He heard the front door slam. Like mother, like son, he thought.

“Keenan?” Zoe called out. “I hope you haven’t been into those cookies.”

Coop looked at the crumbs on the table, on the floor, floating in the soapy water.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered.

“Oh, hell,” Keenan echoed, beaming at him. He giggled and danced on his stool. “Hi, Mom.”

Zoe, her arms full of day-old irises, took in the scene with one glance. Her son was as wet as a drowned dog and her kitchen looked as though a small hurricane had blown through. Hurricane Keenan, she thought. And her new tenant looked damp, frazzled, and charmingly sheepish.

Like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, she noted, glancing at the telltale crumbs.

“Been playing dishwasher again?” With a calm that baffled Coop, she set the flowers down. “I’m just not sure it’s the right career choice, Keen-man.”

Keenan fluttered his long, wet lashes. “He wanted cookies.”

Coop started to defend himself, then simply scowled at the boy.

“I’m sure he did. Go on into the laundry room and get out of those wet clothes.”

“Okay.” He jumped from the stool, splashing more water before he zoomed away. He stopped only long enough to give his mother a wet kiss before he disappeared into an adjoining room.

“Sorry I’m late,” Zoe said easily, yanking the stopper out of the sink then walking to a cupboard to get a vase.

Coop opened his mouth. He started to explain what had gone on in the past ten minutes, but realized he wasn’t at all sure. “I signed the lease.”

“I see that. Would you mind putting some water in this?” She held out the vase. “I need to get a mop.”

“Sure.”

She was probably going to wallop the kid with it, Coop thought, and felt a quick tug of regret and guilt. But the sounds from the laundry room where she’d disappeared weren’t those he associated with corporal punishment. They were a young boy’s giggles, a woman’s lusty laugh. Coop stood, a vase of water in his hands, and wondered at it.

“You’re standing in a puddle,” Zoe commented when she came back with a mop and pail.

“Oh, right.” Coop glanced down at his wet high-tops, shifted. “Here’s your vase.”

“Thanks.” She tended to her flowers first. “You met Mrs. Finkleman, I hear.”

“News travels fast.”

“Around here it does.” When she handed him a dishcloth to dry his face with, he caught her scent—much more potent, much more colorful, than the flowers. She was wearing jeans and a baggy T-shirt with Floral Bouquet across the chest. Her hair, he noted, was some elusive shade between brown and blond. She wore it tied back in a jaunty ponytail.

When she lifted her brows, he realized he’d been staring. “Sorry. I mean—I’m sorry about the mess.”

“Were you playing dishwasher, too?”

“Not exactly.” It was impossible not to smile back, to ignore the quick pull of attraction.