She needed to get out in the air for a while, let it turn over in her mind.

She would do something ordinary while it brewed in there.

No, not something ordinary. Something inspired. Something artful.

FLYNN decided it was time to reverse the roles back to where they had started, and so he stopped off on the way home to buy her flowers. There was a bite of fall in the air, and its nip had already teased color into the trees. The surrounding hills were hazed with reds and golds and umbers over the green.

Over those hills, a three-quarter moon would rise tonight.

Did she think of that, he wondered, and worry?

Of course she did. It would be impossible for a woman like Malory to do otherwise. Still, she’d been happy when she came to his office. He meant to keep her that way.

He would take her out to dinner. Maybe drive into Pittsburgh for a change of scene. A long drive, a fancy dinner—that would appeal to her, keep her mind off . . .

The minute he stepped in the front door, he knew something was off.

It smelled . . . good.

A little lemony, he thought as he approached the living room. A little spicy. With female undertones. Did women just sort of exude scent when they’d been in a place for a few hours?

“Mal?”

“Back here! In the kitchen!”

The dog beat him by a mile and was already being given a biscuit, a stroke, and a firm nudge out the back door. Flynn wasn’t sure what made his mouth water, the scents pumping out of the stove or the woman wearing a white bib apron.

God, who knew an apron could be sexy?

“Hi. What’re you doing?”

“Cooking.” She shut the back door. “I know it’s an eccentric use for a kitchen, but call me crazy. Flowers?” Her eyes went soft, almost dewy. “They’re pretty.”

“You are too. Cooking?” He tossed his embryonic plans for the evening aside without a qualm. “Would that involve anything resembling dinner?”

“It would.” She took the flowers, kissed him over them. “I decided to dazzle you with my culinary talents, so I went to the grocery store. You didn’t have anything in here that qualified as actual food.”

“Cereal. I have a lot of cereal.”

“I noticed.” Because he didn’t own a vase, she filled a plastic pitcher with water for the flowers. The fact that she didn’t cringe while doing so made her very proud of herself. “You also didn’t appear to own any of the usual implements used in preparing actual food. Not a single wooden spoon.”

“I don’t understand why they make spoons out of wood. Haven’t we progressed beyond carving tools out of trees?” He picked one up off the counter, then frowned. “Something’s different in here. Something changed.”

“It’s clean.”

Shock registered on his face as he stared around the room. “It is clean. What did you do, hire a brigade of elves? What do they charge by the hour?”

“They work for flowers.” She sniffed at them, and decided they looked very sweet in the plastic pitcher after all. “You’re paid in full.”

“You cleaned. That’s so . . . weird.”

“Presumptuous, but I got carried away.”

“No, ‘presumptuous’ isn’t the word that springs to mind.” He took her hand, kissed her fingers. “The word’s ‘wow.’ Should I be really embarrassed?”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“Deal.” He drew her close, rubbed his cheek against hers. “And you’re cooking. In the oven.”

“I wanted to take my mind off things for a while.”

“So did I. I was going to play the let’s-go-out-to-a-fancy-dinner card, but you trumped my ace.”

“You can tuck the ace up your sleeve and play it anytime. Putting things in order helps clear my mind, and there was a lot to put in order around here. I didn’t find the key.”

“Yeah, I got that. I’m sorry.”

“I’m close.” She stared at the steam puffing out of a pot as if the answer might appear in it. “I feel like I’m just missing a step somewhere. Well, we’ll talk about that. Dinner’s about ready. Why don’t you pour the wine. I think it’ll complement the meat loaf.”

“Sure.” He picked up the wine she had breathing on the counter, then set it down again. “Meat loaf? You made meat loaf.”

“Mashed potatoes too—shortly,” she added as she set up the mixer she’d brought over from her own kitchen. “And green beans. It seemed harmonious, considering your column. And I assumed that since you used the meal, you must like meat loaf.”

“I’m a guy. We live for meat loaf. Malory.” Ridiculously moved, he caressed her cheek. “I should’ve brought you more flowers.”

She laughed and got to work on the potatoes she’d boiled. “Those will do nicely, thanks. This is actually my first meat loaf. I’m more a toss-some-pasta-together or a sauté-some-chicken girl. But I got the recipe from Zoe, who swears it’s foolproof and guy-friendly. She claims Simon inhales it.”

“I’ll try to remember to chew.” Then he took her arm to turn her toward him and moved in, slowly, ran his hands up her body until his fingers skimmed her jaw. He laid his lips on hers, softly, sliding her into the kiss the way he might slide her into a feather bed.

Her heart did one long, lazy roll even as the mists shimmered over her brain. The rubber spatula she held slipped out of limp fingers as everything inside her melted against him, into him.

He felt it, that shudder and give, that surrender to self as much as to him. When he eased her back, her eyes were blue and blurry. It was woman, he realized, who had the power to make man feel like a god.

“Flynn.”

His lips curved as he brushed them over her forehead. “Malory.”

“I . . . I forgot what I was doing.”

He bent down to retrieve the spatula. “I think you were mashing potatoes.”

“Oh. Right. Potatoes.” Feeling a bit drunk, she walked to the sink to wash the spatula.

“This has to be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“I love you.” She pressed her lips together, stared out the window. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for either of us. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I know I’ve rushed and I’ve pushed. Neither of which is much like me.” She spoke briskly now as she went back to the mixer.