"What's this level'?"
"Evening sex and kitchen dinners."
"You seemed to handle the sex better than the meal."
"You're exactly right. Because I don't know what you expect from me now, and I'm not entirely sure what I expect from you."
"And this is your equivalent of tossing ingredients in a pot."
She huffed out a breath. "Apparently you understand me better than I do you."
"I'm not that complicated."
"Oh, please. You're a maze, Logan." She leaned forward until she could see the gold flecks on the green of his eyes. "A goddamn maze without any geometric pattern. Professionally, you're one of the most creative, versatile, and knowledgeable landscape designers I've ever worked with, but you do half of your designing and scheduling on the fly, with little scraps of papers stuffed into your truck or your pockets."
He scooped up more rice. "It works for me."
"Apparently, but it shouldn't work for anyone. You thrive in chaos, which this house clearly illustrates. Nobody should thrive in chaos."
"Now wait a minute." This time he gestured with his fork. "Where's the chaos? There's barely a frigging thing in the place."
"Exactly!" She jabbed a finger at him. "You've got a wonderful kitchen, a comfortable and stylish bedroom—"
"Stylish?" Mortification, clear as glass, covered his face. "Jesus."
"And empty rooms. You should be tearing your hair out wondering what you're going to do with them, but you're not. You just—just—" She waved her hand in circles. "Mosey along."
"I've never moseyed in my life. Amble sometimes," he decided. "But I never mosey."
"Whatever. You know wine and you read comic books. What kind of sense does that make?"
"Makes plenty if you consider I like wine and comic books."
"You were married, and apparently committed enough to move away from your home."
"What's the-damn point in getting married if you're not ready and willing to do what makes the other person happy? Or at least try."
"You loved her," Stella said with a nod. "Yet you walked away from a divorce unscarred. It was broken, too bad, so you ended it. You're rude and abrupt one minute, and accommodating the next. You knew why I'd come here tonight, yet you went to the trouble to fix a meal—which was considerate and, and civilized—there, put that in the C column."
"Christ, Red, you kill me. I'd move on to D, and say you're delicious, but right now it's more like demented."
Despite the fact he was laughing, she was wound up and couldn't stop. "And we have incredible, blow-the-damn-roof-off sex, then you bounce out of bed as if we'd been doing this every night for
years. I can't keep up."
Once he decided she'd finished, he picked up his wine, drank thoughtfully. "Let's see if I can work my way back through that. Though I've got to tell you, I didn't detect any geometric pattern."
"Oh, shut up."
His hand clamped over hers before she could shove back from the table. "No, you just sit still. It's my turn. If I didn't work the way I do? I wouldn't be able to do what I do, and I sure as hell wouldn't love it. I found that out up north. My marriage was a failure. Nobody likes to fail, but nobody gets through life without screwing up. We screwed it up, didn't hurt anybody but ourselves. We took our lumps and moved on."
"But—"
"Hush. If I'm rude and abrupt it's because I feel rude and abrupt. If I'm accommodating, it's because
I want to be, or figure I have to be at some point."
He thought, What the hell, and topped off his wine. She'd barely touched hers. "What was next? Oh, yeah, you being here tonight. Yeah, I knew why. We're not teenagers, and you're a pretty straightforward woman, in your way. I wanted you, and made that clear. You wouldn't come knocking on my door unless you were ready. As for the meal, there are a couple of reasons for that. One, I like to eat. And two, I wanted you here. I wanted to be with you here, like this. Before, after, in between. However it worked out."
Somewhere, somehow, during his discourse, her temper had ebbed. "How do you make it all sound sane?"
"I'm not done. While I'm going to agree with your take on the sex, I object to the word 'bounce.' I don't bounce anymore than I mosey. I got out of bed because if I'd breathed you in much longer, I'd have asked you to stay. You can't, you won't. And the fact is, I don't know that I'm ready for you to stay anyway. If you're the sort who needs a lot of postcoital chat, like 'Baby, that was amazing'—"
"I'm not." There was something in his aggravated tone that made her lips twitch. "I can judge for myself, and I destroyed you up there."
His hand slid up to her wrist, back down to her fingers. "Any destruction was mutual."
"All right. Mutual destruction. The first time with a man, and I think this holds true for most women, is
as nerve-racking as it is exciting. It's more so afterward if what happened between them touched something in her. You touched something in me, and it scares me."
"Straightforward," he commented.
"Straightforward, to your maze. It's a difficult combination. Gives us a lot to think about. I'm sorry
I made an issue out of all of this."
"Red, you were born to make issues out of every damn thing. It's kind of interesting now that I'm getting used to it."
"That may be true, and I could say that the fact your drummer certainly bangs a different tune's fairly interesting, too. But right now, I'm going to help you clean up your kitchen. Then I have to get home."
He rose when she did, then simply took her shoulders and backed her into the refrigerator. He kissed her blind and deaf—pent-up temper, needs, frustration, longings all boiled together.
"Something else to think about," he said.
"I'll say."
* * *
Roz didn't pry into other people's business. She didn't mind hearing about it when gossip came her way, but she didn't pry. She didn't like—more she didn't permit—others to meddle in her life, and afforded them the same courtesy.
So she didn't ask Stella any questions. She thought of plenty, but she didn't ask them.
She observed.
Her manager conducted business with her usual calm efficiency. Roz imagined Stella could be standing
in the whirling funnel of a tornado and would still be able to conduct business efficiently.
An admirable and somewhat terrifying trait.
