He watched her stir the dough, form it into a ball. Then she emptied the muffin pan, set them to cool on a rack while she refilled the cups. When the timer buzzed again, she shifted trays, went back to roll out her pastry dough.

“You’ve got yourself a real system,” he commented. “Where’d you learn to bake?”

“My mother—” She broke off, realigned her thoughts. It was too easy in the quiet kitchen, with all these homey smells, to get overly comfortable and reveal too much. “My mother liked to bake,” she said. “And I picked up recipes and techniques here and there.”

He didn’t want her to stiffen up, so he let it pass. “Do you ever make those cinnamon rolls? You know the ones with that sticky white icing?”

“Mmm.”

“I make them sometimes.”

“Really.” She began to cut the dough for tarts and glanced back at him. He looked so . . . male, she thought, leaning back on the counter with his ankles crossed and a mug of coffee in his hand. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

“Sure, now and then. You buy these tubes down at the market. Then you take them home, rap them against the counter and peel the bun things out, cook them, and squirt icing on the top. Nothing to it.”

It made her laugh. “I’ll have to try that sometime.” She went to the refrigerator, took out her bowl of filling.

“I’ll give you some pointers on it.” He drained his cup, set it in the sink. “I guess I’d better get home, and get out of your way. Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And the muffin. It was just fine.”

“That’s a relief.” She stood at the table, methodically spooning filling into the center of her rounds of dough. When he stepped toward her, she tensed a little, but continued to work.

“Nell?”

She looked up, and filling slopped out of her spoon when he put his hand on her cheek.

“I sure hope this doesn’t put you off,” he said, and leaning down, he laid his lips on hers.

She didn’t move a muscle. Couldn’t. Her eyes stayed open, locked on his. Watching, as a deer might watch when pinned in the crosshairs.

His lips were warm. She registered that. And softer than they looked. He didn’t touch her. She imagined she’d have leaped out of her skin if he’d laid his hands on her now.

But it was only his mouth, light and easy on hers.

He’d prepared himself for her to be annoyed, or disinterested. He hadn’t expected her to be scared. That was what he felt from her, a rigid anxiety that could easily bloom into fear. So he didn’t touch her as he wanted to, not even a gentle brush of fingers down her arms.