But she wasn’t going to be chased away by the yappy little pom-pom queen. And she wasn’t going to be frightened off by some hell-bent sorcerer.

They had a lot in common as far as she was concerned. They were both riddled with petty jealousy that lashed out and caused pain.

Jealousy, she thought, pursing her lips. It was, in a way, the opposite of love. As lies were to truth, as cowardice to valor, and so on. Another angle, she decided, and detoured to grab a copy of Othello, the king of stories on jealousy.

As she carted her load to checkout, Dana worked up a smile for one of the women she’d worked with for years. She dumped the books on the counter, dug out her card. “Hi, Annie. How’s it going?”

“Good. Fine.” In an exaggerated motion, Annie slid her gaze to the right and cleared her throat.

Following the direction, Dana spotted Sandi, arms crossed, lips tight, watching. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Dana said under her breath.

“Sorry, Dana. Sorry about everything.” Keeping her voice low, Annie scanned the books, stacked them.

“Don’t worry about it.” After jamming her card back in her purse, Dana scooped up her armload of books. She sent Sandi a wide, wide smile and walked out.

ONE of the perks of having a mature adult relationship with a woman, to Flynn’s mind, was coming home from work and finding her.

The smell of her, the look of her, the simple presence of her, made everything just a little clearer.

And when that woman, that pretty, sexy, fascinating woman, was cooking, it added just one more delight to the day.

He didn’t know what she had going on the stove, and he didn’t care. It was more than enough to see her, stirring something in a pot while Moe sprawled under the table, snoring like a freight train.

His life, Flynn thought, had found its true rhythm when Malory Price had walked into it.

He stepped up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pressed his lips to the side of her neck. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“I certainly am.” She turned her head so she could meet his lips with hers. “How are things?”

“Things are good.” He nudged her around for a longer, more satisfying kiss. “And better now. You didn’t have to cook, Mal. I know you were working all day.”

“I just punched up some jarred spaghetti sauce.”

“Still, you don’t.” He took her hands, then frowned as he turned them over. “What’s this?”

“Just some blisters. I’m telling myself they’re good for me. Shows I’m pulling my weight.”

He kissed them. “You know, if you’d wait for the weekend, I could give you a hand with the place.”

“We really want to do it ourselves, at least start on it ourselves. I’ve got a few blisters and pretty much ruined a pair of jeans, but we have the most beautifully painted porch in the Valley. I wouldn’t complain if you poured me a glass of wine, though.”

He got out a bottle and two of the wineglasses she’d bought. It seemed to him there were more glasses in the cabinet than there had been the last time he’d looked.

She was always slipping things in.

Glasses, fluffy towels, fancy soaps that he hesitated to actually use. It was one of the oddities and interests of having a woman around the house.

“Jordan told me what happened with Dana.”

“I thought he would.” Though it wasn’t quite dark, she lit the long oval candle she’d picked up for the table. “We both know how horrible it must have been for her. I know how much you love her, Flynn. I love her too. But we can’t shield her from this as much as we can just be there for her.”

“Maybe not, but Jordan had an idea that might do a little of both.”

He poured the wine, told her about using Moe.

“It’s brilliant,” Malory decided, then laughed down at the still snoring Moe. “She’ll certainly agree to it, and if nothing else, she won’t feel so alone at night.” After a sip of wine, she moved to the sink to fill a pot with water for the pasta. “I suppose Jordan told you they’re going out Saturday night?”

He’d been staring at the candle, thinking how odd it was to see it flickering away on the ancient picnic table he used in the kitchen. “Who’s going out?” As it hit him, Flynn swallowed wine in one hard gulp. “Jordan and Dana? Going . . . out?”

“So he didn’t tell you.”

“No, it didn’t come up.”

“And,” she concluded as she set the pot on the stove, “you’re not too keen on the idea.”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to get into it. Damn it, I don’t want them messing each other up again.” Knowing that Jordan was working upstairs, Flynn glanced at the ceiling. “It’s the person who ends up in the middle, and that would be me, who gets his ass kicked from both sides.”

“She still loves him.”

“Loves who?” Shock jumped into his eyes. “Loves him? Jordan? She loves him? Shit. Shit! Why do you tell me these things?”

“Because that’s what people in love do, Flynn.” She got three woven place mats from a drawer he wasn’t sure he’d known was there and set them neatly on the table. “They tell each other things. And I don’t expect you to go running to Jordan with this information.”

“Man.” Pacing now, he shoved a hand through his hair. “See, if you didn’t tell me, I wouldn’t have to think about not saying anything to him, or not saying anything to her. I would just exist in a nice bubble of ignorance.”

“And I think Zoe’s interested—extremely reluctantly—in Brad.”

“Stop it. Stop this flood of information right now.”

“You’re a newspaperman.” Enjoying herself, she pulled out the salad she’d put together and began to dress it. “You’re supposed to thrive on information.”

He’d never seen the salad bowl before, or the wooden things she was using to toss the greens. “I’m going to get a headache.”

“No, you’re not. You want your friends to be happy, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“We’re happy, aren’t we?”

Cautious now, he replied, “Yes.”

“We’re happy, and we’re in love. Ergo, you want your friends happy and in love, too. Right?”