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an occasion.
    “You could use the microwave,” Erica said from the corner where she’d retreated.
    “Microwaved vegetables turn out rubbery,” he retorted.
    “Aren’t they supposed to be rubbery?”
    “Not on my watch.” Lock located chicken broth, nutmeg, cayenne and flour for thickening. He could combine these with the cream cheese and wine to make a light version of Alfredo sauce.
    Erica slid by him, her soft curves brushing Lock’s side, and circled the far end of the counter. Even though she’d barely touched him, his body hardened instinctively. Thank goodness he was turned away.
    “You ever been married?” She slid onto one of the stools and sat watching him.
    “Never came close.” He knew himself too well to allow a relationship to pass the point of no return. “Had a few girlfriends, but they were smart enough to figure out I’m basically a loner.” And if they didn’t, I was out the door before they could spring the trap.
    “Then you’ll appreciate that I am, too,” Erica said.
    He dismissed as condescending the glib response that popped up, that she was too pretty to be a loner. Erica deserved better. “Guess that gives us something in common.”
    “Aside from jogging and knowing Patty Denny.”
    “And living in Safe Harbor, California.”
    “Wow, we must be twins separated at birth,” she said.
    “No doubt.” Despite the light exchange, it crossed Lock’s mind that if Erica hadn’t come from Boston, her remark might have hit close to the truth. One of the problems with being adopted and knowing nothing about your biological family was that you couldn’t be sure who you were related to.
    Someday he ought to finish the inquiries he’d started into the identity of his birth mother. She most likely lived somewhere around here. That prospect had bugged Lock ever since Mike proposed his moving back here and buying a half interest in the agency.
    Yet meeting her would mean confronting some very unpleasant issues. And possibly unleashing more anger than he was ready to deal with.
    Lock was mixing the flour with the liquids when he remembered another ingredient for his dish. “Got Parmesan?”
    “Up there.” Erica pointed to a cupboard on his right.
    “I was hoping for fresh,” he admitted as he fetched it.
    “Picky, picky.”
    “Most women admire my taste.”
    “Most women obviously let you get away with far too much.” With lips parted, Erica awaited his response. Her mouth would fit beautifully against his, Lock noted. If he leaned across the counter, she might tense for a moment, but then…
    Cut that out.
    “Plates?” he asked, and answered his own question by opening another cupboard. While the matched service for four might also have come from her wedding, a few chips testified that it had seen plenty of use. “Butterflies. Do I sense a theme?”
    “They’ve always appealed to me. I’m not sure why.” From a drawer on her side of the counter, Erica produced silverware and paper napkins. “I suppose I should have outgrown them, now that I’m thirty-one.”
    “Such an advanced age,” Lock murmured.
    “I keep hoping I’ve at least matured enough not to make any more stupid choices, like marrying my ex.”
    “I wish I could say I haven’t made any stupid mistakes since I turned thirty-one, or thirty-five, for that matter.” Setting down the plates, Lock stirred the spaghetti into boiling water.
    “Any tips on aging gracefully?” Erica teased.
    “Don’t pick up girls in parks. But then, who wants to age gracefully?”
    She laughed. “It’s a good thing I don’t want kids, or I suppose I’d be hearing the tick-tick-tick of my biological clock.”
    “Most women seem to.” He’d always shied away from women who expressed a desire to become mothers. Then last summer in Flagstaff he’d enjoyed coaching a softball team of underprivileged kids, many of whom lacked fathers. Lock supposed that someday he might enjoy the parenting experience. Not anytime soon,