And the fact that he’d noticed at all made him less than impressed with the male species: Somehow, even in the midst of great chaos, even when it was tacky as hell, men still managed to get the hots for a female.

“Sit down,” she told him, pointing with her wire whisk to a stool under the lip of the island, “before you fall down. And don’t even try the I’m-fine, clear?”

Man . . . total hots for this woman.

Complete hots.

“Hello?” she said. “You were just about to sit down over there?”

“Roger that.”

As she returned to the cooktop and got cracking—literally—he did as he was told.

To keep his eyes off her, he looked over her purse, which she’d left next to where he’d parked it. What a goddamn shame something so nice and expensive had been trashed. There was dried mud all over the leather and that handle had been really mangled.

Idiot meth head.

Rising up, he went over to the sink, pulled a paper towel free, and got the thing damp. Then, resettling, he went to work, trying to get the mung off.

When he glanced up, she was staring at him again and he stopped what he was doing to hold up his hands. “I’m not going to steal from you.”

“I didn’t think you were,” she said in that quiet voice.

“Real sorry about your purse. I think it’s done ruined.”

“I have others. And even if I didn’t, it’s just stuff.”

“Expensive stuff.” And on that note, he leaned over to the island and pushed his money toward her. “I need you to take this.”

“And I need you not to go on the run.” She cracked another egg on the rim of the bowl and split it using only one hand. “I need you to follow through on what you agreed to do when I got you bail.”

Isaac ducked his eyes and resumed his largely unsuccessful cleanup routine.

She let out an exhale that was just a syllable or two away from being a curse. “I’m waiting. For you to answer me.”

“Wasn’t aware there was a question, ma’am.”

“Fine. Will you please stay here and stick with the system?”

Isaac rose up and headed back to the sink. As he snapped a clean Bounty off the roll, the truth leaped out of his mouth. “My life isn’t my own.”

“Who are you running from?” she whispered.

Maybe she’d dialed down the volume because the lawyer in her was knee-jerk discreet. Or perhaps she was guessing right: The types who were after him could hear and sometimes see through even solid walls. Glass ones like the kind in this kitchen? Piece of cake.

“Isaac?”