‘‘They looked like movie stars, all polished and glossy.’’ She smiled to herself as she stirred spicy sauce into the meat. ‘‘When you and Phillip played that waltz for their first dance, it was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.’’ She sighed again as she finished putting the salad together. ‘‘And now they’re in Rome. I can hardly imagine it.’’

‘‘They called yesterday morning to catch me before I left. They said they’re having a good time.’’

She laughed at that, a rippling, smoky sound that seemed to cruise along his skin. ‘‘Honeymooning in Rome? It would be hard not to.’’ She started to scoop out more potatoes and swore lightly as oil popped and splattered on the side of her hand. ‘‘Damn.’’ Even as she was lifting the slight burn to her mouth to soothe it, Ethan leaped forward and grabbed her hand.

‘‘Did it get you?’’ He saw the pinkening skin and pulled her to the sink. ‘‘Run some cold water on it.’’

‘‘It’s nothing. It’s just a little burn. Happens all the time.’’

‘‘It wouldn’t if you were more careful.’’ His brows were knitted, his hand gripping her fingers firmly to keep her hand under the stream of water. ‘‘Does it hurt?’’

‘‘No.’’ She couldn’t feel anything but his hand on her fingers and her own heart thundering in her chest. Knowing she’d make a fool of herself any moment, she tried to pull free. ‘‘It’s nothing, Ethan. Don’t fuss.’’

‘‘You need some salve on it.’’ He started to reach up into the cupboard to find some, and his head lifted. His eyes met hers. He stood there, the water running, both of their hands trapped under the chilly fall of it.

He tried never to stand quite so close to her, not so close that he could see those little gold dust flecks in her eyes. Because he would start to think about them, to wonder about them. Then he’d have to remind himself that this was Grace, the girl he’d watched grow up. The woman who was Aubrey’s mother. A neighbor who considered him a trusted friend.

‘‘You need to take better care of yourself.’’ His voice was rough as the words worked their way through a throat that had gone dust-dry. She smelled of lemons.

‘‘I’m fine.’’ She was dying, somewhere between giddy pleasure and utter despair. He was holding her hand as if it were as fragile as spun glass. And he was frowning at her as if she were slightly less sensible than her two-year-old daughter. ‘‘The potatoes are going to burn, Ethan.’’