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Rachel arrived back at the bakery after eleven. She was so grateful to be on home turf, she almost wept. She’d been too nervous to eat all night, and her stomach now growled as she moved into the kitchen to snag frozen cookie dough or day-old bread.

Unable to face the silence of her apartment, she tossed her purse and keys onto the counter and pushed through the saloon doors.

Switching on the light, she cringed at the chaos.

A week ago, she could locate any pot, pan, or spoon in this room.

The kitchen had been her friend and her companion.

Demanding and difficult at times, it was always here waiting for her.

Now the place was as much a stranger to her as she was to herself.

She stepped around boxes and a circular saw and opened the stainless steel fridge to see a bottle of wine and exotic cheeses. Jean Paul.

The invader. The one that didn’t belong.

Unable to find the cookie dough, she grabbed the wine and cheese, scrounged a Union Street Bakery mug, and sat on a stool by the sawhorse worktable.

She filled the mug full of wine and as she raised it to her lips, she heard footsteps. Turning, she saw Jean Paul staring at her. He wore a worn brown leather jacket, jeans, and a black T-shirt, and in his hand he held a mesh sack filled with fruit and vegetables.

“What are you doing here?” She drank from the mug, enjoying the wine more because she’d taken it from him. In her mind, he’d taken her kitchen, so turnabout was fair play.

Jean Paul came and went as he pleased, much like a stray cat. Whether it was eleven o’clock at night or two in the morning on his day off, if he needed something, he appeared.

“You’re up late.” He glanced at his bottle, which she’d left on the counter, and set his bags beside it before grabbing a second mug. He filled his to the halfway point. “You like my wine?”

She smiled. “It’s very nice.”

Grunting, he took a sip and nodded his approval. “Life is too short to drink bad wine.”

She stared into the depths of her cup. “Life is too short. But there are times when it drags on endlessly.”

He arched a brow. “It slows when you allow it to dictate. If you’re in charge, it does not dawdle.”

She lifted the mug to her lips and paused. “Is it that way for you? Are you always in charge?”

“I do not worry about fast or slow. In charge or not. I enjoy.” He sipped his wine and then from the sack pulled out a square of cheese wrapped in wax paper. He unwrapped it and then broke off a piece, which he offered to her.

Rachel took the cheese and bit into it. Creamy and buttery, it all but melted in her mouth. “Life is also too short for bad cheese.”

He held up his mug to her. “Of course.”

A smile teased her lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to work. I’m used to working at this time of night. Each night I arrive before my shift and enjoy a café or a wine and a bit of cheese. I think about the dough, and then when it’s time to cook, I am ready.”

Jean Paul had been working at the Union Street Bakery for over a month.

His cousin Henri had been a family friend and bakery employee for twenty-five years, and when Henri recently retired, he’d sent Jean Paul.

That had been enough for Daisy, who’d been in desperate need of a baker.

No résumé necessary. Rachel had been grateful for his hire and resentful.

He was yet another change in a life with too many changes.

The wine eased the tension in her muscles and wiped away some of the awkwardness. Her curiosity about him grew. “Have you heard from Henri recently?”

Jean Paul shrugged. “From what my mother says, he’s well. Visits the local bakeries in Nice and complains about the quality of the baking. Says bakers today don’t understand tradition.”

Rachel missed the old Frenchman. He’d been silent and stoic while he’d been here, but there’d been a steadiness about him that she’d not really appreciated until Mike died. “Sounds like Henri. Has he asked about us?”

“We’ve not spoken. I would have to ask my mother. They talk weekly.”

“Please tell your mother I miss Henri.”

He studied her with dark eyes filled with interest. “You and Henri were good friends?”

“I can’t say I knew him all that well. My dad hired him, and he barely spoke to any of us. But Dad always said Henri was a master in the kitchen. No one baked better than Henri.”

He tore off a piece of cheese for himself and took a measured bite as if he was analyzing it. “So, what are you doing here? There’s no work for you this time of night.”

The question had Rachel wondering who owned this kitchen. Perhaps at this time of night it was Jean Paul’s and the space shifted back to her control at three in the morning.

“Can’t sleep. Thought I’d eat and maybe bake. But I forgot the kitchen had been pulled apart.”

“You bake to relax?”

“You’d think I wouldn’t, but it soothes me.”

He shrugged as if the idea made perfect sense. “And why do you need soothing?”

“A long story.”

He swept his hand before him as if reminding her they were two cooks in a nonworking kitchen. “I believe we have time.”

