“Johnny Dellasandro!”

No answer. She sighed and heaved herself onto the bottom stair, which jutted out at a forty-five degree angle from the staircase. She put her hand on the doorframe and leaned out of sight, then screamed his name so loudly I took a step back.

“That’ll get him,” she said with a nod and a grin and dusted her hands as though she’d just finished a particularly difficult task. “When he’s working it’s like his ears get filled with cotton.”

“I don’t want to disturb him.” He’d already made a practice of giving me the stink-eye. If I took him away from his art, I could only imagine the reaction I’d get.

She flapped her hands. “Pshaw. He’s been working all day long. He needs a break. And some cookies from a pretty girl.”

I smiled. “I don’t want to interrupt, that’s all.”

We both turned at the thud of footsteps on the stairs. I saw his feet first, bare toes. My own toes curled. Then the hem of a pair of faded jeans, hem ragged. Then Johnny stepped onto the last step and paused in the doorway. He looked perplexed.

“Whatchoo shoutin’ fooah?”

Fuck me, I loved that accent.

“You have comp’ny. For mercy’s sake, Johnny, put a shirt one!” The woman sighed and put her hands on her hips, shaking her head.

Not on my account, I thought, trying hard not to stare and not sure exactly where to look if it wasn’t at those delicious nipples. Fuck, his abs were hard, too. He might not be young, but he was still super fit and in better shape than some of the younger dudes I’d been with.

“Hi,” I said, relieved my voice didn’t shake or catch. I couldn’t do anything about the blush, but hoped my cheeks simply looked rosy from the cold and not from embarrassment.

Johnny stared at me. The woman looked from him to me, then back, and sighed. She took the plate of cookies from my hands and held it up to him.

“She brought you cookies, dumpkoff. You,” she said to me, “take off your coat and sit yourself.”

Her tone showed she was used to being obeyed, but I waited until he stepped off the stairs and all the way into the kitchen before I sat. I didn’t take off my coat, though. Johnny, casting a glance over his shoulder at me, crossed to another door that did prove to be a closet, where he hooked a hooded sweatshirt off the back and put it on. I mourned a little but was relieved at the same time. I was less distracted, that way.

“Now, I’m off, finally. Your dinner’s still in the oven and your groceries are all put away. I left your bills on the desk and your other mail in the basket,” the woman said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Espenshade.”

She flapped her hands again. “It’s what you pay me for, ain’t? Now I’m leaving and I’ll be back on Friday to take care of the cleaning. Don’t forget, now.”

“I’ll be here,” Johnny said, looking at me.

“I don’t care if you’re here or not. Maybe you should be away, then I could get more done.” She chortled at that and shook her head again. She patted my shoulder as she passed me. “Don’t let him eat them all by himself.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Espenshade,” Johnny called after her, but her only reply was the slamming of the front door.

“Hi,” I said again into the painful silence that followed. “I brought cookies. Chocolate chip. They’re homemade.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re better.” I smiled.

He didn’t. He didn’t open them, either. Nor did he sit. Johnny stood against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

I was too warm in the kitchen with my coat on, my scarf tucked tight around my throat. I didn’t dare unwind, it though. Mrs. Espenshade might’ve welcomed me in, but Johnny definitely wasn’t.

“I mean, why’d you bring me cookies?”

“To say thank you for helping me out the other night. For the tea. Because you had crappy pre-packaged cookies and I knew I could give you better.” My voice rose a little with each sentence, and I had to bite off my words to keep from sounding too strident.

Something flickered in his gaze, some indiscernible emotion passed over his mostly impassive face. “Okay. I’ll eat them later.”

He was dismissing me yet again. This time felt even worse, because I’d come bearing gifts. Because I’d thought, somehow, it would make a difference. I got up from the table.

“I live right down the street,” I said, too loud. Too bold.

Again, Johnny’s gaze flickered. “Yeah? It’s a nice street. Lots of people live on it.”

My mouth thinned. “I guess they do.”

Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t quiet. It was full of the beat of my heart, the hitch and shift my breath. It was strung tight with tension, thrumming like a plucked guitar string. I moved out from behind the table.

“My kitchen has an island,” I said with a lift of my chin that meant nothing to him and everything to me. “I’ll show myself out.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“You really don’t have to. I can find my way.” I spun on my heel and stalked down the hall toward the front door.

Johnny padded after me on bare feet and got there just about the same time I did. It could’ve been because his legs were longer, but I think it was because, despite my insult, I was hanging back in hopes he’d show me some tiny measure of interest. Even a scrap. And realizing this made me so angry I grabbed at the doorknob and yanked, not knowing it was locked. Foiled in my grand exit, I let out a low, angry noise. I turned on him.

“I said I could find my way out.”

Johnny, looking into my eyes, reached around me to unlock the door. My eyes fluttered at his closeness. The brush of his breath on my hair, the heat of his body. I wasn’t too angry to get a little thrill, even though I hated myself for it. I hated more that he could see it on my face, that lust. It didn’t matter if he was used to it. I wasn’t used to it.

“Here,” he said. The lock clicked. He didn’t move away for one interminable second. Then he stepped back, freeing me to move.

“They’re good cookies,” I said flatly. “For whatever that’s worth, which apparently nothing.”

My voice was hard, and he blinked. “I’m sure they’re great.”

“You’re welcome.” I opened the door.

Cold air rushed in, frigid enough to force the breath from my lungs in a small gasp and bring tears to my eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t the cold air. I drew myself up and forced myself to walk, head high, down his front steps and onto the sidewalk that he’d made sure was heavily salted and ice-free.

When the door didn’t shut behind me, I turned to look back. Johnny stood silhouetted in the doorway, golden in the light spilling out around him. He’d put one hand up high on the doorframe, the other on his cocked hip. He had to be cold, what with his feet bare and nothing on beneath his sweatshirt, still mostly unzipped. But he didn’t go inside.

“You know, I thought maybe you didn’t talk to anyone because you were a little shy. Or maybe because you were cautious.”

His head cocked to match his hip. “Oh yeah?”

I put my hands on my hips. “Yeah. I mean, I know it must be a pain in the ass to have people bugging you when you’re just trying to have a cup of coffee and a muffin.”

“Yeah. That can be a real pain in the ass,” Johnny said slowly.

I narrowed my eyes, wishing I could read his expression. “But you know what?”

“What,” Johnny said, and damned if he didn’t sound amused.

“I don’t think it’s because you’re shy or because too many people bug you, because let’s face it, most people don’t even know who you are any more. Or they don’t give a damn.”

His shoulders lifted and fell at that, a laugh or a shrug, with his face in shadow I couldn’t tell. “What about you?”

“I know who you are,” I told him.

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “But do you give a damn?”

I turned at that, my fists clenched. Then I turned back and forced myself to say, “Yes. I do.”

“Why?”

I didn’t know why. It was more than the ass, the face, the long-past fame. It wasn’t his art. It wasn’t his house, his money. It wasn’t even his coat or that long scarf I loved.

It was the heat of summer, and it was the taste of him I knew I couldn’t know. It was the feeling of his hair in my fingers and his cock up deep inside me, and it was the sound of his voice saying my name when he came.

It was the smell of oranges.