“You’re cooking?” She sounded shocked.

“New leaf, haven’t you heard?” I teased. “I mean, I did just mention it two seconds ago.”

“Kiss my butt,” she retorted, as she’d done since I was six and she was eight.

“Show it, I’ll kiss it,” I replied, as I’d done since she was eight and I was six.

“Whatever. If that stuff you’re making is good, then you’re making it for Alan, the kids, and me.”

“You’re on.”

“Awesome. Later, Mill.”

“Later, Dot. Love you.”

“Love you too, babe.”

She rang off.

I set my phone aside and picked up the platter with the seared beef and sautéed mushrooms.

I added it to the sauce.

I stirred.

I tipped it over the drained noodles and ate it with a delicious glass of red wine poured into one of my fabulous red wineglasses that I hadn’t pulled out in probably three years.

And it was divine.

*  *  *

“Holy crap, this is Dynasty except British with a better wardrobe and set in the early 1900s,” I whispered to the TV.

My kitchen was clean. My candles still burning. Only one lamp was lit, along with my gas fireplace, giving the room a warm, cozy glow.

And I was sitting, curled up on my couch, wineglass in hand, into my third episode of Downton Abbey.

Violet was a stitch.

And I was so organizing a party where people had to wear clothes from the early 1900s.

The costumes were amazing!

Violet had just drolly let out another humdinger and I was giggling at it when my doorbell rang.

I turned and looked over my shoulder toward the hall that led to the rest of my house, including my foyer.

It was late but I was not surprised my bell had sounded.

This happened. It happened when Dottie got fed up with Alan thinking that being a stay-at-home mom was a cushy job so he could come home, watch TV, scratch his crotch, and leave her on duty. She’d teach him by coming to my place, bitching, leaving him home on duty with the kids.

He’d learn.

Then he’d forget.

As was, according to Dottie, her lot since he was a man. They forgot stuff like that.

Repeatedly.

It also could be Justine, who worked but only part-time and her partner, Veronica, had a higher paying, higher stress, full-time job and Veronica felt the same way about Justine taking care of their son.

Thus she also had that lesson to teach, did it on occasion, Veronica learned and Veronica had a vagina but apparently she also had a short memory because she often forgot too.

Further, it could be Kellie, who did not have a partner (at the moment). However, she did have a life motto to have a good time all the time and even after all these years of shutting myself away, she never gave up. If she got a wild hair to try to drag me in to her good time, she swung around my place in an effort to do just that.

Or it could be Claire, my assistant, who was a serial dater and seemed surprised when the men in her life found out about the other men in her life and didn’t like it and then dumped her and broke her heart (ish). Claire also had a short memory since this happened frequently and she hadn’t learned to come clean early that none of her relationships were exclusive.

As I set my wine aside and got up, I was guessing Kellie or Claire. It was way too late for it to be Dottie or Justine. My niece and nephew were nine and four. Justine and Veronica’s little boy was eight months.

With the kids down, they’d totally be in bed by now doing one thing or the other.

I moved to the foyer, walked down it, and stared at my door, which was mostly a window covered in a beautiful sheer gathered at the top and bottom.

But I did this with my heart beginning to pump faster.

This was because the motion sensor light outside had lit and there was an unmistakable man’s body silhouetted through the sheer.

I didn’t stop moving toward the door, however, because I could not believe this.

It was past ten o’clock on a Monday night and he’d been a total asshole to me the last two times he’d seen me in a way I couldn’t decide which time was worse since they both were the worst.

And here he was.

Logan.

Standing at my front door!

No, I absolutely did not stop moving.

I was too angry for that.

I went right to the door, unlocked it, and hauled it open.

I instantly looked up at him and demanded, “Are you serious?”

“Your door is a fuckin’ window,” he replied in an irate growl.

I blinked, my anger tamped down with confusion at his unexpected words.

“What?” I asked.

“Your door is a goddamned window,” he bit off.

“So?” I asked.

His head tipped to the side in an intimidating way. “So?”

“Yeah,” I snapped, back to angry, thus totally unintimidated. “So?”

“You know how easy it is to break into a house with a window in the goddamned front door?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. “But I’m certain you do,” I finished nastily.

“Yeah,” he clipped, leaning slightly toward me. “I do. It’s fuckin’ easy, which means this shit,” he threw a hand toward my open door, “is unsafe.”

“Are you telling me that you’ve shown up at my home after ten at night when you said you never wanted to see me again to tell me my front door is unsafe?” I asked incredulously.

“No,” he stated. “I came for another reason.”

Before I could ask what that was, he turned, bent, I got a view of his ass in his jeans I did not want because it was too good for words, then he straightened, hefting something up and turning back to me.

Dear Lord in heaven, he had that stupid crate.

Those crazy women who came to visit me gave him that stupid crate.

Damn it!

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said on an annoyed snap.

“Nope,” High replied, and pushed in, right in, doing it so I had no choice but to leap out of his way as he angled sideways to get him and the crate through the front door. And then, when he was through, he kept on walking.

“I did not ask you into my home,” I called after him as he stopped at the hall, looked right, looked left, then turned left, toward the living room.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he replied as he disappeared.

I made a frustrated noise, closed the door, and stomped after him.

By the time I hit the living room, he was standing in it, box at his feet and he was looking around.

I rounded him angrily, opening my mouth to tell him to get the fuck out, when his eyes cut to me and he spoke.

“Christ, you live on a movie set,” he noted with disgust.

“It’s pretty,” I snapped.

“It’s perfect,” he returned, like that was a bad thing.

“Yes, it is, utterly,” I agreed. “Now—”

“And what’s that smell?” He looked around and sniffed and I got even more annoyed because only Logan could sniff and do it looking manly and yummy. “It smells like flowers and onions.”

“Not onions,” I kept snapping. “Shallots,” I stated like any fool could tell the difference and his eyes came back to me. “And the flower smell is coming from my candles. Lavender. It’s soothing.”

“It’s sickening,” he replied.

“It... is... not,” I shot back indignantly.

“It fucking is,” he retorted.

“God!” I shouted, throwing out my hands. “Why are we talking about how my house smells?” I narrowed my eyes and swiftly kept speaking so he wouldn’t answer since I didn’t care about his answer. I cared about another answer. So I asked that question. “And why are you here?”

“Here to return this shit.” He toed the box with his boot but didn’t take his eyes off me. “And to warn you again to stop pullin’ this shit.”

“Then I’ll say again I’m not pulling any shit,” I declared.

“And I’ll repeat, I don’t believe you,” he stated.