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the kitchen, travel cup in one hand, his briefcase in the other, her heart sailed up into her throat. He looked exhausted and rumpled in a sexy way.
    He set his cup in the sink. Though she was probably inviting trouble, she asked, “How was work?”
    â€œLong, and unproductive,” he said, loosening his tie. “How was your day?”
    A civilized response? Whoa. She hadn’t expected that. “It was…good.”
    â€œI see you haven’t burned the house down. That’s promising.”
    So much for being civil.
    â€œI’m going to go change,” he said. “I trust dinner will be ready on time.”
    â€œOf course.” At least she hoped so. It had taken her a bit longer to assemble the chicken dish than she’d anticipated, so to save cooking time, she’d raised the oven heat by one hundred degrees.
    He gave her a dismissive nod, then left the room. She heard the heavy thud of his footsteps as he climbed the stairs. With any luck he wouldn’t look down.
    A minute passed, and she began to think that she was safe, then he thundered from the upstairs hallway, “Isabelle!”
    Shoot.
    It was still possible it wasn’t the rug he was upset about. Maybe he’d checked the guest room and saw that she hadn’t cleaned it yet. She walked to the stairs, climbing them slowly, her hopes plummeting when she reached the top and saw him standing with his arms folded, lips thinned, looking at the corner of the runner.
    â€œIs there something you need to tell me?” he asked.
    It figured that he would ignore all the things she had done right and focus in on the one thing she had done wrong. “The vacuum ate your rug.”
    â€œIt ate it?”
    â€œI had it on the wrong setting. I take full responsibility.” As if it could somehow not be her fault.
    â€œWhy didn’t you mention this when I asked how your day went?”
    â€œI forgot?”
    One dark brow rose. “Is that a question?”
    She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Okay, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
    â€œI notice everything. ”
    Apparently. “I’ll pay for the damage.”
    â€œHow?”
    Good question. “I’ll figure something out.”
    She expected him to push the issue, but he didn’t.
    â€œIs there anything else you’ve neglected to mention?”
    Nothing she hadn’t managed to fix, unless she counted the plastic container she’d melted in the microwave, but he would never notice that.
    She shook her head.
    Emilio studied her, as if he were sizing her up, and she felt herself withering under his scrutiny.
    â€œThat’s better,” he said.
    She blinked. “Better?”
    â€œThe uniform. It actually fits.”
    Did he just compliment her? Albeit in a backhanded, slightly rude way. But it was a start.
    â€œYou ate today?” he asked.
    â€œTwice.” For breakfast she’d made herself fried eggs swimming in butter with rye toast slathered in jam and for lunch she’d heated a can of clam chowder. It had been heavenly.
    He looked down at the rug again. “This will have to be rebound.”
    â€œI’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”
    â€œLet me know how much it will be and I’ll write a check.”
    â€œI’ll pay you back a soon as I can.” She wondered what the hourly wage was to make license plates.
    â€œYes, you will.” He turned and walked into his bedroom, shutting the door.
    Isabelle blew out a relieved breath. That hadn’t gonenearly as bad as she’d expected. With any hope, dinner would be a smashing success and he would be so pleased he would forget all about the rug.
    Though she had the sneaking suspicion that if it was the most amazing meal he’d ever tasted, he would complain on principle.
    Â 
    Dinner was a culinary catastrophe.
    She served him overcooked, leathery chicken in lumpy white sauce with a side of