“It’s in the trash.” He pretended to inspect a broken drawer handle, then eased away from the counter. “I’ll open the pantry whenever you want. Just don’t eat any of your crap around Temple.”

“My crap? You’re the one who thinks Frosted Flakes are antioxidants!”

She had that right. He jerked his head toward the refrigerator. “Help yourself to whatever’s there. We’ll be getting deliveries twice a week. The fruits and vegetables are coming later today.”

“I don’t want her lousy organic food. I want my own.”

He understood the feeling.

Overhead, the treadmill began to run. He told himself not to ask, but … “You don’t happen to have any of your bread stashed away someplace, do you?”

“A fresh loaf of cinnamon raisin where you can’t find it,” she retorted. “Eat your heart out. Oh, wait. You can’t. It’s not organic.”

She stomped outside and slammed the door behind her.

SHE’D LIED ABOUT THE BREAD. She also hadn’t slammed a door since she was fourteen. Both felt really good.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t brought her yellow pad with her, and she’d promised herself she’d write for real today. She wasn’t going back in through the kitchen, so she cut around behind the house and mounted the three steps that led to the deck outside her bedroom. She’d left the sliding doors open to catch the breeze. The screen caught in the track. She gave it an extra nudge and stepped inside.

Panda was already there.

“I want my bedroom back,” he said as he walked out of her closet, carrying a pair of sneakers that she happened to know were a size twelve.

“I rented this house for the summer,” she retorted. “That makes you the interloper, and I’m not leaving.”

He crossed to the dresser. “This is my room. You can sleep upstairs.”

And lose her private exit? No way. “I’m staying right here.”

He tugged open the drawer that used to contain his underwear, but now held hers. He reached inside and pulled out a midnight-black thong.

“Your things are in the bottom drawer,” she said quickly.

He ran his thumb over the silky crotch. As his eyes caught hers, she was hit with another of those jolts of sexual electricity that proved exactly how disconnected a woman’s body could be from her brain.

“Here’s the part I don’t get.” His big fist swallowed the thong. “Knowing the way you feel about me, why are you still here?”

“My attachment to your house overrides my complete indifference to you,” she said with remarkable steadiness.

“My house, not yours,” he retorted, his eyes on her right shoulder—she had no idea why. “And if you make one more change to it, you’re out, regardless of what Temple says.”