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sloppy, too,” Taylor commented pleasantly, tossing Woody his muscle shirt. “Thelma? Isn’t it time for your soap?”
    By way of an answer, Thelma took a swipe at Woody with her wet dishcloth and muttered, “Now see what you’ve done? And Rosemary is going to tell Vanessa that Rob isn’t her real father and that’s why the kidney has to come from Garth, who Vanessa thinks is her uncle! Stand back, T and A. I’m going to miss the best part!”
    “T and A?” Wood repeated, hopping down from the counter even as he picked up his full glass of Thelma’s potent iced tea. “That wouldn’t be what I think it is, would it?”
    “It doesn’t stand for tonsils and adenoids,” Taylor grumbled, then watched in amazement as Woodychugalugged the entire glass of iced tea without so much as pausing to grimace. “You like that stuff?”
    Woody shrugged. “What’s not to like? I don’t do sugar anymore. Bad for the system—upsets the hell out of the body’s natural balances and all that.” He frowned, then shrugged. “I think.” Then he picked up a knife and sliced himself a man-size hunk of brownie from the pan sitting on the counter.
    “What do you think is in brownies, Woody—rutabagas?” Taylor teased, finding it impossible not to like this handsome young specimen with the look of California beaches, the personality of Ronald McDonald and—seemingly—the brainpower of a fruit fly.
    Woody frowned at the half-eaten brownie. “Thelma said it was healthful.” He looked at Taylor, his innocent blue eyes round with astonishment. “Are you saying she lied to me?”
    Taylor held up her hands in mock horror. “Don’t get me involved in this, Woody,” she warned. “I have to work here, and I wouldn’t want to get on Thelma’s bad side.” Then she turned and left the kitchen, having forgotten why she had come upstairs in the first place. Probably to see if Holden’s bedroom door was open and ask what he was doing, and then say she was too busy to do it with him.
    Probably.
    But she had snapped back to her saner self now and should probably go for another run on the beach or something.
    Or take another cold shower.
    “Hey—are you really Holden’s private masseuse?” Woody asked, following her, dripping brownie crumbs like some overgrown puppy with a blue-blood pedigree and in need of training papers.
    “Masseuse?” Taylor stopped abruptly, her foot poised over the first step leading down to the living room, so that Woody cannoned into her, nearly sending the two of them flying down the stairs. She whirled around to look up at the young man. “He told you I was his private masseuse? And I’ll bet he snickered and winked as he said it, didn’t he? Why, I’ll kill the son of a—”
    “Whoa!” Woody interrupted, putting a hand against Taylor’s upper chest, holding her back from the mayhem she fully intended to inflict on Holden Masters’s superb body. “He didn’t say that—I did. Holden said you’re his physical and massage therapist. But I thought all therapists had hands like steak platters and names like Bruno or Helga. You’re way too pretty to be a therapist. Great legs, you know. And the rest of you isn’t too bad, either. Although I guess you are too old for me.”
    “Centuries too old for you, Woody.” Taylor who had just turned twenty-seven, a mere four years older than Woodstock LeGrand, relaxed, wondering whyshe had gotten so angry so quickly in the first place. She had heard all the “personal masseuse” jokes years ago and had learned to ignore them.
    But there was just something about thinking that Holden Masters had made a joke at her expense that—well, she’d just forget it. “Whole centuries, Woody, but thanks for that remark about my legs—and the rest of me,” she added, then turned around again to go down the stairs and find a good book to read before dinner.
    “You’re welcome,” Woody answered affably, then did his puppy imitation again, gaily padding after