LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE HOUSE SEEMED almost eerily quiet without the children running around, filling the space with their laughter, their questions, their disparate personalities.

      She walked down the hall toward the kitchen, accompanied only by the sound of the rain still pattering against the windows and the creak of an occasional floorboard in the old house.

      Odd, that she lived in the huge, echoing mansion by herself but didn’t feel nearly as alone as she did right now, walking through Brendan’s place—probably because all the clicks and whooshes at Iris House were as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

      She felt a little like an intruder, creeping around where she shouldn’t. How ridiculous was that, when he needed her here to help him with his children?

      This was a comfortable house, she had to admit, warm and airy. But something still seemed missing.

      The kitchen was a mess, with dirty dishes piled in the sink and a glass casserole with the sticky remains of what had likely been their dinner on the stovetop.

      Since she had nothing else to keep her busy—and maybe she wanted to prove to him that she could be useful for more than just bringing unwanted gifts to his children—she unloaded the dishwasher. She had to do some opening and closing of cupboards and drawers to figure out where things belonged, the worst part about working in someone else’s kitchen, but she figured it out.

      After that was done and the remaining dishes loaded again, her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. Her plan had been to take the gifts down to the children and then head back to Iris House to make a sandwich.

      She thought about ignoring the rumbling but the residue left on the casserole had looked like chicken enchiladas and had smelled delicious. She was sort of a rabid chicken enchilada fan.

      She opened his refrigerator and found a container with the leftovers, along with an unfinished meal on a plate covered in plastic wrap that she guessed had been Brendan’s.

      Assuming he wouldn’t mind, given the last-minute favor she was doing him, she left his plate alone but spooned a rolled tortilla from the leftover container onto a plate of her own, added some of the sauce and warmed it in the microwave.

      The food was fantastic, easy on the heat index but every bit as good as something she would find in her favorite Mexican restaurant in Seattle. After she just about licked the plate clean, she loaded it and her fork into the dishwasher, gave the countertops one last swipe with a cloth and then wandered into the family room.

      She had probably been here before when she had visited Jess, but she didn’t remember spending any time in this room. The space was dominated by a big-screen TV and two big plump leather reclining sofas.

      Right now, it was also cluttered with toys. She should have made the children come in before bedtime to clean up their mess. Since she hadn’t thought of it—and since she didn’t like the idea of Brendan having to do it himself when he came home after a long day—she spent a few moments clearing the floor before she collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted from her day.

      She flipped through the television shows and finally settled on a news program.

      The stress of the past few days must have been more exhausting than she realized. The last thing she remembered was some apple-cheeked reporter with an unnaturally chipper voice trying to ask a hard-hitting question of a politician.

      She must have fallen asleep. When she awoke, she had the strange, crawly sensation of being watched.

      She blinked her eyes open, wondering if Carter or Faith had awakened her. Instead, she saw a big, wide-shouldered figure standing in the doorway, and she gasped, visions of psycho killers flashing through her mind.

      “Whoa. Easy. I’m sorry I startled you. It’s me. Brendan.”

      The voice pushed through the panic, and she drew in an unsteady breath. Brendan. Of course. How could she possibly have mistaken him for anybody else?

      She drew in a shaky breath. “Well. There go several years off my life I won’t get back.”

      He turned the dimmer lights up in the room. “See? Only me.”

      As if that made her feel any more comfortable. “I’m sorry. I was sleeping and woke up to find you standing there. It would creep anyone out. Even you.”

      “Probably.” He smiled a little, but she thought suddenly that he looked weary. Beyond weary, actually, bordering on deep fatigue.

      “What time is it?” she asked.

      “Almost one. I’m sorry to be so late. Things were a little busier than I expected, and this is the earliest I could get away.”

      “Don’t worry about it. If they need you back at the station, I’m fine staying all night. As long as you don’t jump out and scare me when you come back.”

      Through his exhaustion, she saw glimmers of surprise in his expression that left her melancholy. Why did he seem so shocked that she could be compassionate and helpful when the situation called for it? This was only further evidence of his poor opinion of her.

      The feeling of trying so very

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