He took another step back. He was now leaning against the metal hand railings that encased the small landing outside her door. He nodded. Shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. Seemed deep in thought. She could hear a few coins jiggling. She used to have spare cash lying around in her previous life. A huge old-fashioned metal milk bucket by the fireplace that she’d picked up at an antique store back home had been full of her spare change. It always amazed her how fast it accumulated. What she wouldn’t give to have access to that milk bucket now.

“Well,” he said, voice brusque. “Since you messed up and failed to stock my fridge—”

She felt her hackles rise but kept her mouth shut. Pointless to argue. Would just prolong the time before he returned to his house and she could lie down again. “I am now forced to leave the comfort of my home and go out for dinner. At this late hour, it would be impossible to find a dinner companion. Since I can’t tolerate eating in a restaurant alone, you’ll have to come with me.”

He wanted her to what? “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s okay,” he said, with an annoying smirk. “I forgive you. A rookie mistake. Tomorrow, though, I’d like to return home to a full fridge.” Irritating man. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . I know. Gotta leave cash. My, you’re such a miserly sort. I expect you’ll be wanting me to pay your hourly rate to accompany me to dinner?” He shook his head and rolled his eyes as if she was the one who suggested it.

“I said no such th—”

“Fine.” He threw up his hands. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Jones. Well, what are you waiting for? Go get your coat.”

“Coat?”

“Sweater, jacket, whatever it is you wear at night to keep the chill at bay—” His gaze jerked downward. “What the hell is that?”

Charlie poked his head around her legs to check things out.

“My cat.” Sarah had hoped to keep Charlie out of sight. “He’s really well trained.” He wasn’t. “Won’t claw the furniture or anything.” Except when he felt like it. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I hate cats.”

“I’ll keep him in the apartment. You’ll never know he’s here.”

“We’ll discuss it over dinner. Let’s go. Lock up the beast. I’m starving.”

11

Mick shut his menu and leaned back, slung his arms along the back of the leather-clad corner booth at The Palm. He glanced at Rachel, who was sitting stiffly opposite him. She hadn’t said a word on the ride over. Hadn’t cracked open a menu either. Stubborn. He crooked his fingers, and the waiter approached the table.

“Yes, Mr. Talford.” The waiter’s pad and pen were at the ready. “You’ve made a decision?” The waiter turned to Rachel. “What can I get you?”