She'd grown very fond of Stella, and she'd come— unquestionably—to depend on her to handle the details of the business so she herself could focus on the duties, and pleasures, of being the grower. She adored the children. It was impossible for her not to. They were charming and bright, sly and noisy, entertaining and exhausting.
Already, she was so used to them, and Stella and Hayley, being in her house she could hardly imagine them not being there.
But she didn't pry, even when Stella came home from her evening at Logan's with the unmistakable
look of a woman who'd been well pleasured.
But she didn't hush Hayley, or brush her aside when the girl chattered about it.
"She won't get specific," Hayley complained while she and Roz weeded a bed at Harper House. "I really like it when people get specific. But she said he cooked for her. I always figure when a man cooks, he's either trying to get you between the sheets, or he's stuck on you."
"Maybe he's just hungry."
"A man's hungry, he sends out for pizza. At least the guys I've known. I think he's stuck on her." She waited, the pause obviously designed for Roz to comment. When there was none, Hayley blew out a breath. "Well? You've known him a long time."
"A few years. I can't tell you what's in his mind. But I can tell you he's never cooked for me."
"Was his wife a real bitch?"
"I couldn't say. I didn't know her."
"I'd like it if she was. A real stone bitch who tore him apart and left him all wounded and resentful of women. Then Stella comes along and gets him all messed up in the head even as she heals him."
Roz sat back on her heels and smiled. "You're awfully young, honey."
"You don't have to be young to like romance. Um ... your second husband, he was terrible, wasn't he?"
"He was—is—a liar, a cheat, and a thief. Other than that he's charming."
"Did he break your heart?"
"No. He bruised my pride and pissed me off. Which was worse, in my opinion. That's yesterday's news, Hayley. I'm going to plug some silene armeria in these pockets," she continued. 'They've got a long blooming season, and they'll fill in nice here."
"I'm sorry."
"No need to be sorry."
"It's just that this woman was in this morning, Mrs. Peebles?"
"Oh, yes, Roseanne." After studying the space, Roz picked up her trowel and began to turn the earth in the front of the mixed bed. "Did she actually buy anything?"
"She dithered around for an hour, said she'd come back."
"Typical. What did she want? It wouldn't have been plants."
"I clued in there. She's the nosy sort, and not the kind with what you'd call a benign curiosity. Just
comes in for gossip—to spread it or to harvest it. You see her kind most everywhere."
"I suppose you do."
"So, well. She'd gotten word I was living here, and was a family connection, so she was pumping me.
I don't pump so easy, but I let her keep at it."
Roz grinned under the brim of her cap as she reached for a plant. "Good for you."
"I figured what she really wanted was for me to pass on to you the news that Bryce Clerk is back in Memphis."
A jerk of her fingers broke off part of the stem. "Is he?" Roz said, very quietly.
"He's living at the Peabody for now and has some sort of venture in the works. She was vague about
that. She says he plans to move back permanent, and he's taking office space. Said he looked very prosperous."
"Likely he hosed some other brainless woman."
"You aren't brainless, Roz."
"I was, briefly. Well, it's no matter to me where he is or what he's doing. I don't get burned twice by
the same crooked match."
She set the plant, then reached for another. "Common name for these is none-so-pretty. Feel these sticky patches on the stems? They catch flies. Shows that something that looks attractive can be dangerous, or at least a big pain in the ass."
* * *
She buried it as she cleaned up. She wasn't con-cerned with a scoundrel she'd once been foolish enough to marry. A woman was entitled to a few mistakes along the way, even if she made them out of loneliness or foolishness, or—screw it—vanity.
Entitled, Roz thought, as long as she corrected the mistakes and didn't repeat them.
She put on a fresh shirt, skimmed her fingers through her damp hair as she studied herself in the mirror. She could still look good, damn good, if she worked at it. If she wanted a man, she could have one—and not because he assumed she was dim-witted and had a depthless well of money to draw from. Maybe what had happened with Bryce had shaken her confidence and self-esteem for a little while, but she
was all right now. Better than all right.
She hadn't needed a man to fill in the pockets of her life before he'd come along. She didn't need one now. Things were back the way she liked them. Her kids were happy and productive, her business was thriving, her home was secure. She had friends she enjoyed and acquaintances she tolerated.
And right now, she had the added interest of researching her family ghost.
Giving her hair another quick rub, she went downstairs to join the rest of the crew in the library. She heard the knock as she came to the base of the stairs, and detoured to the door.
"Logan, what a nice surprise."
"Hayley didn't tell you I was coming?"
"No, but that doesn't matter. Come on in."
"I ran into her at the nursery today, and she asked if I'd come by tonight, give y'all a hand with your research and brainstorming. I had a hard time resisting the idea of being a ghostbuster."
"I see." And she did. "I'd best warn you that our Hayley's got a romantic bent and she currently sees
you as Rochester to Stella's Jane Eyre."
"Oh. Uh-oh."
She only smiled. "Jane's still with the boys, getting them settled down for the night. Why don't you go
on up to the West wing? Just follow the noise. You can let her know we'll entertain ourselves until she comes down."
She walked away before he could agree or protest.
She didn't pry into other people's business. But that didn't mean she didn't sow the occasional seeds.
Logan stood where he was for a moment, tapping his fingers on the side of his leg. He was still tapping them as he started up the stairs.
Roz was right about the noise. He heard the laughter and squeals, the stomping feet before he'd hit the top. Following it, he strolled down the hall, then paused in the open doorway.
It was obviously a room occupied by boys. And though it was certainly tidier than his had been at those tender ages, it wasn't static or regimented. A few toys were scattered on the floor, books and other
