Plain Jane's Secret Life. Cathy Thacker Gillen

study him, knowing, as did he, that every single member of his family had computers, at home and at work, yet he wasn’t asking any of them. She had to be asking herself why. Yet, she didn’t ask him.

      “Sure.” She shrugged her slender shoulders gracefully.

      Dylan hadn’t expected such kindness. He knew, after the way he had behaved toward her this afternoon and evening, that he certainly hadn’t earned it. “That’s it? That’s all your questions?” He regarded her just as closely.

      Hannah shrugged and signaled the waitress that they were finished with the menus. She shook her head in a way that let him know she had weathered her own share of personal crises. “The look on your face is answer enough.”

      DYLAN EXPECTED Hannah’s Craftsman-style brownstone to look like every other eighty-year-old house in Holly Springs. Low ceilings, small cramped rooms, outdated everything. Instead, it looked like a demolition zone inside.

      “What happened here?” he asked. He had been in her house a few times years ago, when he was a kid, recruiting Hannah for a game of pick-up baseball or soccer. A natural athlete, she had never failed to disappoint.

      “When my grandfather died, I had a choice to either sell it or live in it. I decided if I was going to live in it I was going to make it my own. So for the past two years I’ve been remodeling, a little at a time.”

      “And then some.” Dylan looked around. The original low ceilings had been completely ripped out, doing away with most of the attic and exposing the house’s sloping fifteen-foot roofline. Three-quarters of the drywall had been redone, the rest was still waiting.

      “I tore everything out and hired a contractor to put in new wiring and plumbing to bring it up to code. And built that—” Hannah pointed to the end of the house, away from what was going to be a central downstairs living area.

      She led him toward the stairway. He followed her up. On the other side of the waist-high white bead-board wall that ran the length of the loft was a bedroom. Hannah had left the brownstone chimney exposed. A queen-size brass bed with a surprisingly frilly white lace comforter was pushed up against it. Her bridesmaid dress and the bouquet she had carried down the aisle were scattered across it. On one side of the room was a desk, with laptop computer and printer, the other side had a television and stereo. Beyond, he could see a pretty, white and ocean-blue bathroom, with private water closet, a pedestal sink, separate ceramic-tiled shower and clawfoot tub big enough for two. There was also a linen closet and an astonishing number of bath salts and scented lotions, makeup and shampoos. The windows were covered with pleated, ocean-blue-fabric blinds.

      “As you can see, this is where I’m doing most of my living.”

      “Nice,” Dylan said, meaning it. By putting in the loft, she had added another five hundred or so square feet to the thousand already downstairs.

      “It will be when I finish,” Hannah said, already booting up her computer while peering into a walk-in closet that seemed to contain mostly jeans, T-shirts and the one-piece coveralls she wore when working on cars down at the garage. “You know how to access your e-mail from someone else’s computer?” Hannah asked as the home page—some car mechanic’s site—came across the monitor.

      Dylan nodded.

      “I’ll be downstairs. Yell if you need anything.” She disappeared down the loft stairs.

      “Thanks,” Dylan said.

      Unfortunately, the news was as bad as Sasha had predicted. Dylan had known it was coming. Still, he was stunned.

      Knowing he’d want to read the letter from the TV station later, he printed a copy then shut the computer and printer off. Still feeling as if he had been kicked in the gut, he headed downstairs. Hannah was perched on a sawhorse in the middle of the gutted first floor, a small carton of premium ice cream in hand. She had a plastic spoon in her mouth as she surveyed the unfinished wide-plank floors and partially finished drywall. “I’m painting everything down here white, too,” she told him. “And I’m going to leave the wood natural and protect it with polyurethane.”

      “What about your kitchen cabinets?” Dylan asked.

      Hannah got up and walked over to the stainless-steel refrigerator. Aside from the microwave, it was the only appliance currently in the house. There wasn’t even a kitchen sink, although there was a half bath with original basin nearby.

      “They’re white beadboard, similar in style to what I have upstairs in the master bath. I’ve got ’em in boxes, in the garage, along with the rest of the paint and the wallboard and the kitchen appliances—which I was lucky enough to get at cost a few months ago. Just haven’t had the money to have any of it installed. Yet.”

      Was that what she had been doing at the pool hall? Trying to get together enough money to finish the inside of her home? It was a laudable goal, even if the means weren’t to be commended.

      She paused, her hand on the handle of the fridge. She studied him curiously. “Get what you needed up there?”

      Dylan nodded.

      “Then how come you still look like you just lost your best friend?”

      Close, Dylan thought with a sad sigh. Then finding he needed someone to confide in—someone with a guy’s gut sense when to stop with the questions—and a woman’s compassionate heart, he said simply, “It was my job.” He watched her carefully for reaction. “I got fired tonight.”

      Hannah took the news in stride, as he had hoped she would, and opened the freezer compartment. “Then you’re going to be needing this,” she said wryly as she took out another pint of ice cream and handed it to him, along with a plastic spoon.

      There was no judgment in her eyes, only silent sympathy.

      His hand warmed at the contact of her fingers brushing his. He looked down at the label, fighting the feeling of failure. Six years and four jobs in the business had taught him that television news was a brutal medium in which to work. “You think mocha cocoa crunch will help?”

      “Ice cream always helps. So does chocolate.” She reached over and touched his hand, more gently this time, before resuming her perch on the sawhorse. “I’m sorry about your job, Dylan.”

      “Me, too,” he said honestly. He pried off the cardboard top of his ice cream. Although it had been irrational, he’d hoped to escape this bloodbath. Forcing himself to be a man about it, he looked into her eyes. “But that’s the way it goes in my line of work. New owners mean new management, which means new staff.” Usually in pretty quick order. Which was what had happened here.

      She took another bite, then licked the back of the spoon. “Did you get severance pay?”

      Telling himself to not even think about what her mouth would feel like under his, Dylan concentrated on answering her question. “Two months.”

      “Well that’s good. Besides, a guy with your looks? You’ll probably find something right away. Meantime—” Hannah waved her spoon for emphasis “—you’ve got the support of the entire Hart family.”

      Dylan let the rich chocolate slide down his throat and tried not to dwell on the fact this was the first time in his life he’d been fired—from anything. “I’m not telling them.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Not until I have another job, anyway. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t, either.”

      If she was shocked she had the grace not to show it. “Whatever you want. Although that begs the question.” She looked deep into his eyes. “If you’re not telling them, why tell me?”

      Why indeed? It wasn’t like him to trust someone he knew he shouldn’t trust. Not since he had been involved with Desirée, anyway. “’Cause I’m going to be needing access to a computer while I’m in town this week,” he said calmly. “And I was hoping you’d let me use yours.”

      A teasing light crept into Hannah’s emerald-green eyes as she gave him the