He definitely wasn’t twelve on this particular level. Thank God some things did change.

It must’ve been the goofy smile on his face that had her cocking her head at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Just a little internal philosophy. Anything important on that call?”

“Not urgent. It was only regarding a partnership agreement-a couple of women writing a series of cook-books they believe are going to be bestsellers. Rachael Ray, step back, I’m told. They want to formalize their collaboration before they hit the big time. You have a busy schedule this week.”

“Then I should be able to afford Chinese for dinner, if you’re still up for it.”

“I just need to shut down for the day.”

“Go ahead. I’ll do the same. We can go up through the kitchen.”

In his office, Fox shut down his computer, shouldered his briefcase, then tried to remember exactly what state his apartment might be in.

Uh-oh. He realized he’d just hit another area at which he remained twelve.

Best not to think about it, he decided, since it was too late to do anything about it. Anyway, how bad could it be?

He walked into the kitchen where Mrs. Hawbaker kept the coffeemaker, the microwave, the dishes she’d deemed appropriate for serving clients. He knew she kept cookies in there, because he raided them routinely. And her vases, boxes of fancy teas.

Who’d stock cookies when Mrs. H deserted him? Wistfully, he turned when Layla came in.

“She buys the supplies with the proceeds from the F-word jar in my office. I tend to keep that pretty well funded. I guess she’s told you.”

“A dollar for every F-word, honor system. Since I’ve seen your jar, I’d say you’re pretty free with the F-word, and honorable about it.” He’s so sad, she thought, and it made her want to cuddle him, to stroke the messy, waving hair. “I know you’re going to miss her.”

“Maybe she’ll come back. Either way, life moves.” He opened the door to the stairway. “I might as well tell you since Mrs. H doesn’t deal with my apartment, and in fact, refuses to go up here since an unfortunate incident involving oversleeping and neglected laundry, it’s probably a mess.”

“I’ve seen messes before.”

But when she stepped up from the tidy office kitchen into Fox’s personal one, Layla understood she’d underestimated the definition of mess.

There were dishes in the sink, on the counter, and on the small table that was also covered with what appeared to be several days of newspapers. A couple boxes of cereal (did grown men actually eat Cocoa Puffs?), bags of chips, a bottle of red wine, some bottles of condiments, and an empty jug of Gatorade fought for position on the short counter beside a refrigerator all but wallpapered with sticky notes and snapshots.

There were three pairs of shoes on the floor, a battered jacket slung over one of the two kitchen chairs, and a stack of magazines towered on the other.

“Maybe you want to go away for an hour, or possibly a week, while I deal with this.”

“No. No. Is the rest this bad?”

“I don’t remember. I can go check before-”

But she was already stepping over shoes and into the living room.

It wasn’t as bad, he thought. Not really. Deciding to be proactive, he moved by her and began to grab up the debris. “I live like a pig, I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before.” He stuffed an armload of discarded clothes into the neglected hall closet.

Sheer bafflement covered her face, coated her voice. “Why don’t you hire a housekeeper, someone to come in once a week and deal with this?”

“Because they run away and never come back. Look, we’ll go out.” It wasn’t embarrassment-hey, his place-as much as fear of a lecture that had him snatching up an empty beer bottle and a nearly empty bowl of popcorn from the coffee table. “We’ll find a nice, sanitary restaurant.”

“I roomed with two girls in college. I had to call in the Hazmat team at the end of the semester.” She picked up a pair of socks from a chair before he could get there, then handed them to him. “But if there’s a clean glass I could use some of that wine.”

“I’ll put one in an autoclave.”

He grabbed more on his way back to the kitchen. Curious, Layla looked around the room, tried to see beyond the disarray. The walls were actually a very nice sagey shade of green, a warm tone that set off the wide oak trim around the windows. A gorgeous woven rug that might have been vacuumed sometime in the last decade spread across a wide-planked floor of deep, dark wood. The art on the walls was lovely-watercolors, pen-and-ink sketches, photographs. The room might’ve been dominated by a big, flat-screen TV, and a flurry of components, but there was some beautiful pottery.

His brother’s, she imagined, or his mother’s. He’d shown her his younger brother’s pottery business from the road once. She turned when she sensed Fox come in again.

“I love the art, and the pottery. This piece.” She trailed a finger along a long, slender bottle in dreamy shades of blue. “It’s so fluid.”

“My mother’s work. My brother, Ridge, did that bowl on the table under the window.”

She walked to it. “It’s gorgeous.” She traced the gentle curve of its lip. “And the colors, the shapes of them. It’s like a forest in a wide cup.”

She turned back to take the glass of wine. “How about the art?”

“My mother, my brother, my sister-in-law. The photographs are Sparrow’s, my younger sister.”

“A lot of talent in one family.”

“Then there are the lawyers, my older sister and me.”

“Practicing law doesn’t take talent?”

“It takes something.”:.Your father’s a carpenter, isn’t he?"

She sipped her wine. “Your father’s a carpenter, isn’t he?”

“Carpentry, cabinetmaking. He made the table Ridge’s bowl’s on.”

“Made the table.” Now she crouched to get a closer look. “Imagine that.”

“No nails, no screws. Tongue and groove. He’s got magic hands.”

She swiped a finger over the surface, through the dust. “The finish is like satin. Beautiful things.” Eyebrows lifted, she rubbed her finger clean on the sleeve of Fox’s shirt. “I’m forced to say you should take better care of them, and their environment.”

“You wouldn’t be the first. Why don’t I distract you with food?” He held out a paper menu. “Han Lee’s China Kitchen.”

“It’s a little early for dinner.”

“I’ll call ahead, tell them to deliver at seven. That way we can get some work done.”

“Sweet and sour pork,” she decided after a glance at the menu.

“That’s it?” he asked when she handed it back to him. “Pitiful. Sweet and sour pork. I’ll take care of the rest.”

He left her again to make the call. A few minutes later she heard the sound of water running, dishes clinking. Rolling her eyes, she walked into the kitchen where he was attacking the dishes.

“Okay.” Layla took off her jacket.

“No. Really.”

“Yes.” Rolled up her sleeves. “Really. One-time deal, since you’re buying dinner.”

“Should I apologize again?”

“Not this time.” Her eyebrows lifted. “No dishwasher?”

“See, that’s the problem. I keep thinking I should take out that bottom cabinet there, have one installed, but then I think, hey, it’s just me, and I use paper plates a lot.”

“Not often enough. Is there a clean dish towel somewhere?”

“Oh. Well.” He gave her a befuddled frown. “Be right back.”

Shaking her head, Layla stepped up to the sink he’d deserted and took over. She didn’t mind. It was a mindless chore, oddly relaxing and satisfying. Plus there was a nice view from the window over the sink, one that stretched out to the mountains where the sunlight sprinkled over the steely peaks.

The wind was still kicking at the trees, and it billowed the white sheets hanging on a line in the yard below. She imagined the sheets would smell like the wind and the mountains when they were tucked onto their bed.