"So.. .you got something against throw pillows?" I asked, withdrawing my hand.

"I don't like clutter."

"Believe me, this is the most z/ncluttery place I've ever been in."

He glanced over my shoulder at the pot on the stove. "What are you making?"

"Chicken and dumplings."

"You're the first person who's ever cooked in that kitchen. Besides me."

"Really?" I reached up to my hair and refastened my ponytail, pulling back the stray pieces that had fallen around my face. "I didn't know you were handy in the kitchen."

One of his shoulders lifted in the barest twitch of a shrug. "I took a class with a girlfriend a couple of years ago. Part of couples counseling."

"You were engaged?"

"No, just going out. But when I wanted to break up. she wanted to try counseling first. and I thought why the hell not."

"So what did the therapist say1?" I asked, amused.

"She suggested we find something we could learn together, like ballroom dancing or photography. We decided on fusion cuisine."

"What's that? It sounds like a science experiment."

"A mixture of cooking styles...Japanese, French, and Mexican. Like a saki-cilantro salad dressing."

"So did it help?" I asked. "With the girlfriend. I mean?"

Gage shook his head. "We broke up midway through the course. It turned out she hated cooking, and she decided I had an incurable fear of intimacy."

"Do you?"

"Not sure." His slow smile, the first real smile I'd ever gotten from him, caused my heart to thud heavily. "But I can make pan-seared scallops like nobody's business."

"You finished the course without her?"

"Hell, yes. I paid for it."

I laughed. "I have fear of intimacy too, according to my last boyfriend."

"Was he right'1"

"Maybe. But I think if it's the right person, you wouldn't have to work so hard at intimacy. I think—hope—it would just happen naturally. Otherwise, opening up to the wrong person..." I made a face.

"Like putting ammo in their hands."

"Exactly." Reaching for the TV controller. I handed it to him. "ESPN?" I suggested, and headed back to the kitchen.

"No." Gage left it on the news channel and turned the volume down. "I'm too damn weak to get worked up over a game. The excitement would kill me."

I washed my hands and began to lay the dumpling strips on top of the simmering chicken broth. The air was filled with a homelike smell. Gage shifted on the sofa to watch me. Acutely conscious of his unbroken stare. I murmured. "Drink your water. You're dehydrated."

He obeyed, taking the glass in hand. "You shouldn't be here." he said. "Aren't you worried about catching the flu?"

"I never get sick. Besides, I have this compulsion to take care of ailing Travises."

"You would be the only one. We Travises are bad-tempered as hell when we're sick."

"You're not all that nice when you're well, either."

Gage drowned a grin in the glass of water. "You could open some wine," he said eventually.

"You can't drink when you're sick."

"That doesn't mean you can't." He set his water down and leaned his head against the back of the sofa.

"You're right. After all I'm doing for you, you definitely owe me a glass of wine. What goes with chicken soup?"

"A neutral white. Look in the wine refrigerator for a pinot blanc or a chardonnay."

Since I know nothing about wine, I usually choose according to the label design. I found a bottle of white with some delicate red flowers and French words, and poured myself a glass. Using a big spoon, I pushed the dumplings deeper into the pot and added another layer.

"Did you date him a long time?" I heard Gage ask. "Your last boyfriend."

"Nope." Now that the dumplings were all in, they needed to boil for a while. I walked back into the living area, holding my wine. "I never seem to date anyone for a long time. All my relationships are short and sweet. Well.. .short, anyway."

"Mine too."

I sat in a leather chair near the sofa. It was stylish but uncomfortable, shaped like a cube and encased in a polished chrome frame. "I guess that's bad, isn't it?"

He shook his head. "It shouldn't take a long time to figure out if someone is right for you. If it does, you're either dense or blind."

"Or maybe you're dating an armadillo."

Gage shot me a perplexed glance. "Pardon?"

"I mean someone who's hard to set to know. Shy and heavily armored."

"And ugly?"

"Armadillos aren't ugly," I protested, laughing.

"They're bulletproof lizards."

"I think you're an armadillo."

"I'm not shy."

"But you are heavily armored."

Gage considered that. He conceded the point with a brief nod. "Having learned about projection in couples counseling, I'd venture to say you're an armadillo too."

"What's projection?"

"It means you accuse me of the same things you're guilty of"

"Good Lord," I said, lifting the wineglass to my lips. "No wonder all your relationships are short."