.

I readied myself to be mocked. But it didn’t come.

Several seconds passed during which we regarded each other like two wary statues. The air grew thick and my neck itched; it felt like a pressing weight on my shoulders. But the heaviness was weighted with a meaning I was likely too tired and aggravated to process.

When I could take no more of his steady silent stare, I added, “That’s my type. You know, fictional.”

I didn’t miss his wince or the way his shoulders bunched at my use of the word fictional, which he found so offensive. I surmised fictional was his least favorite f-word. In response, I gave him a rueful smile.

“Fictional,” he said in a flat, emotionless tone.

I nodded. “That’s right. Fictional.”

“You think no man exists who has honor?”

“You tell me, Nietzsche.”

He wrinkled his nose as though my words gave him a bad taste in his mouth. “Nietzsche wasn’t opposed to honor. He wanted people to challenge established societal norms that suffocate individuality and freedom.”

I shook my head, annoyed that I was now forced to quote Nietzsche. “Okay, you give me no option, Drew. Here’s Nietzsche, and I quote: ‘To strive for honor means to make oneself superior and wish that that also be publicly evident. If the first is lacking and the second nevertheless desired, one speaks of vanity. If the latter is lacking and not missed, one speaks of pride.’ Nietzsche equated honor with pride and vanity.”

Drew stared at me, his eyes filled with wonder. “How did you…?”

“Of course you’re surprised. You think women are cows.” While he was distracted, I picked up my fork and nabbed a large bite of his pecan pie. It was good pie, and if he wasn’t going to eat it then I would.

Just for fun, I said, “Moo.”

At length Drew released a long-suffering sigh that ended with a laugh. He shook his head, staring at me like I was a fascinating new species. I liked how his white teeth were framed by his lips and beard when he grinned. I hated that I noticed.

“Your ability to quote Nietzsche verbatim is incredibly annoying,” he finally admitted.

“Is it?” I lifted my eyebrow and stole another bite of his pie, pausing before I stuffed my face to say, “Or is it fantastic?”

“It’s fantastic…” he mumbled, his eyes lowering to my mouth, “…and sexy.”

I was startled by the admission, and I choked on Drew’s pie. My eyes wide, I reached for my glass of water and chugged three gulps before setting the glass back to the table and regarding him.

I didn’t actually believe my ears, so I struggled for a moment before my mouth formed its question. “What?”

“What?” He snapped, lifted a single eyebrow in challenge.

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” Once again, his voice was deep, steady, and intimate—his eyes watchful and intent.

The top of my head felt hot, as did my chest, and my neck was on fire. I couldn’t believe he’d said that. I just…I couldn’t fathom it. It was way, way down on the list of things I’d expected Drew to say to me, ever, probably because I was in denial.

I could feel my shocked stare turn into a livid glare, and my jaw ached because I was clenching it so hard.

Pretty face, nice piece of ass, low class accent. That’s what I was.

Drew—fictionally handsome vessel of Satan—had just really, really pissed me off. I was bruised and cut and drowning in grief. I didn’t need to hear that I was sexy, especially not from him; not from the guy who held my mother’s power of attorney and couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether he despised me or liked me.

Because, the terrible truth was, I thought he was sexy too.

I thought he was off-the-charts sexy with his cooking and reading and brooding and shirtlessness and breathing—which meant he was a user and an asshole. And it would be completely troublesome for us to be attracted to each other. It would be epically problematic. The potential for disastrous heartbreak was momentous.

My mother was dying. Dying. I’d just stood up to a bear and murdered a rabid raccoon. Then I’d been dragged back here, made to take a shower with his wonderful-smelling soap, wear his shirt, eat his delicious dinner, and engage in a battle of wits.

I was surrounded by Drew, assaulted on all sides.

I didn’t want this. I wanted none of it. I wanted my mother to be healthy. I wanted Chicago and books. I wanted comfort and contentment and predictability. I wanted my knitting group and Tuesday night shenanigans.

Maybe one day I’d find a nice normal man—an accountant or an actuary—who tinkered with clocks. I’d be up front about the arrangement so there’d be no hurt feelings, and he’d be content with companionship in lieu of passion.

Or maybe I’d just have my friends and myself, and that would be great. I could deal with that. I was fine with that. That was my life now, and I was happy.

What I didn’t need or want was a bossy PhD game warden from Texas with sexy brains and sexy eyes and sexy everything. Because my heart was now smarter than he was sexy, it warned me that Drew would be my biggest mistake yet. I didn’t have the strength to recover from the death of my mother and another man making me feel like trash.

“Why would you say that?” My voice was a bit shrill, and I had a hard time keeping the volume low enough to be considered indoors appropriate.

“Because it’s true.”

I shook my head, slowly at first, then faster. “You are such an ass.”

I stood from the table, scraping my chair against the floor, but then I hesitated. He’d made dinner and cleared the dinner plates. Good manners dictated that I needed to clear the dessert plates and do the dishes.

Instead of leaving indignantly like I wanted to do, I surprised us both by pointing to his barely-touched pie and demanding, “Are you finished with that?”

“Why? Do you want my pie?” He asked this as though he was offering me more than pie, and the softness of his tone caught me off guard.

I sputtered for a few seconds then said, “No. I don’t. I don’t want your stupid delicious pie.”

I grabbed my plate and fork and the dish of remaining pecan pie and its cover. I marched to the kitchen, chucked my plate in the sink, covered the pie plate, and found a home for it in the refrigerator.

Then, my fury a cloak of impervious distraction, I crossed to the sink and began doing the dishes.

I’d finished our bowls, dessert plates, and utensils, and was about to go back to the table for the glasses when Drew reached around me and turned off the faucet.

“Sugar, stop doing the dishes.”

“Fine. They’re all done anyway.” I turned away from him and reached for the dry towel on the counter. “I want to go home. Will you please call one of my brothers to take me home?”

“Ash….”

“Listen, Drew.” I faced him, my heart pounding in my chest, and I summoned every bit of ingrained politeness I had. “Thank you for dinner. Thank you for the shower and your soap and your shirt. Thank you for driving me here and for carrying me down the hill. Now will you please call one of my brothers to take me home?”

His eyes seemed to be searching mine. His expression was guarded, but I perceived flashes of dejection and misery there.

“I’ll take you home,” he said quietly.

I glared at him, debating whether it would be better to ride in his truck back to Momma’s, or if waiting at his house until one of my brothers showed up was preferable.

“Fine.” I turned on my heel and walked at a decidedly normal pace to his bathroom. I gathered my bag and the dirty clothes, pausing for a moment when I saw Drew’s dark gray shirt in the mix. There was nothing for it. I would have to wash it along with the black one I was wearing.

Then, I would give them back to him the next time he was at our house because I wanted nothing from Drew Runous.