But halfway down the stairs, she paused.
A light shone in the sunroom. Either Billy-the ass-hadn't been to bed, or he didn't care about wasting energy.
But then she noticed something else.
She sniffed. Then sniffed again.
Her house smelled sweet. Like sugar and chocolate and melted butter.
Like cookies.
She hit the bottom of the stairs and flipped on the light switch over the breakfast nook.
The glow was bright enough to filter into the kitchen, where her counters were spotless, the sink empty except for two cookie sheets in the drying rack. A plate of chocolate chip cookies sat on the table.
Lindsey's mouth watered.
Her family had never been big on cooking or nutrition, but despite the sugar and TV dinners she fed Noah when he came to visit, she couldn't eat anything she wanted anymore without feeling it in the fit of her clothes. So she'd been teaching herself to eat healthier, which meant branching out into learning to boil water and watching the occasional Food Network show. She'd mastered the art of oatmeal, and had she not worked late last night, she probably would've baked a chicken breast and put it over some leafy greens.
Cookies for breakfast-she shouldn't.
"They don't bite," Will said from the doorway to the sunroom.
For everything else he did loudly, the man could move quiet as a ghost. He padded into the breakfast nook, white socks on his bootless feet, and took a cookie. His sandy hair was mussed, and he'd ditched the overshirt in favor of only a white T-shirt that highlighted the slant of his shoulders and gave her a glimpse of solid biceps and forearms. His eyes sported evidence of an all-nighter, and he smelled like cotton and fresh-baked sugary goodness.
On his way to the fridge he took a big bite, as natural as if he'd been in her kitchen every day of his life, showing off jeans stretched across a squeezable ass. "Not poisoned either."
He grabbed the milk, then pulled two glasses out of the dishwasher and poured them full. "Eat up, lawyer lady. Don't want you getting hungry for any babies today."
He was the only man Lindsey had ever been susceptible to, and he was making it worse this morning.
She sat. Slowly, because now her kitchen smelled like both cookies and breakfast date.
There was sunshine in her kitchen even though the stars were still out.
There had been sunshine in her whole house since he'd stepped into it, even with all the god-awful sounds coming out of his guitar last night, even with the history swirling between them, and she couldn't deny it.
He put the milk before her, then offered her a cookie.
"Thank you," she said.
His eyes crinkled when he smiled. "Not a morning person?"
"I'm not a people person."
"Bet that cookie might could change your mind."
His grammar had both irritated her and endeared him to her fifteen years ago. Because the corners of his lips always tilted up whenever he said something that would've made Lindsey's grade school English teachers twitch. They still did, as if he knew he was abusing the English language, but he also knew where he came from, he liked talking that way and he didn't give a good gosh darn what prim and proper people thought.
She'd envied that. For all her talk of what she intended to do with her life, the big things she'd accomplish, how she'd go into politics and save the world, how she'd be so much bigger than a housewife in some Podunk town-he had something she didn't.
He had personality and talent and inherent charm. He'd been everything he needed to be so he could reach his dream and shoot past it, all the way to the edges of the galaxy.
She'd severely underestimated him then. Consciously.
Subconsciously, though, she had to have known. She'd wanted what he had-his easy grace, his comfort in his own skin, his simplicity.
He was simple. In the best way. He wanted something, and he went for it.
And despite the digs he'd aimed at her, after watching him everywhere else, after hearing her coworkers and friends and family talk about him, she suspected he hadn't sacrificed who he was to be what he was.
Whatever he wanted from Lindsey this morning, though, it could be neither simple nor easy.
She bit into the cookie.
The world may have gone a bit unfocused, and a moany whimper may have slipped through her lips. Butter and sugar and still-melted chocolate. Goodness and happiness and perfection to start her day.
Lindsey was in love.
With the cookie. Not with the man who made them.
The man who was watching her with amused interest, his gaze lazily focused on her while his lips tipped up in the corners beneath his whiskers.
