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here and there, she didn’t really want to gain twenty or thirty. She set the basket down on the wooden bench next to the front door. A pair of men’s work boots was tucked neatly beneath the bench. For a moment, she wished she had brought a pen and piece of paper to write a note then realized how unnecessary that was. Who else would be leaving a basket of muffins by the door? A secret admirer?
    She returned to the house, trying to ignore the stinging sensation in her chest. Why did she care whether his girlfriend was over? Or that he even had a girlfriend? It certainly wasn't forbidden in his employment contract.
    You’re just jealous. Someone on your property is having sex and it’s not you.
    She had never invited a man up here for the weekend. Oh, David had been angling for an invitation lately. David Cook owned several high-profile restaurants in the city, as well as one in the Atlantis resort in the Bahamas. David and Rye were friends, and it was Rye who had fixed the two of them up on a few dates way back before the accident. The relationship hadn't really gone anywhere. Phlox always suspected that David's interest in her had been mostly a favor to her big brother. Like Rye, David dated mostly models—and Phlox couldn't compete with that. Then the accident happened and David more or less dropped off the face of the earth, where Phlox was concerned anyway.
    Not that she had expected him to visit her in the hospital or bring over a casserole, but flowers maybe? Or a card? Complete strangers had sent her those.
    About a month ago, however, David had begun calling her again. Rye was dropping none-too-subtle hints, as well. David Cook was a nice enough guy and a good date for a fun night out in the city, but it had occurred to Phlox that he was interested again only because she was prettier now.
    A certain segment of the male population had always ignored her before. Even with an impressive rack and a healthy bank account, she hadn't been beautiful enough. David hadn't been terribly interested in her back then, and now he was. The only thing that had changed was her face. That bothered her. Prior to the accident, she would have laughed that off — who cares as long as they're interested?
    But she did care.
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    J ared bit into one of the muffins, his tongue curling around a chunk of sweet peach. They were good. Really good. He poured himself a glass of milk and ate two more. He’d call it dinner.
    That was nice of her to leave him a basket of treats. He hoped she wouldn’t try and tip him when she left. That was always awkward and honestly Jared didn’t want any more face-to-face contact with her, even though her face was exceedingly lovely and he could easily conjure up how soft and clean-smelling she’d been in his arms yesterday, how soft her skin was beneath his hands. He didn’t like making others uncomfortable and so he tried mightily to avoid it. Not to mention it was better not to torment himself with beautiful women. Or any women really, beautiful or not. Better to not even open up that door when he couldn’t have one anyway.
    The baskets began appearing twice a day. There were muffins mid-morning—blueberry, raspberry, banana-walnut. Late afternoon, he’d return to the cottage to find cookies or pound cake, once even a peach pie. She was an excellent baker, that was for sure, and Jared was beginning to feel a little spoiled. Not spoiled enough to go thank her, though. That was the polite thing to do, naturally, but Jared preferred to wait her out. The weekend was drawing near and she'd probably leave then. Surely Miss Brisk Efficient would have notified him if someone was planning a long stay.
    There was only problem with that plan. She was probably going to come looking for the baskets before she closed up the house and left. Jared had a key to the main house, of course, and could return them when she was gone. But she might not realize that. She would be the good guest and return everything to