"Is this okay?" Alex asked, stopping on one of the endless talk shows.

"Sure," she answered. "Do you want something to drink?"

Another safe six words. But it would be even safer in here if he could get her away from him for a minute. Maybe when she was gone, he'd move over to the chair. That would be okay. Sort of casual.

And while he was over there, he'd remind himself a few hundred times that this was not a guy-girl event. This was a friend-friend event. Where one friend-that would be him-helped a beautiful, blond, perfectly bodied friend-that would be her-get through a really bad time. Maybe next time he did this, he'd bring Liz. Or Liz and Maria. He could use some chaperons.

Isabel stood up. He thought she would head into the kitchen. But she didn't. She just stood there, staring down at him. He stared back, trying to figure out what she was thinking from the expression on her face.

Then she was on his lap. He didn't know if he reached up and pulled her to him or if she flung herself into his arms. It didn't matter. She was there. And her lips were on his.

So maybe it really was an invitation, he thought. And then he couldn't think at all. He was totally caught up in the feel of her hands in his hair. Her breasts against his chest. Her tongue brushing his.

He was not going to survive this. He was going to combust. Burst into flames so hot, there would be nothing left of him but a pile of cinders.

He didn't care. All he cared about was getting even closer. He couldn't get close enough. Alex wrapped his hands around Isabel's waist and pulled her tighter against him. He thought he heard her give a little whimper of pleasure.

He reached up to stroke her cheek-and his fingers came away wet. His eyes snapped open. And the fire burning through him went out.

Isabel was crying. Tears streaked her face. Alex suddenly realized he could taste salt on his lips. Oh, God. She'd been crying her heart out, and he'd been so caught up in the feel of her mouth, of her body, he hadn't even noticed.

He was an idiot. A moron. Like that little whimper was Isabel getting all passionate because she was into the way Alex was touching her. Right.

"I'm sorry," Isabel mumbled, her voice husky.

"It's okay. It's fine." Alex wanted to jump up and run out of the house. But that's not what Isabel needed from him. She needed him to be there as a friend. She needed him to hold her as a friend.

Alex pulled Isabel's head down on his shoulder. He cradled her in his arms. "You should go ahead and cry. It's good to cry. My mom is always saying that. Try convincing a house full of guys that, though."

He kept talking, saying anything that sprang into his head, keeping his voice low and calm. Trying not to think about her arms around his neck, her body pressed against his.

"I'm so glad you're here," Isabel said, her voice muffled against his shirt.

Alex knew it wasn't true. He knew there was only one guy Isabel really wanted here with her. And it wasn't him.

"Dylan, do you know what the-" Michael stopped, censored himself. "Do you know what a kimbie is?" he yelled. He didn't know exactly where Dylan was, so Michael yelled loud enough that he could be heard anywhere in the entire house.

He hoped that little weasel Dylan hadn't snuck out. The Pascals had said he was supposed to be helping Michael with the baby-sitting. And he was going to be one very sorry junior high school rodent if he didn't answer Michael pretty fast.

Michael tried to spoon another bite of applesauce into the baby's mouth. Sarah, that was her name. After so many foster families it got a little hard to keep track.

Sarah let the applesauce slide into her mouth and spat it back out. Then she laughed. Michael actually had thought the move was kind of cute-the first time. Now that a jar of baby bananas, a jar of baby spinach, and half a jar of baby applesauce were decorating the kitchen, it was getting old. Very old.

"I want kimbie," Amanda screeched from the next room. Who knew a five-year-old girl who insisted on dressing up like a fairy princess every day could yell that loud? Maybe he should try telling her that fairy princesses had very, very soft voices.

"Dylan!" Michael roared. "Get in here now! If I have to come looking for you, it's not going to be pretty."

Dylan stuck his head into the kitchen, careful to stay out of Sarah's spitting range. "I'm doing my homework. This is my homework time according to the Pascals' Rascals rules."

Michael almost believed the kid was serious. Then he saw the little smirk pulling on Dylan's lips. "The Pascals aren't here right now," he shot back. "You're living under my rules. And I'm giving you a new homework assignment-find out what a kimbie is and give it to Amanda so she'll stop screaming her little head off. Then put her in her pajamas and put her to bed."

"How am I supposed to-" Dylan began.

"Just do it," Michael barked. Dylan disappeared.

I should tell the Pascals there are people you can hire to do this kind of thing, Michael thought. People called baby-sitters.

That gave him an idea. Maria seemed like the kind of girl who would get into baby-sitting. He reached for the phone and dialed. Maria answered on the second ring. He wasn't proud. He begged. And she said she'd come right over.

You can hold out for fifteen minutes until Maria gets here, he told himself. "And you, Sarah, you can get some food down your gullet in fifteen minutes," he muttered.

Michael used his sleeve to wipe some mushed banana off his forehead, then scooped up another spoonful of applesauce. Sarah giggled in anticipation. He tried to tune out the sound of Amanda's yelling as he brought the spoon up to Sarah's mouth. He ordered himself not to yell when the applesauce hit his forehead and started dripping into his eye.

When Maria walked through the door thirteen minutes later, there was one horrible moment when Michael was sure she was going to turn around and walk right back out.

But she didn't. First she told Dylan to get some crayons and paper and have Amanda draw a picture of the kimbie. It worked. They still didn't know what it was she wanted, but she was at least quiet and happy.

Then she dragged Michael into the kitchen to deal with Sarah. "Did any food actually make it down her throat, you think?" Maria asked. She reached up and twisted her hair into a ponytail. The gesture pulled her shirt tight against her body-and Michael flashed on Maria's dream.

That happened way too much lately. Maria would do some completely normal thing, and Michael would get slammed by the memory of that dream. He should never have gone into it. What he saw had totally messed up his head, turning his thoughts about Maria from G-okay, sometimes PG-to NC-17.

Like at lunch yesterday, she insisted that he and Alex eat at least one green thing. He reached over to take a celery stick from her, his hand brushed hers, he noticed her skin felt really soft. And suddenly he was wondering how it would feel to have those smooth hands of hers touching him everywhere.

"If you have to think that hard, I'd say the answer is no," Maria said.

"Uh, yeah. Right," Michael answered.

"We should probably wait and see if she feels hungry a little later. She's too hyped to eat right now," Maria decided. "I'll give her a bath. That should help relax her a little." She grabbed a dish towel and tossed it to Michael. "You can give the kitchen a bath."

Michael was glad to have something to do that would take his eyes off Maria for a while-even though he could still hear her splashing around in the kitchen sink, talking to the baby.

Why did she have to look so sexy in that dream? Cute. That's how Maria should look. It's how she'd always looked before. He remembered how annoyed she'd gotten when he used the cute word to describe her. She thought the word cute should only be used when you talked about kittens or something. He thought the way she got all ruffled up about it was… cute.