She swallowed, resisted going Cookie Monster on the rest of the cookie and took a sip of milk instead.
"Like 'em?" Will said.
"They're okay."
He laughed softly. "You're a hard nut to crack."
"I know very few people who enjoy being cracked." But if he didn't quit using those sleepy eyes on her over his chocolate chip cookies, she'd be one of them.
"Notice you're not getting all objectionable over being a nut though."
She chose to let that comment pass. Because being objectionable would've required using her mouth for something other than eating his cookies.
Will slouched in the chair across from her, still watching her eat. His strong fingers wrapped around his milk glass, veins visible beside the bones of his hand, fingernails short and clean.
His hands had learned her body when they were younger. Learned her body and played her body. Like his eyes, they bore evidence of more experience. A scar on his index finger. Tanned skin. The lines in his knuckles more pronounced.
And he could use those hands for everything from playing his guitar to baking cookies to stroking a woman's most sensitive parts.
He'd undoubtedly be better now than he'd been then. And she'd had no complaints then.
His lids slid lower, as though he could hear her thoughts. See where her mind was going. That her body was fully onboard.
But they weren't there. They couldn't ever be there.
But perhaps-perhaps they could honestly be friends. This time. "I helped with a domestic violence divorce case a few years ago," she said. "Our client's daughter almost died. Your song-I don't like it."
He inclined his head. "My apologies. Won't play that one again."
"Thank you."
"You nail his ass?"
"The DA did. I helped her get out." She'd had nightmares off and on for months, but she'd kept that to herself. Because she hadn't lived the horror. She'd only seen pictures. She didn't have the right to complain about her cozy life.
She'd made regular donations to local women's shelters and to legal assistance funds ever since too.
Will took a long drink, never breaking eye contact, then put his glass down with a plunk. "You ever make many good matches?" he said abruptly.
All her senses went on alert.
There went that country boy grin again, making her panties' smiley faces swoon and making Lindsey wish she had the sense to burn them and go for a more sensible underwear choice. Something lacy. Maybe satin. Or commando.
"Don't try that I only do bad matches stuff," he said. "Or that I don't know what you're talking about stuff. I know you set your sister up."
Damn man's cookies still tasted like heaven, even when he was provoking her. "I know my sister, and I trust CJ. Not being a bad match isn't a guarantee for lifelong happiness, but I knew enough about each of them to believe they had a good shot if they committed to a relationship." She crossed her arms. If she could lay it out there, then he could too. "How long have you had a psychic?"
"Since my Aunt Jessie took us in when I was six. Sacha lives next door. She helped raise us."
Lindsey opened her mouth.
Then shut it. He had mentioned that fifteen years ago. She should've remembered, because she'd almost found the courage to tell him about her gift early that week. Something had stopped her-her own fears, or a suspicion that Will didn't believe in psychics despite having one in his life, or perhaps simple embarrassment. It was so long ago, Lindsey couldn't remember why.
"Sacha can't get lottery numbers right for anything," Will said with a shrug and a dangerously disarming grin, "but when she says something that makes my hairs stand on end, I listen."
"She told you to come here."
"Yep. Told me yesterday to stay." His grin receded, and he looked past Lindsey. "Think she knew Vera's days were numbered."
Lindsey shivered, but she covered it by taking one more cookie and standing. She wasn't running away because they were sharing life secrets. But she did need to make a tactical retreat. This was enough of being friendly for one morning. "Thank you for breakfast. I need to get to work."
"Your friends," Will said. "They know why you do what you do? Do any of them really know?"
She stopped. "What do I do?" If he was referring to her profession, she'd already told him the same as she told everyone else. That good people shouldn't be punished all their lives for mistakes.
He didn't break his concentration on her. "You could be setting folks up instead of helping 'em get divorced. You honestly believe in second chances, or are you doing the next best thing to what you were born to do?"