Out Of The Ashes. Cynthia Reese

of the life she had salvaged from the first fire, and moving back in with her mother—the ultimate cliché, the ultimate punch line of so many bad jokes.

      The very thing she wanted least in the world to do.

      Kari hated being like Jake, freeloading off her mother’s generous spirit. Her mom had worked so hard as a single parent to raise them without any help. And look how the two of them had repaid her: both of them bouncing back every time they needed a roof over their heads.

      Well, no, actually, this was the first time that Kari had ever taken up her mother’s repeated offers. But she had accepted her mother’s loan—and look how that had turned out.

      The box slipped in her sweaty palms, and Kari tried to save it from falling by wedging it against a doorjamb. Just as she had righted it and was attempting a more secure hold, the doorbell rang.

      She groaned. “Door’s unlocked!” she called out.

      Whoever it was apparently didn’t hear her. The knocking resumed, louder this time. She called out again, “Come in!”

      But the only sound she heard was a rattling of the doorknob—which meant that the door was locked after all—and more knocking. Kari took up her burden again and started making her way, slowly and ponderously, toward the front door. “I’m coming! I’m really coming—just give me—”

      The box slipped from her grasp, its contents of pots and pans clattering down the hall and into the living room. Kari kicked aside the cardboard and stepped over three sheet pans, a roasting pan and a cupcake-shaped Bundt pan. She yanked open the door.

      To see Rob Monroe on her stoop.

      The last time she’d seen him, he’d revealed that his own father had died at the hands of an arsonist. No way he’d ever feel any sympathy for someone who’d pleaded guilty to arson. No way he’d ever give her the real benefit of the doubt, no matter what he said.

      Just as she expected, he’d asked—though she knew it was not really voluntary—for her and Jake and her mother to come down to the station and sign formal statements. The machinery of the investigation had switched into gear, so she shouldn’t have been surprised that the guy showed up again with more questions.

      “Gosh, are you happy to see me, or do you always break out the brass band when you have visitors?” he quipped.

      “Huh?” His words were at such a paradox with what she’d been expecting that she was rendered speechless. A strand of hair fell into her face, and she swiped it out of the way.

      “The noise? It sounded like a thousand cymbals just a minute ago.”

      Kari looked over her shoulder. “Oh, that—it was a box I was trying to get to the car.” To punctuate her statement, the lid of a pan slid off something else and banged loudly onto her hardwood floor.

       Not mine. Not anymore.

      Kari shook her head to clear away the negativity. “You might as well come in. I’ve got about a thousand baking sheets to pick up.”

      She left him to see himself in and squatted over the scattered contents she’d dropped. It surprised her when Rob knelt down beside her and began handing things to her.

      “Baking pans for the baker?”

      It occurred to her that maybe he’d think she’d moved these out of the bakery before she’d torched it—or had it torched. “Well, yeah, but these are old ones, not the nice ones I had at the bakery. These were the ones I used at home—the ones I picked up along the way, you know?” She let her fingers slide over the battered quarter sheet pan she’d found at a yard sale. It was a far cry from the heavy-duty professional pans she’d lovingly used at the bakery. “I can’t believe...”

      “Hey, at least...” Rob’s hand closed over hers. “At least you still have a pan or two, right? Or do you want to hit me for saying ‘at least’?” He made a playful ducking move and shielded himself with his free hand.

      She laughed. It sounded rough and broken even to her own ears, but it was definitely a chuckle. “No, I believe I can resist the temptation. Do you frequently provoke people to use violence?”

      “Andrew, my little brother, says I have the art of pranks down to a science, so he might volunteer to clock me for you. My big brother tells me that I could annoy a saint, and I guess he’s right. Ma sure has put up with a lot from me, and she’d definitely make the saint category.”

      “What, with your sunny personality?” Kari felt her knees ache in protest to the way she was kneeling, but she didn’t want to move. Any shift might make him move his hand from hers, and for some reason, the sensation it telegraphed to her nerve endings—calm, confidence, competence—washed over her. She didn’t want that feeling to stop.

      “No, believe it or not, I’m the cynic of the family.”

      “You?” Now she did move, out of surprise. “But you—well, you’re so—well, so sunny.”

      She watched as he picked up the pan and dropped it with a clang into the box. Kari saw his frown—not of displeasure, but of thoughtfulness. She could practically see gears turning over in his mind.

      “Thanks?” Rob said uncertainly.

      Had she missed something? Insulted him in some way? “I didn’t mean—it’s just that you’re always joking—well, not always—”

      He lifted an eyebrow wryly. “Ma does say my smart mouth will get me into trouble.”

      The word mouth was a mistake. She found herself fixated on his lips. Usually they were as changeable as quicksilver—a crooked grin here, a broad smile there, a tiny knowing smile. But now... He wasn’t smiling, not exactly. The corners were lifted up, showing the hint of a dimple, and revealing a sliver of strong white teeth.

      And he was close enough to lean over and kiss her.

      “Uh—” Kari scrambled for a lid at the far edge of the living room, underneath the window. Anything to get her mind off the inappropriate thoughts she was having about the guy who probably was employing his investigative skills to put her behind bars again.

      “So I take it you’re going somewhere?” Rob commented to her back.

      “Another genius deduction on your part?” She returned with the lid and another pan—not to mention her composure.

      “I am a detective, after all. Don’t try this at home, kids.” His quip was accompanied with a grin and a clang from yet another of her kitchen bowls. “Empty living room, box full of kitchenware, and bam, it just occurs to me that maybe you’re moving. Where’s the new nest?” A beat of silence, and then a tinge of suspicion crept into his next question. “You’re not leaving town, are you?”

      “My mom’s.” Just saying the words made the defeat sting all the more. “I’m moving to my mom’s.”

      He seemed to digest the words, chewing on them, staring at her as though he understood how ashamed she felt at this latest mess she’d found herself in.

      “So you really do have money troubles?” Rob closed up the battered lid of the box.

      “No more than usual—it’s not the rent here. I can afford the rent, just barely. No, it’s...well, my kitchen here is so tiny. I don’t even have a dishwasher.”

      He wrinkled his brow. “I don’t follow.”

      “State laws say that I can use a home kitchen to cook in, you know, to bake, but I have to live there. It’s the whole cottage industry law—as long as it’s home-baked goods in a regular home kitchen, then I don’t have to meet standards for a commercial kitchen.”

      “So...you’re moving in with your mom to use her kitchen?”

      “Yeah. Just, well, until I can—” Her face heated up. “Until I can save up to find me a new