He glanced at her face and saw the expectant expression in her blue eyes. His brain offered a replay of her conversation and he cleared his throat.

“If it's not too much trouble," he said.

“None at all. The boys prefer chocolate chip cookies. I guess shortbread is an acquired taste that comes with age." She offered a polite smile and carried his dishes out of the dining room.

Nash flipped through the sports section, then closed the paper. The news no longer interested him. Maybe he would go for that drive now and explore the area.

He rose, then paused, not sure if he should tell his hostess he was leaving. When he traveled it was usually on business and he always stayed in anonymous hotels and motels. He'd never been in a bed and breakfast before. While this was a place of business, apparently it was also Stephanie's home.

He looked from the kitchen to the foyer, then decided she wouldn't care what he had planned for his day. After fishing his car keys out of his pocket, he walked across the gleaming hardwood floor and out to the curb where he'd left his rental car.

Two minutes later he was back in the Victorian house. He walked into the kitchen, but it was empty. He crossed to the stairs and glanced up. Was she cleaning his room, or had she gone up to her private quarters? A loud bang made him turn toward the back of the house. He followed the rhythmic noise past the kitchen and pantry into a large utility room. Stephanie sat on the floor in front of a washer. An open manual lay on her lap and there were tools and assorted parts all around her.

In the ten or fifteen minutes since she'd cleared his table, she'd changed her clothes. The tailored slacks and attractive sweater had been replaced by worn jeans and a sweatshirt featuring a familiar cartoon mouse. As he watched, she jabbed the side of the washer with a large wrench.

“Rat-fink cheap piece of metal trash," she muttered. "I hate you. I will always hate you. For the rest of your life, you're going to have to live with that." He cleared his throat.