The wine warmed her and allowed a smile. “I’d rather talk about you.” He arched a brow. He didn’t tell her no, nor did he invite a question. So Jean Paul. So French.

Rachel sipped more wine, feeling bolder and more relaxed. “What are you going to do tonight? There’s no bread to mix.”

“Fixing the cracks in the wall. Making it smooth before we paint.”

Rachel glanced in his direction toward the drywall. “You’re sanding.”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” There’d be no cooking here tonight, and she knew nothing of carpentry.

It made sense for her to leave and go to her apartment.

Tomorrow would be a long day, and she’d need all her sleep.

But a restless energy churned her gut, and she sensed if she laid her head on her pillow, her mind would swirl with all the what-ifs birthed tonight with Simon.

“I think I’ll clean out the spices. No sense restocking what’s old.”

He studied her as he sipped his wine. “It’s a job that can wait, don’t you think? Not so good to have spices mixing with drywall dust.”

Rachel frowned. He made sense, of course, but she didn’t want to go to her apartment. She could find Daisy, but her sister had looked exhausted and no doubt had fallen asleep. Without the kitchen, without Mike, and without the girls, what would she do with her time?

“I could help you sand.”

His gaze slid over her. “You’re dressed for the evening. Not work.”

“I could put on an apron.”

Again, a sly smile quirked. “Are you so desperate to be with me you’ll sand walls in the middle of the night?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I’m not desperate to be with you.”

He set down his cup and shrugged off his jacket. Lean muscles rippled under a snug T-shirt as he walked toward the door and with great care hung his jacket on a hook. He moved like a cat that liked to be admired and petted.

Rachel stared at his butt and broad shoulders, built by years of manual labor. Even as she imagined touching those shoulders, her mind scurried to a safe topic. “Will the wall be ready to paint soon?” She cleared her throat. “The freezer arrives day after tomorrow.”

He turned as if sensing her gaze on him. For a moment, dark eyes held hers. In the mocha depths she saw raw sexual energy. “It’ll be dry by tomorrow, and I’ll paint tomorrow night, and then your new freezer will have its place.”

Her mouth grew as dry as stale flour. “Ah.”

“Why are you so dressed up? Is it for me?”

Rachel straightened, embarrassed because she couldn’t stop ogling. She reached for her wine, lifted it to her lips, and then thought better of having more. “I had a date tonight.”

He arched a brow, curious now. “Ah. A date. What man took you out?”

His proprietary tone thrilled and intrigued her. “Simon Davenport.”

He folded those lean muscled arms over his chest as if posturing. “He’s a client, no?”

“A very good client.”

He didn’t seem impressed. “So where did this Simon take you?”

She traced the rim of her cup. “The food and wine expo.”

He studied her. “And the date was not to your liking?”

A small shrug lifted her shoulders. “It wasn’t bad.” A sudden memory flashed in her mind. “No, it was bad. So very bad.”

Dark brows rose. “Why? Was he terrible to you?”

“Oh, no. God, no. He was the perfect gentleman. I, however, was a mess. I couldn’t stop talking about the girls and Mike.” She closed her eyes as if trying to will away a memory. “I could hear myself talking about my dead husband, and the little voice in my head told me to shut up, but I couldn’t.”

He leaned a fraction closer, his gaze settling on her mouth. “And what did this Simon say?”

“He barely spoke. He listened because I couldn’t stop talking. I know I bored him to tears. I know he was so grateful to drop me off and run as far away from me as he could.”

He studied her a beat. “Did he kiss you?”

“What?” Heat burned her cheeks. “No.”

Jean Paul grunted.

Rachel leaned toward him. “What does that mean? Is that bad or good?”

He shrugged. “I would have kissed you.”

A laugh startled from her. “You’d have kissed me knowing I was a blathering idiot much like I am now?”

He unfolded his arms and picked up her hand. Slowly he traced her palm. “You’re a very beautiful idiot.”

She frowned, not sure if she should be mad or pleased. But as he continued to trace her palm with his calloused fingertip, her thoughts scattered and ran like frightened rabbits, leaving her alone with a forgotten sensation in the pit of her belly.

It had been so long since Rachel had been kissed or been held by a man. So long since she’d lost herself in an embrace and given in to pure sensation.

Simon had been utterly polite when all she’d wanted him to do was take charge of the conversation as Mike would have. But he hadn’t. He’d simply listened as she’d dithered.

Jean Paul raised her hand to his lips, and he kissed her palm.