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he wasn’t mistaken, he could see the faint mark where Laurel’s knuckles had connected with his cheekbone.
    She’d always been tough, he thought as he toed off his shoes. Tough, strong, and damn near fearless. Most women would’ve screamed, wouldn’t they? But not Laurel—she fought. Push her, she pushed back. Harder.
    He had to admire that.
    Her body had surprised him. He could admit it, he told himself as he stripped off the torn T-shirt. Not that he didn’t know her body. He’d hugged her countless times over the years. But hugging a female friend was an entirely different matter than lying on top of a woman in the dark.
    Entirely different.
    And something it was best not to dwell on.
    He stripped off the rest of his clothes, then folded down the quilt—the work of his great-grandmother in this case. He set the old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock beside the bed, then switched off the light.
    When he closed his eyes, the image of Laurel lying on the stairs popped into his head—lodged there. He rolled over, thought about the appointments he had the next day. And saw her walking away in those brief red boxers.
    “Screw it.”
    A man was entitled to dwell on whatever he wanted to dwell on when he was alone in the dark.

    I N THEIR MONDAY MORNING HABIT, LAUREL AND PARKER HIT their home gym at nearly the same moment. Parker went for yoga, Laurel for cardio. Since both took the routine seriously, there was little conversation.
    As Laurel approached her third mile, Parker switched to pilates—and Mac trudged in to give the Bowflex her usual sneer.
    Amused, Laurel throttled back to cool down. Mac’s conversion to regular workouts stemmed from her determination to have happening arms and shoulders in her strapless wedding dress.
    “Looking good, Elliot,” she called out as she grabbed a towel. Mac just curled her lip.
    Laurel unrolled a mat to stretch while Parker gave Mac some tips on form. By the time she moved on to free weights, Parker was shoving Mac to the elliptical.
    “I don’t wanna.”
    “Woman does not rule by resistance training alone. Fifteen cardio, fifteen stretching. Laurel, where did you get that bruise?”
    “What bruise?”
    “On your shoulder.” Crossing over, Parker fluttered her finger on the bruise exposed by Laurel’s racer-back tank.
    “Oh, I tripped under your brother.”
    “Huh?”
    “He was wandering around in the dark when I went down for some tea—which ended up being cold pizza and a soda. He ran into me and knocked me down.”
    “Why was he wandering around in the dark?”
    “My question exactly. Beers and Mrs. G. He crashed in one of the guest rooms.”
    “I didn’t know he was here.”
    “Still here,” Mac said. “His car’s out front.”
    “I’ll see if he’s up. Fifteen minutes, Mac.”
    “Nag. When do I get my endorphins?” Mac demanded of Laurel. “How will I know when I do?”
    “How do you know when you orgasm?”
    “Yeah?” Mac brightened. “It’s like that?”
    “Sadly no, but the principle of ‘you know when you get there’ is the same. Are you eating breakfast here?”
    “I’m thinking about it. I think I’ll have earned it. Plus, if I call Carter to come over, he can talk Mrs. G into French toast.”
    “Do that then. I’ve got something I want to show you.”
    “What?”
    “Just an idea.”
    It was just after seven when Laurel, dressed for the day, sketchbook in hand, stepped into the family kitchen.
    She’d assumed Del would be gone, but there he was, leaning against the counter with a steaming mug of coffee. In a near mirror image of the posture, Carter Maguire leaned on the opposite counter.
    Still, they were so different. Del, even in the torn shirt and jeans, projected a kind of masculine elegance, while Carter exuded a disarming sweetness. Not sugary, she thought. She’d have hated that—but an innate sort of niceness.
    And despite Del’s fumble in the night, he was agile, athletic, while Carter tended toward the