Brad had enough young cousins, assorted nieces and nephews, to be able to peg the kid at around eight or nine. Give him another ten years, Brad thought, and this one would have to beat the coeds off with a stick.

“Simon, right?” Brad offered an I’m-harmless-you-can-trust-me grin. “I’m Brad Vane, a friend of your mom’s.” Sort of. “She around?”

“Yeah, she’s around.” Though the boy gave Brad a very quick up-and-down glance, Brad had the certain sensation he’d been studied carefully and thoroughly, and the jury was still out. “You gotta wait out there, ’cause I’m not allowed to let anybody in if I don’t know who they are.”

“No problem.”

The door shut in his face. Like mother, like son, Brad thought, then heard the boy shout.

“Mom! There’s this guy at the door. He looks like a lawyer or something.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Brad mumbled and cast his eyes to heaven.

Moments later the door opened again. Zoe’s expression changed from puzzlement to surprise to mild irritation in three distinct stages.

“Oh. It’s you. Um . . . is there something I can do for you?”

You could let me nibble my way up your neck to the back of your ear for a start, Brad thought, but kept his easy smile in place. “Dana was in the store this afternoon, picking up some supplies.”

“Yes. I know.” She tucked a dishcloth in the waistband of her jeans, let the tail hang down her hip. “Did she forget something?”

“Not exactly. I just thought you might be able to use this.” He lifted the gift he’d leaned against the side of the house, then had the pleasure of seeing her blink in surprise an instant before she laughed.

Really laughed. He loved the sound of it, the way it danced over her face, into her eyes.

“You brought me a stepladder?”

“An essential tool for any home or business improvement project.”

“Yes, it is. I have one.” Obviously realizing how ungracious that sounded, she flushed and hurried on. “But it’s . . . old. And we can certainly use another. It was really thoughtful of you.”

“We of HomeMakers appreciate your business. Where would you like me to put this?”

“Oh, well.” She glanced behind her, then seemed to sigh. “Why don’t you just bring it in here? I’ll figure that out later.” She stepped back, bumped into the boy who was hovering at her back.

“Simon, this is Mr. Vane. He’s an old friend of Flynn’s.”

“He said he was a friend of yours.”

“Working on that.” Brad carried the stepladder into the house. “Hi, Simon. How’s it going?”

“It’s going okay. How come you’re wearing a suit if you’re carrying ladders around?”

“Simon.”

“Good question.” Brad ignored Zoe and concentrated on the boy. “I had a couple of meetings earlier today. Suits are more intimidating.”

“Wearing them sucks. Mom made me wear one to Aunt Joleen’s wedding last year. With a tie. Bogus.”

“Thanks for that fashion report.” Zoe hooked an arm around Simon’s throat and made him grin.

Then they both grinned, at each other, and Brad’s eyes were dazzled.

“Homework?”

“Done. Video game time.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Forty-five.”

“Thirty.”

“Sweet!” He wriggled free, then bolted across the room to the TV.

Now that her hands were no longer full of boy, Zoe didn’t know what to do with them. She laid one on the ladder. “It’s a really nice stepladder. The fiberglass ones are so light and easy to work with.”

“Quality with value—HomeMakers’ bywords.”

The sounds of a ballpark abruptly filled the tiny living room behind her. “It’s his favorite,” Zoe managed. “He’d rather play baseball—virtual or in real life—than breathe.” She cleared her throat, wondered what the hell she was supposed to do next. “Ah . . . can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure. Whatever’s handy.”

“Okay.” Damn it. “Just, um, have a seat. I’ll be back in a minute.”

What to do with Bradley Vane? she asked herself as she hurried back to the kitchen. In her house. Plunked down in his expensive shoes in her living room. An hour before dinner.

She stopped herself, pressed her hands to her eyes. It was okay, it was perfectly all right. He’d done something very considerate, and she would reciprocate by bringing him something to drink, having a few minutes of conversation.

She never knew what she was supposed to say to him. She didn’t understand men like him. The kind of man who came from serious money. Who’d done things and had things and gone places to get more.

And he made her so stupidly nervous and defensive.

Should she take him a glass of wine? No, no, he was driving, and she didn’t have any really good wine anyway. Coffee? Tea?

Christ.

At her wits’ end, she opened the refrigerator. She had juice, she had milk.

Here, Bradley Charles Vane IV, of the really rich and important Pennsylvania Vanes, have a nice glass of cow juice, then be on your way.

She blew out a breath, then dug a bottle of ginger ale out of a cupboard. She took out her nicest glass, checked for water spots, then filled it with ice. She added the ginger ale, careful to keep it a safe half inch below the rim.

She tugged at the hem of the sweatshirt she’d tossed on over jeans, looked down resignedly at the thick gray socks she wore in lieu of shoes, and hoped she didn’t smell of the brass cleaner she’d been using to attack the tarnish on an umbrella stand she’d picked up at the flea market.

Suit or no suit, she thought as she squared her shoulders, she wouldn’t be intimidated in her own home. She would take him his drink, speak politely, hopefully briefly, then show him out.

No doubt he had more exciting things to do than sit in her living room drinking ginger ale and watching a nine-year-old play video baseball.

She carried the glass down the hall, then stopped and stared.

Bradley Charles Vane IV wasn’t watching Simon play. He was, to her amazement, sitting on the floor in his gorgeous suit, playing with her son.

“Two strikes, baby. You are doomed.” With a cackle, Simon wiggled his butt and prepared for the next pitch.