Not only didn’t she know his name, but she wasn’t sure if he was married. She had never seen him go off to work, and she was surprised at how attractive he was. From a distance he’d seemed loose-jointed and boyish, but at close range he had a compact, muscular body. He was about five-eleven with corded arms, a flat belly, and eyes that were a deep, rich brown. The eyes didn’t miss much, and they didn’t give away much, she decided. Nothing more than he wanted. They were intelligent and perceptive. He had a wide, firm mouth that looked a trifle stubborn but held a hint of humor.

“I don’t think we’ve actually met,” she said, holding out her hand. “Katherine Finn. Everyone calls me Kate.”

“David Dodd.”

“I’ve been a crummy neighbor.”

“Yup.”

Kate raised her nose a fraction of an inch. It was an intimidating gesture she used when put on the defensive: a habit developed after years of coping with four brothers and countless arrogant, eccentric music teachers.

Dave grinned at her. “Nice try, but haughty isn’t going to work. You should have baked me a cake. Emily Pearson, across the street, baked me a cake. And Mrs. Butler, in the corner house, baked me a cake.”

Kate controlled the impulse to make a face and say something rude about Emily Pearson and Mrs. Butler. They were nice people. And they made her crazy. Their windows were always spotless. They put up appropriate door ornaments for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. They baked fruitcakes for neighbors and made chicken soup for sick people. For a woman who once left her Christmas lights up until July and didn’t own a pie plate, they were a hard act to follow.

“I was going to bake you a cake, but I just never got around to it.”

“It’s not too late. You could bake me a cake today.”

“Don’t get pushy.”

The grin widened. “Just trying to be helpful. I didn’t want you to carry around a load of unnecessary guilt.”

“Very thoughtful of you. The truth is, I’m not much of a baker.”

He slung his arm around her shoulder and guided her out of the bedroom, down the stairs. “Hey, you can’t let that stop you. Baking isn’t so tough. I happen to have a no-fail layer cake recipe that’ll knock your socks off. Since you’re obviously not the domestic type, I’ll make the cake and—”

Kate dug her heels into the runner. “Hold it,” she said, hands on hips. “What do you mean, ‘obviously not the domestic type’?”

“Domestic types always know how to bake cakes.” He stood at the foot of the stairs and looked around at the bare living room and dining room. “And domestic types usually own furniture.”