your height, blondish. I didn’t exchange life stories with her.”
“No,” Mrs. Sanchez said, her voice disconcertingly gentle. “You wouldn’t have, would you?”
He stiffened. “If you’re so curious about Kenzie, you could have taken her the enchiladas instead of knocking on my door.” The churlishness in his tone reminded him of his self-important father, and JT flinched.
But Mrs. Sanchez held herself above his rudeness with reproachful aplomb. “I fully intend to take her a dish this weekend and welcome her. I thought it better not to show up on her doorstep her first day, when she might be feeling tired and overwhelmed. I hate to intrude,” she added with a faintly challenging air.
JT walked her to the door. “We’re lucky to have you in the building, Mrs. Sanchez.”
“You certainly are.”
He hesitated before saying goodbye, unsure how to ask what was on his mind without putting ideas in her head. Mrs. Sanchez herself had said that, if any of her grown daughters had been single when JT moved in, she would have sent her up to deliver the homemade soup. So far, for all her fussing that he needed a woman’s touch in his life, she’d lacked a spare female to nudge his way, deeming the flight attendant down the hall too frequently absent. Now there was a seemingly available woman living less than two yards from his front door. Surely Mrs. Sanchez knew better than to…
“You weren’t planning to mention me to her, were you?” he demanded, unable to help himself.
“Hasn’t she already met you for herself? What possible reason could I have for bringing you into the conversation? Is she some sort of art critic?”
He rocked back on his heels. “You’ve been known to spout the opinion that I would benefit from female companionship.”
“I’ve also said you should eat more regularly, clean up this disorderly pigsty and go back to painting. Why would I inflict you on some girl who is already burdened with raising two children alone? Jonathan, mijo, you’re probably the last thing she needs.”
He stole a glance over her shoulder at Kenzie’s door and tried to take stock of what he could possibly offer any woman at this point in his life. “You’re undoubtedly right.”
ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Kenzie excused herself to go downstairs and check the mail. She wasn’t expecting anything other than standard Dear Occupant fare, but she’d been going a little stir crazy in the apartment. The kids seemed louder than normal today, and she couldn’t chuck them out into a backyard to play. Showing the resilience of youth, they were back in better spirits. During a televised Braves game the night before, Drew had allowed that maybe living in Atlanta could be kind of cool.
Punching the elevator button, Kenzie considered the evening ahead. Would their finances, currently stretched by moving expenses and utility deposits, allow dinner out and a movie? Maybe if they went to the movie first, taking advantage of matinee prices, and eschewed concessions, then drank tap water at dinner rather than paying for sodas…She reached the bottom floor and dug in her pocket for the small silver key Mr. C. had given her. This was the first time she’d checked to make sure it worked.
She gathered the handful of mail, sorting through it in the elevator on her way back up. Coupons, catalogs, the bill that her cell phone company had thoughtfully forwarded so that she wouldn’t miss this month’s opportunity to pay them. One yellow envelope was addressed to Jonathan Trelauney. Previous occupant? When she noticed the “3C,” she realized the mailman must have just dropped it in her slot by mistake.
Jonathan Trelauney must be JT. His full name sounded familiar, but after dealing with so many people through the bank, eventually all names caused her moments of déjà vu. She’d encountered nearly half a dozen account holders with her sister’s name.
When she stepped off the elevator, Kenzie glanced at JT’s envelope. She’d been unpacking all day and was dusty. Her hair was tidy, pulled back in the habitual French twist she favored for work, but she didn’t have any makeup—
Oh, for pity’s sake! Handing the man his misdirected mail does not require mascara and perfume. Did she even own perfume? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d treated herself to anything more luxurious than scented body wash.
Annoyed with herself, she rapped on his door a bit more curtly than she’d intended. At first she wasn’t sure anyone would answer, but then she heard footsteps on the other side. JT appeared in the doorway, unshaven and shirtless!
Kenzie had taken a breath as the door opened; now she choked on her own oxygen. It took all her discipline not to let her gaze dwell on his leanly muscled torso or the dusting of dark hair across his broad chest. “I…is this a bad time?”
He rubbed a hand across his face. “I was sleeping on the couch.”
“Oh.” It seemed like a practically sinful indulgence, snoozing smack-dab in the middle of the afternoon, but then he didn’t have two kids bouncing around and a zillion boxes to unpack. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Did you need something?”
“Just bringing you this. It was in my mailbox.” Their fingers brushed when he took the envelope, and she told herself that such a platonic touch would ordinarily not make her light-headed. It was the proximity of all that naked skin making her heart flutter. He must have a naturally golden complexion. He wasn’t pale, but his color didn’t seem to come from a tan, either. And, good grief, was she staring again?
Because she was actually staring, she noticed a splotch of dark violet paint near his rib cage. Suddenly the name clicked. “Jonathan Trelauney! I know you. Of you, rather. You’re an artist.”
JT was startled by two things—three, truthfully, but he was trying to ignore the unexpected sensation that had washed through him when their hands met. He didn’t think the reaction came from the fleeting contact so much as her expression. Something akin to desire had flared in her eyes, and it had rocked him. No woman had looked at him like that in a long time. Hormones aside, he’d been surprised that Kenzie had heard of him. While his work had been renowned in certain circles, he was hardly a household name. Second, the way she’d said “You’re an artist” had been filled with horrified discovery. She might as well have pronounced “You’re a leper.”
He frowned. “Do you follow art?” It seemed the only logical conclusion for recognizing his name, yet didn’t explain her negative reaction.
“No. My hippie parents follow art. I’ve absorbed a few details here and there during the rare visit with them.” Though she kept her voice matter-of-fact, disdain leaked into her expression. The warmth in her earlier gaze had cooled completely.
Hippie parents? “Ah. I see.”
Her hands went to her hips. “Just what do you ‘see’?”
“Your parents were artistic, touchy-feely types, and you—” he hazarded a guess “—rebelled by growing up to be ultraconservative.”
Her burst of laughter caught him off guard. “Whatever you do, don’t give up art for psychiatry, because you couldn’t be more wrong. My younger sister, Ann, was the conservative in the family. I married a musician at eighteen.”
He glanced at her baggy shirt, sensible sneakers and pulled back hair. “You married a musician?”
“Yeah. And by nineteen, I had two babies to feed and clothe, so I reevaluated certain lifestyle choices.”
JT wished she looked cynical instead of vulnerable. He felt…well, he wasn’t sure, but she was a virtual stranger. He shouldn’t be required to feel anything on her behalf. If he’d been more awake when he answered the door, his normal barriers in place, he would have said thanks for the mail and dismissed her without further conversation.
He could always try that now. “Well, thanks for the—”
Behind her, the door