A little boy and a big black dog ran around a fenced yard with such joy and energy in the gallop she could almost feel the wind on her own cheeks, rushing through her hair. When the boy in his bright blue coat leaped up to stand on his swing, his fingers tight on the chains, the thrill of height and speed pitched into Layla’s belly.

Is his mother in the kitchen making dinner? she wondered dreamily. Or maybe it’s the dad’s turn to cook. Better, they’re cooking together, stirring, chopping, talking about their day while the little boy lifts his face to the wind and flies.

“Who knew washing dishes could be so sexy?”

She laughed, glanced over her shoulder at Fox. “Don’t think that’s going to convince me to repeat the favor.”

He stood where he was, a badly wrinkled dishcloth in his hand. “What?”

“Washing dishes is only sexy when you’re not the one with your hands in the soapy water.”

He came forward, put a hand on her arm. His eyes locked on hers. “I didn’t say that out loud.”

“I heard you.”

“Apparently, but I was thinking, not talking. I was distracted,” he continued when she took a step away from him, “by the way you looked, the way the light hit your hair, the line of your back, the curve of your arms. I was distracted,” he repeated. “And open. What were you, Layla? Don’t think, don’t analyze. Just tell me what you were feeling when you ‘heard’ me.”

“Relaxed. I was watching the little boy on the swing in the yard. I was relaxed.”

“Now you’re not.” He picked up a plate, began to dry it. “So we’ll wait until you are.”

“You can do that, with me? Hear what I’m thinking?”

“Emotions come easier than words. But I wouldn’t, unless you let me.”

“You can do it with anyone.”

He looked into her eyes. “But I wouldn’t.”

“Because you’re the kind of man who puts a dollar in a jar, even if no one’s around to hear you swear.”

“If I give my word, I keep my word.”

She washed another dish. The charm of sheets flapping in the wind, of a little boy and his big dog dissolved. “Did you always control it? Resist the temptation?”

“No. I was ten when I started tapping in. During the first Seven, it was scary, and I could barely keep a handle on it. But it helped. When it was over, that first time, I figured it would be gone.”

“It wasn’t.”

“No. It was very cool to be ten and be able to sense what people were thinking, or feeling. It was big, and not just in the wow, I’ve got a superpower kind of thing. It was big because maybe I wanted to ace a history test, and the smartest kid in history was right there in the next row. Why not reach in, get the answers?”

Since he was drying dishes, he decided to take the extra step and actually put them away. She’d be calmer if they continued with the chore, if all hands were busy. “After a few times, a few aces, I started feeling guilty about it. And weird because I might take a peek into a random teacher’s head to see what they were planning to toss at us. And I’d get stuff I shouldn’t have known about. Problems at home, that kind of thing. I was raised to respect privacy, and I was invading it right and left. So I stopped.” He smiled a little. “Mostly.”

“It helps that you’re not perfect.”

“It took time to figure out how to deal. Sometimes if I wasn’t paying enough attention, things would slip through-sometimes if I was paying too much attention, ditto. And sometimes it was deliberate. There were a couple of events with this asshole who liked to razz me. And… when I got a little older, there was the girl thing. Take a quick sweep through and maybe I’d see if I had a shot at getting her shirt off.”

“Did it work?”

He only smiled, and slid a plate into its cabinet. “Then a couple weeks before we turned seventeen, things started happening again. I knew-we knew-it wasn’t finished after all. It came home to me that what I had wasn’t something to play around with. I stopped.”

“Mostly?”

“Almost entirely. It’s there, Layla, it’s part of us. I can’t control the fact that I might get a sense from someone. I can control pushing in, pulling out more.”

“That’s what I have to learn.”

“And you may have to learn to push. If it comes down to someone’s privacy or their life, or the lives of others, you have to push in.”

“But how do you know when-when, if, who?”

“We’ll work on it.”

“I’m not relaxed around you, most of the time.”

“I’ve noticed. Why is that?”

She turned away to get more dishes, then slid a bowl into the sink. The little boy had gone inside, she noted. In to eat dinner. His dog curled on the porch by the back door and slept off playtime.

“Because I’m aware you can, or could, sense what I think or feel. Or I worry that you can, so it makes me nervous. But you don’t, because you hold back, or because I’m nervous enough to stop you. Maybe both. You didn’t know what I was thinking, or feeling earlier today when you kissed me.”

“My circuits were crossed at the time.”

“We’re attracted to each other. Would that be an accurate reading?”

“It’s dead-on from my end.”

“And that makes me nervous. It’s also confusing, because I don’t know how much we’re picking up from each other, how much is just basic chemistry.” Layla rinsed the bowl, passed it to Fox. “I don’t know if this is something we should be dealing with, with everything else we have to worry about.”

“Let’s back up, just a little. Are you nervous because I’m attracted to you, or because we’re attracted to each other?”

“Door number two, and I don’t have to see inside your head when I can see by your face you like that idea.”

“Best damn idea I’ve heard in weeks. Possibly years.”

She planted a wet, soapy hand on his shirt as he started to lean in. “I can’t relax if I’m thinking about going to bed with you. The idea of sex generally stirs me up.”

“We could relax later. In fact, I can guarantee we’ll be a lot more relaxed later if we finish the stirring-up part first.”

She not only left her hand planted, but nudged him a full step back with it. “No doubt. But I compartmentalize things. It’s how I’m built, it’s how I work. This, between us, I have to put it in another compartment for a while. I have to think about it, worry about it, wonder about it. If I’m going to learn from you, if I’m going to help end what wants to end us, I need to focus on that.”

His expression sober and attentive, he nodded. “I like to juggle.”

“I know.”

“And I like to negotiate. And.” He dried her hand, then brought it to his lips. “I know when to let the opposing party consider all the options. I want you. Naked. In bed, in a room filled with shadows and quiet music. I want to feel your heart pound against my hand while I do things to you. So put that in your compartment, Layla.”

He tossed aside his dishcloth as she stared at him. “I’m going to go get your wine. It should help you relax some before we get to work.”

She was still staring when he strolled out. She managed to press a hand to her heart, and yes, it was pounding.

Obviously, she had a lot to learn if he’d had that in him and she hadn’t sensed it.

It was going to take more than a glass of red wine to help her relax now.

SHE DRANK THE WINE; HE CLEARED OFF THE kitchen table. Then he poured her another glass. She didn’t say a word, and he gave her room for silence, room for her thoughts until he sat.

“Okay, do you know how to meditate?”

“I know the concept.” There was a thin edge of irritation in her tone. He didn’t mind it.

“You ought to sit down so we can get started. The thing about meditating,” he began when she joined him, “is most people can’t really reach that level where they turn their minds off, where there’s not something in there about work or their dentist appointment, the ache in their lower back. Whatever. But we can get close. Yoga breathing, using the breath. Closing your eyes, picturing a blank white wall-”