But then, just before he stepped out, he paused, head turned to one side as if he could hear her silent anguish. Hell, he probably could. Her energy was crazy, all over the place.

In a more measured tone, he told her, “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Sure, if you can,” she said jerkily. “I would really like that.”

He nodded. Then he stalked out.

Silence settled in the little cottage. The hurricane had passed, leaving devastation in its wake.

Four-seven-eight.

Four-seven-eight.

At last her internal earthquake subsided. When she felt calmer, she went to see what could be done with the half-prepared supper. The pasta had congealed, so she drained off the water and threw the clump in the trash. And the sauce looked tired and brown around the edges.

“I know how you feel,” she said to it. She threw that out too. There wasn’t a dishwasher in the rental, so she washed everything up by hand. She had bought Josiah a bottle of wine, and she set it aside on the counter.

When the little place was sparkling clean, she went to take a shower, washed off her makeup, and put on the black nightie. After the buildup and anticipation and then the raw intensity, the world felt flat and colorless.

It was too early to go to bed, and she was too tired to go out. Plus she should eat something.

She had made a beautiful green salad topped with delicately fried squash blossoms. Dumping some into a bowl, she went into the living room to slouch on the couch and channel surf while she ate pieces of the salad with her fingers like popcorn.

A quiet knock sounded at the door. Her heart thumped. Setting the bowl and TV remote aside, she went to look out the closed french windows.

Josiah stood on the doorstep, his white dress shirt stark against the yellow outside light. He had rolled the sleeves up. His bag sat at his feet with his suit jacket and tie draped across it. He turned and saw her looking at him. Said nothing. Just waited, watching her.

She went to open the door. His brooding gaze raked down her figure clad in the short black nightie and robe. “I shouldn’t have walked out.”

“Don’t be stupid.” She stepped out of the way. “Given the circumstances, I think you were remarkably restrained. But I hope you’re not back to fight, because I’m too tired to oblige tonight.”

“I’m not back to fight.” He met her gaze with a level look, then strode inside.

She watched him take in the bowl of salad on the couch, the muted television screen, and remote. “There’s more salad in the fridge. And the wine on the counter is for you. And there’s cheese and bread, and some beignets from Café Du Monde in the pastry box. Help yourself to whatever.”