Or would pay him, once he’d kicked her sister’s lawyer’s ass. He’d waived a retainer. He could afford it, and he simply couldn’t justify taking one from a woman who’d dealt with all she’d dealt with.

But the main thing had been he hadn’t understood just how much it helped to have someone who’d listen to him spew, who’d understand why this particular case hit home with him.

He didn’t have to explain to Laurel. She just knew.

An invaluable gift, he mused.

And there’d been something about the way she’d touched his face—just that simple, understanding gesture, that had something inside him shifting. He wasn’t sure what it was, what it meant, or what it meant that every time he looked at her now he saw something new, something else.

How could you know someone all your life, and still discover something new?

He’d have to think about it, he told himself. Setting the bakery box with its happy food beside his coffeemaker, he walked out to meet his next client.

SHE SHOULD’VE LET HIM BRING PIZZA, LAUREL THOUGHT AS SHE raced around the main kitchen to set up. She still had cakes and other desserts to complete in her kitchen, and the construction noise had picked today to peak.

She couldn’t possibly make dinner there.

“I could put it together for you,” Mrs. Grady commented.

“And that would be cheating. I can hear what you’re not saying.”

“You’re hearing what you think I’m not saying when what I’m actually not saying is it’d be cheating if you pretended you made dinner.”

Laurel paused a moment, actively yearned to take that route. She could just tell Del Mrs. G had done the cooking as she’d been too busy to do it herself. He wouldn’t care, but ...

“I said I’d do it. Plus you’re going out with your friends tonight.” She blew out a breath. “So, field green salad with a nice balsamic vinaigrette, seafood linguine, and the bread. It’s fairly simple, right?”

“Simple enough. You’re in a dither over it. And him.”

“It’s food. I know how I am about it, but I can’t be otherwise. It has to be perfect, and that includes presentation.” Absently, she adjusted the clip holding up her hair. “You know, Mrs. G, if I ever have kids, I’ll probably take twenty minutes to perfect the presentation of a PB and J. They’ll all need therapy.”

“I think you’ll do well enough on that score.”

“I never really thought about it. Having kids, I mean.” She got out the field greens, the grape tomatoes, the carrots she intended to straw, to wash, dry, and chill before she prepared the salad. “There’s always been so much to do right now, that I haven’t thought much about someday.”