“I owned an advertising agency.”

“That’s the business you lost?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

She suddenly smiled. “Did you wear your hair that long when you were a businessman?”

“No, believe it or not, I used to look respectable. Short hair, clean-shaven, Armani suits, and Brooks Brothers button-downs, heavy on the starch. You kind of let things go when you’re on the road.”

“It works, though. I think it’s rather rugged-looking. You look like one of those guys on the covers of the paperback romances we sell at the store.”

“You’re saying I look like Fabio?”

She cocked her head with a wide grin. “Maybe a little. You’re not Italian. And you’re not as buff.”

“I’m not as buff as Fabio?”

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re in good shape, but just not …”

“I know. Fabio buff.”

She smiled wryly. “Sorry.”

“So I’m not Fabio,” I said. “But I can do two things he can’t.”

She leaned forward. “Do tell.”

“First, I can use words with more than one syllable. And second,” I said, pausing for dramatic impact, “I do dishes.”

She gasped. “Wow. That is hot. I think you just edged out Fabio.”

“I thought so,” I said.

“Really? You do dishes?”

“Yes, I do. Come on,” I said, standing. “Let’s get them done.”

She stood. “You really don’t have to help.”

“Oh, good, because for a second there I thought you had a gun to my head and were making me do the dishes. Since you don’t, I’ll just go read or something while the exhausted, full-time working mother of two children who made the incredible dinner and invited me to stay in her home cleans up after me. Yes, I’ll feel really good about that.”

Analise laughed. “All right, you made your point. You wash, I’ll dry and put away.”

We carried our dishes to the kitchen, then, as she filled the sink with hot water, I cleared the rest of the table.

“What do you want to do with this?” I said, carrying in the half-full bowl of pasta.

“We’ll just put Saran over it and put it in the fridge. The wrap’s in that drawer right there, third down.”

I squatted down to the drawer. “Did you want to make a plate for your husband first?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What?”

“I thought maybe you would want to …” As I looked at her, I suddenly understood. I stood up, setting the bowl aside. “There is no husband …”

She didn’t answer at first. Then she said, “Of course I have a husband. There’s a picture of us in your room.”

“It’s an old picture.”

She didn’t say anything.

“What happened to him?”