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him and the bag. “No ice cream,” she told him as she
reached inside to retrieve a blueberry candle, its holder and a box
of kitchen matches. Mac quietly observed her every move, the heat
from his body burning through the thin layers of her clothing. She
managed not to squirm beneath his intense gaze or to bump his bare
chest with her elbow—though it was mighty tempting to do just that.
The man had an awesome chest. She arranged the candle in its holder
and then lit it. After dropping the matches back into the bag, she
pulled out a small package of chamomile tea.
    “It’ll help you relax,” she told him when he
made a disparaging sound at the back of his throat. Frowning, he
studied the box. “Lot’s of people drink it,” she offered when his
frown deepened. “And the fruit-scented candle is relaxing as
well.”
    “You think I need to relax?” That intent
study focused on her face now.
    She shifted nervously and searched her brain
for an excuse that wasn’t quite a lie or too telling. “Stress gets
to all of us at one time or another. Look, after what happened
yesterday and in the garage today, I thought you could use a little
comfort food.” She sucked in a much needed gulp of air and
congratulated herself on the quick thinking.
    His scowl softened a bit as he rubbed his
right temple. “You do pack a wallop.”
    “My point exactly.” Free skirted the table to
make her way to the antique gas stove. She shook the copper kettle
to see that it contained enough water before she set the flame to
low beneath it. With slow, deliberate steps, Mac joined her at the
stove.
    “I mean, if a guy works hard all day, he
should be able to relax at night,” she added, her voice rising to
meet her heart rate. She was rambling.
    “Wouldn’t a shot of bourbon accomplish the
same thing without all the fuss?”
    Unnerved by his nearness, she moved to the
opposite counter and reached for the cupboard to the right and
above the sink, where Mrs. Lassiter had always stored her cups and
glasses. “No, that wouldn’t be the same at all,” she said without
looking back at him. “Alcohol pollutes your body.” Free tightened
her grip on the old tarnished knob. Aware of the old door’s
tendency to stick, she yanked hard to open it at the same instant
Mac chose to lean against the counter beside her. The rough edge
smacked him square in the face. He grunted a colorful
expletive.
    Free winced in empathy, the cup she’d
automatically reached for clutched in her left hand. She bit her
lip as she slowly closed the door and looked at the man she’d just
whacked once more. His eyes were closed and both hands covered his
nose. How could she have clobbered him again?
    “I am so sorry,” she offered guiltily.
    “It’s okay,” he said, his voice muffed behind
his hands. He didn’t open his eyes and Free had a bad feeling that
she had really hurt him this time. Maybe she had broken his nose.
There wasn’t any blood, but she didn’t know if that meant anything.
Could you break a man’s nose without shedding blood?
    She touched his hand softly. “Would you like
me to—”
    “No!” he cut her off. His eyes snapped open
and he held up one hand to halt any further assistance from her.
“No. I’m fine.”
    His sharp tone hit an already exposed nerve.
“I said I’m sorry,” she groused. “You don’t have to get all bent
out of shape. It’s not like I meant to break your nose or
anything.”
    He gingerly traced the bridge of his nose
with his thumb and index finger. “I’m beginning to think the
competition hired you to do me in.”
    “Can I help it if you keep getting in my
way?”
    Mac aimed a look of annoyed disbelief at her.
“In the future, remind me to stay out of your way.”
    Free’s gaze suddenly locked on the cup she
held in a death grip. White bone china with a rose pattern and gold
trim…Mrs. Lassiter’s china. She frowned, then surveyed the room as
a whole for the first time. Everything was just the same.