a little more fussing with the food, arranging the furniture, setting up the computer display.
The doorbell rang. Someone was way early.
Her two foster dogs set up a racket and raced her to the door. Huffington, a spindly-legged bulldog, was an old soul, whose rheumy eyes declared he knew it all and had done it twice. Pistol, a wild-eyed cairn terrier, lived to snitch food and knew how to fetch, dance and shake hands. They’d been with her for a month and every day they stayed made it harder to let them go.
That was the worst thing about being a foster owner. How did her friend who ran the rescue shelter handle the repeated losses? Esmeralda tried to stay light in life, to accept hellos and good-byes with an even response, but this was murder.
Sonny and Cher, the two cats lurking on the ledge above the living room, were brother and sister calicos scheduled to go to new homes in a few days. She’d only had them a week, so it wouldn’t be such agony when they left.
She hushed the dogs and went to the door, startled to find Mitch on her porch holding a paper sack. He looked great in a purple silk shirt and black cargo pants.
Her heart pounded so hard she held her chest when she opened the door.
Mitch entered and their gazes locked for a startling moment of intensity and recognition, almost relief. Unmistakably powerful, and it gave her hope. “I’m glad you came,” she said, the pulse of pleasure in her body making her wobbly.
“I’m glad, too,” he said. He seemed surprised that he’d said that and, maybe, that it was true.
She became aware that the dogs were going nuts, jumping up on Mitch. “I’m sorry,” she said, crouching to grab their collars. “Down, guys.” She fought her own leaping emotions.
“It’s okay.” Mitch squatted with her. “Who are these guys?”
She told him.
“Great names.”
“I didn’t pick them. They’re foster pets. The cats, too.” She pointed up at the ledge where the cats stared down at them.
“Foster pets, huh?” he said, ruffling Huffington’s fur.
“My friend Jill has a rescue shelter, but she ran out of space. So they’re with me until she finds them homes.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“Who could resist these guys?” She rested her cheek against Huffington’s neck, feeling Mitch’s eyes on her.
“I can see that.” He had to clear his throat. “Anyway, Dale’s supposed to stop by for a while. He’s got a gig, so I’m the designated note-taker.”
“It’s nice of you to help him out,” she said.
“It’s my only hope of getting him off my couch.” But she sensed the tenderness behind the sarcasm.
“What’s in the sack?” she asked.
“A thank you.” He handed it to her.
Inside the bag she found three star fruit. “How did you know? This is what’s missing from my fruit tray. My store was out.”
“The Asian market near my house always has exotic stuff.”
She sniffed one of the smooth, cool fruits. “Mmm.”
“Smells like pears?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She held it out, fingers trembling, and he bent to sniff, his dark eyes searching hers out, sexual sparks lighting their depths.
“Reminds me of that night,” he said softly.
“I know.” And the star shower would add to the memory. She wanted to kiss him now, just to see if it would feel the same. Was this their moment? Did he feel it, too?
“Can I help you?”
“Help me?” Yes, yes, oh, yes. She was lost in her fantasy.
He grinned. “Cut up the fruit? For the workshop? Hello?”
She gathered herself. “Oh. Yes. That would be great. Let me put the dogs away.”
He helped her up from the floor, as he’d done the afternoon before. She liked his firm grip, the way he took charge. Their eyes met again. She wished suddenly the workshop was over and they could go out back and watch the stars fly and she could tell him about the prediction and—
The man would run for the hills. He already thought she was a borderline kook. Slow down. Let things unfold as they will.
When she returned to the living room after putting the dogs away, Mitch was watching her. He seemed to have to drag his eyes away to look around the room. “You expecting a crowd?” He meant the extra chairs, loveseat, end tables and sofa.
“Just fifteen people. The extra furniture belongs to a friend. I’m keeping it until she’s sure living with her boyfriend will work out.”
“You’re a soft touch.”
“She’s a friend.” She shrugged. The Early American stuff clashed mightily with the simple designs and the magenta, lime and orange colors of the Pier 1 Imports decor Esmeralda had chosen.
“The extra art is hers?” He meant the framed pieces of art braced against all the walls.
“No. That’s my roommate’s. Annika Morris. She’s an art therapist.” Esmie had hung as many pieces as would fit among her own framed photos and the map collages she’d made with Jonathan. “She’s just here until her grant comes through or she gets a job. She’ll be at the workshop tonight.”
“You’ve got a lot going on. Roommates, foster pets, furniture storage, a new job—”
The phone rang, proving his point.
“I like to keep busy,” she said, rushing to answer it. It was Jill confirming the cats’ pick-up.
“Not a lot of peace and quiet, I take it,” he said when Esmie hung up.
“I do fine.” But coming home to a dozen phone messages every night had lately been wearying. Probably just adjusting to the new job. The phone rang again “Excuse me?” That one was a friend needing advice. She made a lunch date for a more in-depth conversation.
He gave her a look.
“What? So maybe it’s a little hectic at times.”
“That’s what phone machines are for. People take advantage if you let them.”
“The more you give, the more you have to give.”
“Some people take until you say no.”
“That’s quite the world view you have. I don’t know how I’d get up in the morning feeling that negative.”
“It’s not negative. It’s realistic. If you accept human nature, you don’t have misunderstandings and you don’t get disappointed.”
“Or you expect the best and people strive to meet your expectations.”
“I think I read that on the wall of your office.”
He made her idealism seem silly. She rarely had to defend herself, since everyone she knew respected her abilities. This man was like a blast of cold water in the middle of a hot shower. “I happen to believe it’s true.”
“I guess we see things differently.” The pity and judgment in his expression were like a brand on her skin.
“But you know you’re right, don’t you?” She was startled by how quickly her response to him had changed. She went from attraction to hope to irritation to anger with lightning speed.
“No more than you do.”
“You think that by helping others I neglect myself and what I really want? Is that what you think?”