Mother in Training. Marie Ferrarella

was chipped away.

      He had no idea why it overwhelmed him, when other times he could go along regarding her as his children’s supernanny, a woman who somehow seemed to get everything done and not break a sweat. A woman his children seemed to adore and who could, thank God, calm them down even in their rowdiest moments.

      All he knew was that every so often, every single pulse point in his body suddenly became aware of her as a woman. A very attractive woman.

      He took a breath, trying not to appear as if his lungs had suddenly and mysteriously been depleted of the last ounce of oxygen.

      “No, can’t have that,” he murmured, then nodded his head. “Thanks.”

      She smiled that odd little smile of hers, the one that quirked up in one corner. The one he wanted to kiss off her lips.

      “Don’t mention it.”

      Jack merely grunted, then turned and walked quickly to the safe haven of the garage. He never looked back. Even so, he knew she was watching him.

      She made him feel like a kid. The last thing he should be feeling, given the responsibilities weighing so heavily on his shoulders.

      Damn it, what was wrong with him? He shouldn’t be letting himself react to her.

      But he had. And not for the first time.

      This was going to be a problem, Jack thought, getting into his BMW. He couldn’t act on his feelings. For the first time since Patricia had died, his children appeared to be happy. And thriving. If he gave in to the flash of desire—damn, it had been desire, he admitted with exasperation—and things went badly, what would he do? He hadn’t the first idea how to conduct a successful relationship. He had no blueprints to follow, no natural ability of his own—Patricia had been the first to point that out to him.

      Once things did turn sour between himself and Zooey, he mused, recapturing his train of thought, he’d be out one perfect nanny. And right back where he’d been in January, when he’d first asked Zooey to watch the kids.

      No, whatever was going on inside of him would have to remain there, swirling and twisting, and he was just going to have to deal with it.

      Heaven knew, he thought, driving away from his house and Danbury Way, dealing with “it” was a lot easier than sitting and interviewing another endless parade of less than perfect nannies.

      Out of the blue, the realization hit him right between the eyes.

      My God, he’d almost kissed her back there.

      What the hell was the matter with him? Jack upbraided himself.

      Sex, that was what was the matter with him, he decided. Sex. Or, more accurately, lack thereof.

      Jack swerved to avoid a car that was drifting into his lane, coming from the opposite direction. He swore roundly under his breath, feeling as if someone was pushing him onto a very thin tightrope.

      Or maybe that was just the pent-up hormones doing the talking.

      He hadn’t been with a woman since Patricia was killed. And hadn’t been with her in a while, either, except for that one time that resulted in Jackie.

      No wonder he felt so tense, Jack realized. He was an average male who had hormones roaming through his body like midnight looters. He needed an outlet.

      For a second, as he approached the end of the long cul-de-sac, he all but came to a stop. It occurred to him just what he needed. It was, God help him, a date. He needed to spend time with a woman who would take his mind off Zooey.

      Glancing into his rearview mirror, he saw Rebecca Peters standing outside her house. And she, as she turned around, saw him. Or at least his car.

      The wide smile was unmistakable.