“Is there anything I could help you with?”

“No. Honestly. I just need an hour to get my life back in order…and after that I’ve got more than enough in the fridge for dinner. I can’t guarantee it’s something you’ll want to eat, but we could definitely talk in peace then-”

“That sounds great. But if there’s running I could do for you, say. I know you can’t want to be on that foot.”

“I won’t be for long.”

It worked like a charm. She just couldn’t concentrate with all those life details hanging over her head-and with an impossibly unsettling man underfoot. An hour and a half later, though, she was humming under her breath, back in her kitchen, her one foot propped on a stool and a cleaver in her hand big enough to inspire jealousy in a serial killer.

Not that any foolish serial killer would dare lay a hand on one of her prized possessions.

She angled her head-just far enough to peer around the doorway to check on her visitor again. There was no telling exactly when Cameron had decided to sit down, but clearly it was his undoing. He’d completely crashed. He wasn’t snoring, but his tousled blond head was buried in the rose pillow on the couch, and one of his stockinged feet was hanging over the side. That man was sure long. One cat-either Dickens or Shakespeare-was purring on the couch arm, supervising his nap with a possessive eye.

Amazing how easy it was for her to relax when he was sleeping.

She went back to her chopping and sautéing and mixing. Cooking was a favorite pastime-and a secret, since she certainly didn’t want anyone getting the appalling idea that she was either domestic or practical. Tonight she couldn’t exercise much creativity, because she already had leftovers that needed using up, starting with some asparagus soup-and somehow finding an excuse to eat the last of the grape sorbet.