At the door, she dug her keys from her purse. “When do you think you’ll know something about the names I gave you?”

Most likely, before she even got out of bed to go to work in the morning, but sharing the level of urgency behind his search would only further pique her interest. “A few days, I’d expect. Perhaps sooner.”

She nodded and slid the key in the lock.

The space behind his sternum grew tight, and the urge to inch closer nearly drew him from his steady stance. Lingering was foolish. An invitation guaranteed to welcome further disappointment.

But he’d enjoyed the night. Sparring with her. Listening to her. The stolen touches and subtle responses they’d garnered.

She faced him, but her gaze was rooted to his chin. “Well...thank you for the coffee and desserts.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Just one kiss.

One taste to see if her response was as powerful as he remembered.

Ducking her head, she played with the keys still in her hand. “I’m glad we did this. I hope I was able to help.”

A single step forward and he could feel her against him. Feel her heat and the way her lithe body moved with his.

“If not, we’ll try again.” He nodded to the open doorway, but when he spoke his voice was ragged. “In you go. I want to hear the bolt thrown before I leave.”

She nodded, but averted her gaze as she did. “Right. Good night. Thanks again.”

The door slipped shut with a soft thud, and the tinny chink of a too-small lock slipped into place. A soft white light flared behind the curtained windows, and soft footfalls sounded on wood carrying her farther away.

Slowly, he made his way down the stoop and across the street, hating the emptiness beside him.

He slid behind the wheel, fired up his Audi and pulled onto the street, casting one last glance at the light behind the window.

Leaving was the right thing to do.

Certainly safer.

For both of them.

Chapter Six

The bad thing about math? Two plus two always equaled four. Or, in Cassie’s case, five hundred and fifty in disposable income minus a four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar car repair bill equaled trouble.

She huffed out a frustrated sigh and shifted to the edge of her couch, plunking her laptop onto the coffee table. Surely she could make a hundred dollars stretch for a month. Or, if she got creative with her grocery list, she could bump her expendable cash by fifty or so dollars. She certainly wasn’t a stranger to living on toast and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Yeah, but you were a college student then. So much for showing everyone what a grown-up professional you are now.

Three quick raps from the door rose above the background chatter of Dr. Phil on the television.

“Who is it?”

“Well, who do you think it is?” Aunt Frieda bellowed in her singsong voice from the other side of the door. “Because if you’re expecting a fella, that means you’ve been holding out on gossip.”