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this if Mike found out?
    Still, Lock couldn’t leave until he was certain she’d recovered enough to manage on her own. A hot meal ought to help. He owed her that much for invading her privacy in the first place. And he wanted the satisfaction of knowing she no longer ranked him as a creep.
    As for his earlier impression that they had connected on some spiritual level, in retrospect it seemed misguided. They might share a cynical attitude about relationships with the opposite sex, but as the door opened on a cozy apartment stuffed with cushy furniture, Tiffany-style lamps and framed photographs of butterflies, Lock had to admit the resemblance didn’t extend to decorating choices. The only thing he’d stuck on his bedroom wall was a dartboard, and if the house he and Mike rented hadn’t come furnished, he’d be sleeping on an inflatable mattress.
    “Nice stuff,” he said, following her inside. She’d made the most of the modest living room, tucking a round table into one corner and filling part of a wall with an antique-style mirror that made the place look bigger.
    “I’m the queen of thrift store shopping,” Erica informed him as she untied her shoes. Lock set his next to hers on a small mat and tossed his jacket over the back of a chair.
    On the counter that divided the living room from the compact kitchen, he caught sight of a cake box. “By the way, happy birthday.”
    She regarded him suspiciously. “How did you know it’s my birthday?”
    Oops. “I just assumed that was a birthday cake.” But with the lid shut, there was no way he could have known.
    “Don’t lie to me. I hate that.” Erica folded her arms. The movement pushed her breasts into prominence, as if Lock hadn’t been keenly aware of them already. “You’ve been snooping.”
    No sense hiding a fact that was sure to surface sooner or later. “I work with someone you know. Patty Denny.”
    She took a moment to place the name. “Oh. Alec’s wife. Why didn’t you say so?”
    “I’m in the habit of keeping things to myself.” When this explanation failed to soften her expression, he added, “You can ask Patty all about me, if you’re curious.” Still, Lock hoped she wouldn’t, because that was likely to lead to Mike finding out that he’d visited Erica’s apartment.
    He should leave. And would, as soon as they ate.
    In the kitchen, Erica opened a cabinet. “I’ve got pasta and tomato sauce. Or we could send out for pizza.”
    “It’s your birthday. You deserve a home-cooked meal.” Lock nearly added, “And you eat way too much fast food.” Instead, he peered into the refrigerator. “Cream cheese and white wine. I can do something with that.”
    At his request, Erica took out cooking oil and salt. As she handed them to him, her smooth fingers crossed his roughened ones, setting off a spark of electricity.
    She gave a little jump. “Ow.”
    “Didn’t really hurt.”
    “It startled me.” As he reached past her, she backed out of range. Still nervous or unusually self-protective. Or both.
    “Where are your cooking pots?” Lock asked.
    “In here somewhere. Help yourself.”
    As she moved aside, he began opening cabinets, and discovered a wealth of high quality pots and pans that gleamed like new. “You can’t tell me you bought these at a thrift store.”
    “Wedding presents,” she said. “My friends greatly overestimated my interest in cooking.”
    He ran water into a large pot for pasta. “Your ex-husband wasn’t domestic, I gather.”
    “That depends on your definition of domestic. He had a great appreciation for beds. Unfortunately, most of them belonged to other women,” Erica said.
    “You’ve skewered him with a clean thrust. Neatly done.” After setting the water to boil, Lock checked the fridge again. The freezer yielded a bag of broccoli and cauliflower, which he put into another pot. While he might exist mostly on chips and takeout himself, Lock enjoyed cooking on occasion. And he considered this