God, who knew an apron could be sexy?

“Hi. What’re you doing?”

“Cooking.” She shut the back door. “I know it’s an eccentric use for a kitchen, but call me crazy. Flowers?” Her eyes went soft, almost dewy. “They’re pretty.”

“You are too. Cooking?” He tossed his embryonic plans for the evening aside without a qualm. “Would that involve anything resembling dinner?”

“It would.” She took the flowers, kissed him over them. “I decided to dazzle you with my culinary talents, so I went to the grocery store. You didn’t have anything in here that qualified as actual food.”

“Cereal. I have a lot of cereal.”

“I noticed.” Because he didn’t own a vase, she filled a plastic pitcher with water for the flowers. The fact that she didn’t cringe while doing so made her very proud of herself. “You also didn’t appear to own any of the usual implements used in preparing actual food. Not a single wooden spoon.”

“I don’t understand why they make spoons out of wood. Haven’t we progressed beyond carving tools out of trees?” He picked one up off the counter, then frowned. “Something’s different in here. Something changed.”

“It’s clean.”

Shock registered on his face as he stared around the room. “It is clean. What did you do, hire a brigade of elves? What do they charge by the hour?”

“They work for flowers.” She sniffed at them, and decided they looked very sweet in the plastic pitcher after all. “You’re paid in full.”

“You cleaned. That’s so . . . weird.”

“Presumptuous, but I got carried away.”

“No, ‘presumptuous’ isn’t the word that springs to mind.” He took her hand, kissed her fingers. “The word’s ‘wow.’ Should I be really embarrassed?”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“Deal.” He drew her close, rubbed his cheek against hers. “And you’re cooking. In the oven.”

“I wanted to take my mind off things for a while.”

“So did I. I was going to play the let’s-go-out-to-a-fancy-dinner card, but you trumped my ace.”

“You can tuck the ace up your sleeve and play it anytime. Putting things in order helps clear my mind, and there was a lot to put in order around here. I didn’t find the key.”

“Yeah, I got that. I’m sorry.”

“I’m close.” She stared at the steam puffing out of a pot as if the answer might appear in it. “I feel like I’m just missing a step somewhere. Well, we’ll talk about that. Dinner’s about ready. Why don’t you pour the wine. I think it’ll complement the meat loaf.”

“Sure.” He picked up the wine she had breathing on the counter, then set it down again. “Meat loaf? You made meat loaf.”

“Mashed potatoes too—shortly,” she added as she set up the mixer she’d brought over from her own kitchen. “And green beans. It seemed harmonious, considering your column. And I assumed that since you used the meal, you must like meat loaf.”

“I’m a guy. We live for meat loaf. Malory.” Ridiculously moved, he caressed her cheek. “I should’ve brought you more flowers.”