He took up much more space than Emily did, which meant that by the time he found a comfortable spot between the coffee table and the wooden castle pushed up against one wall, his long legs extended in front of him, Lila was practically ensconced in his lap.

She didn’t shift, though. Not away from him, but not closer to him, either. He was starting to realize that the stillness of her bearing, the careful way she both spoke and moved, was as much a part of her as those dark, penetrating eyes.

He rested his head back on the seat of the couch and sighed. It was a nice change, this restful way of hers. A man could get used to it. Especially one as exhausted as him. Taking care of a puppy in the middle of the night was almost as much work as having an infant.

“You have a smudge of ink on your face,” she said by way of breaking the silence.

He grunted a noncommittal reply. He always had ink on his face. Either that or finger paint or mashed potatoes or, for reasons he’d never been able to fathom, nail polish. No matter how hard he tried to keep it on Emily’s fingers and toes, it invariably ended up all over his person. Usually the carpet, too.

He was nothing if not classy.

Lila grew silent again, once more lulling him into a feeling of peacefulness. He tried to gather his thoughts, to marshal them into the easiest way to make Lila understand the unique position that he and Emily found themselves in, but they seemed a hazy, faraway thing. Just for a few minutes, he wanted to bask in the quiet, to enjoy the light scent of Lila’s peach perfume and the warmth of the heater kicking on behind them.

And bask in it, he did. Ripe peaches and soft, supple skin were the last two things he remembered before he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Lila was having a difficult time deciding which was worse: being so uptight that Anya Askari feared she’d make small children cry, or being so boring that a man fell asleep within seconds of sitting down beside her.

“He could at least have had the decency to drool,” she muttered as she tiptoed down the hall to the closed door she assumed belonged to Emily. The yellow heart stickers plastered all over the bottom half were a good indication she was on the right track. “But, no. He looks just as good sleeping as he does awake.”

It was his long, dark lashes that did it, curving against his cheekbone like a delicate fall of black lace. Eyelashes that beautiful were so unfair on a man, especially when combined with those clear blue eyes and cheekbones like the metal frame of a skyscraper. No woman stood a chance.

Not Lila or, apparently, coffee-cup Helen.