A Dad for Her Twins. Tanya Michaels

towel so I can finish putting away kitchen stuff.”

      Drew scrunched up his nose. “Lame.”

      Lame, huh? Then she hated to think what it said about her that she’d experienced a thrill of heady satisfaction after applying shelf liner to the pantry and closets last night.

      Her moment of triumph, though, hadn’t held quite the zing as the visceral thrill that had shot through her body when she’d seen JT’s naked chest. That had been a much different sensation. Even now she tingled at the memory, glancing down guiltily to make sure the kids didn’t realize their mom was having premature hot flashes over the new neighbor. She fanned herself with the framed picture she held.

      “Mom?”

      She almost jumped—not the best reaction at the top of a ladder. “Yes, Drew?”

      “Why are you even hanging all this stuff?” he asked. “You’re just gonna have to take it down in a couple of months when we move again.”

      For a change, he didn’t sound bitter about relocating, merely curious.

      “It’s true that we won’t be here long, but I want us to be comfortable and happy in the meantime.” She indicated the pictures she’d already nailed into place. “This stuff makes me happy.”

      It was amazing how far some family pictures on the wall and colorful hand towels in the kitchen could go toward making a place cheerful and inviting. Mr. Carlyle had told them that residents in this particular building were allowed to make more changes than most, in terms of knobs, light fixtures and even painting the walls. Tenants were simply required either to return their surroundings to their original condition when they left or to pay for management to do so. Her short time here wasn’t worth such effort, but she found herself imagining the difference she could make in the small apartment. It was cozier than it had first seemed when the atmosphere had been permeated with crankiness and the odor of damp cardboard.

      There was a single bathroom, unfortunately, but it only held the toilet and bathtub. They each had a mirrored vanity and small private sink in the corner of their rooms. Like a hotel, Drew had said. Leslie had been ecstatic to have counter space for her hair stuff and lip gloss, and that she didn’t have to share with her brother.

      Because she was hammering a nail into the wall, Kenzie didn’t realize there was someone at the door until Drew pointed it out to her. Leslie looked up with mild surprise, having been too engrossed in her novel to notice the knocking, either.

      “Coming!” Kenzie called, descending from the ladder.

      “Do you think it’s that tall man?” Leslie asked. “The one who lives across the hall?”

      “JT? I doubt it. I expect it’s Mr. C. He said he’d be over sometime this weekend to fix my ceiling fan,” Kenzie said. “What made you think of JT?”

      Leslie shrugged. “He seems weird. Opening and shutting his door yesterday without saying anything. Standing there with no shirt and messy hair today. Like this creepy professor I read about in a mystery once where—”

      “Les, later, okay?” Kenzie didn’t want to open the door while her daughter was cataloging what she perceived as JT’s eccentricities after only two brief encounters. My kid is either too quick to judge, or she’s bizarrely perceptive. After all, weren’t a lot of artists known for being eccentric?

      Like musicians.

      She told herself that her potent physical reaction to JT earlier was just the unexpected shock of being that close to undressed male flesh, quite a rarity for her. If Kenzie ever dated again, it wouldn’t be with a sleep-tousled artist sporting careless dabs of paint across his flat abdomen. No, she would take the smart route…someone like the attractive man in the shirt and slacks who’d appeared in the hallway just as JT fled into the recesses of his apartment with hardly a goodbye. Les is right. He’s a little weird.

      Luckily, not everyone in the building was mysterious, antisocial and averse to smiling. Kenzie opened the door to find a short, dark-haired woman beaming at her over the top of a foil-wrapped casserole dish.

      “I’m Roberta Sanchez,” the lady said in a faintly accented voice. “Welcome to Peachy Acres!”

      “Thank you,” Kenzie said, touched. The friendly gesture of hospitality reminded her of Raindrop; she hadn’t necessarily expected to find it so close to the heart of a city. “Please come in. I’m Kenzie Green, and these are my kids, Drew and Leslie.”

      Drew sniffed the air like a hound. “What kind of food did you bring?” he demanded.

      “Drew, don’t be rude.” The way her son acted, people probably thought Kenzie habitually starved him.

      “How was I rude?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think she wants us to be interested in whatever she made?”

      Mrs. Sanchez gave him a look that convinced Kenzie the older woman had children of her own. “Regardless, you should not talk back to your mother.” Then she smiled, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And it’s tamale pie.”

      It smelled incredible, and Kenzie’s stomach gurgled with appreciation. She’d been so caught up in the visual progress she was making in the apartment that she hadn’t realized how close it was getting to dinnertime. And heaven knew that when Leslie was lost in a book, she didn’t stop to eat or sleep unless prompted. Oops. In light of her sarcastic thoughts about Drew’s appetite, she experienced a little pinch of guilt.

      “So it’s a dessert?” Drew asked.

      “Different kind of pie.” Kenzie took the warm pan from Mrs. Sanchez. Breathing in the scent of spiced meat and melted cheeses, she feared she might start drooling. “Leslie, say hello to our visitor.” Which doesn’t mean a halfhearted wave without glancing up from the page, she added with telepathic sternness.

      Thankfully, the girl put the book down—after carefully saving her place with a bookmark bearing the wand-wielding image of Daniel Radcliffe. “Hi, I’m Leslie Green. You live in the building?”

      Mrs. Sanchez nodded. “You’ll love it here.”

      “We’re not staying long,” Drew said, his eyes locked on the dish in Kenzie’s hand as he practically vibrated with the unspoken question, When can we eat?

      “No?” Mrs. Sanchez looked crestfallen. “Oh, that’s too bad. I already told some of my grandchildren that they might have kids to play with when they visited. And Jonathan—JT—could use some company. This floor is practically deserted.”

      “Are you sure he wants company?” Leslie asked. “He reminds me a little of this guy in a story who kept to himself and had crazy eyes. No one could prove anything, but the characters suspected—”

      “Leslie! Why don’t you find some plates? We should eat this wonderful-smelling tamale pie before it gets cold,” Kenzie said. Drew bounded toward the kitchen, eager to assist if it meant eating soon.

      Leslie was slower, heaving a sigh as she trudged after him. “No one ever wants to hear about my books. I thought parents were supposed to be happy when their children liked to read.”

      “Less attitude, more cooperation,” Kenzie admonished. Then she turned back to Mrs. Sanchez, who was trying not to smile. “Sorry. They’re not always like this.” Sometimes they’re worse.

      “I understand. I raised four.” The woman’s gaze held both amusement and empathy. “You seem like you have your hands full. It’s just you and the children?”

      Kenzie nodded. “They don’t see my ex on what you’d call a ‘regular’ basis.”

      Mrs. Sanchez clucked her tongue. Something about her made Kenzie want to brew a pot of tea, sit down with the other woman and confide all her problems and doubts. Kenzie blinked, surprised by the impulse. She was accustomed to being self-sufficient. Her mother and father, bless their well-intentioned hearts, hadn’t been big believers in hands-on