But Jen was smart. She would see through him.

He could only fake it for so long.

Jen's pedicab soon turned left onto Sand Dollar Way. Joe got a second wind. He was pedaling for a big tip. He pulled behind the first rickshaw just as Jen exited.

"Thanks, Dude." Mac slapped Joe on the back and hopped out.

Joe pedaled off and the second pedicab followed.

Jenna climbed onto the curb and he remained in the street. She stood very still and stared at him. Only craziness drove a man into a pedicab chase. He shifted several times, uncertain and feeling foolish. What to say?

She spoke first. "What the hell?"

"I stopped by for a visit." Not his best opening line.

"We saw each other ten minutes ago."

He shrugged. "It seemed longer than that."

"Trust me, it wasn't."

"I thought we were bonding back at your shop."

"Sorry, I didn't get that same feeling."

He kept at it. "I'm here, you're here."

She sighed heavily. "I don't understand you."

He didn't understand himself most days. This was not going well. "Are you going to invite me in?" he asked.

She closed her eyes and appeared to count to ten. "Better to let you in the front door than have you break a back window."

"I'd never do that."

She blinked him a look. She didn't believe him for a second. She turned and started up the stone sidewalk. The lawn swept wide and the grass was tall. Dandelions grew wild. The cottage sat back off the road. It was built on higher ground, which protected it from a storm surge.

A white picket fence bordered her property. Mac had never known anyone with a picket fence. He ran from women who wanted a house with a fenced-in yard, a two-car garage, and three children.

Damn, Jen already had the fence.

His stomach squeezed, but he didn't get nauseous, a good sign for him. He could hold it together if he tried.

He followed her. The stones were sun-warmed and smooth beneath his bare feet. He was so busy checking out her place, he stubbed his toe twice.

He'd nearly reached the cottage when the grass wavered, parted, and her cats appeared. He saw one, two-a total of four. They came after him, all big, sneaky, and slinking.

He was more of a dog than cat person. These four didn't seem crazy about him, either. They circled him. He swore one hissed. Were they feral?

"They're Savannahs," Jen said from the porch. "A pairing of the African Serval and a domestic cat."

Their wild African genes were visible to Mac; their domestic side, not so apparent.

"The cats have spots on their coats," Jen told him. "They will fluff out the base of their tails in a greeting gesture."

No fluff, Mac noted. He wasn't welcome.

A darkly furred male brushed his calf in a footrace to the steps. The cat won. He stopped on the top stair, claimed it. Mac watched the cat watch him. The Savannah was long and lean with boomerang-shaped eyes and a hooded brow. Cheetah-tear markings ran from the corner of his eyes down the side of his nose to his whiskers.

A second cat passed him. This one could leap. The Savannah made it from the sidewalk to the porch in a single bound. The cat should wear a cape. In a matter of seconds, all four surrounded Jen. Mac faced a gauntlet.

"Attack cats?" he asked.

"It takes them a while to warm to strangers."

How much time? he wondered. The Savannahs were shifty and suspicious, with a pack mentality.

"Do you plan to introduce us?" he asked.

"You're a passing acquaintance and won't be around long enough to know them well."

"Good manners, Jen," he persisted. "Their names?"

Her sigh was heavy; her expression exasperated. "They have African names. There are three males." She pointed to each one. "Jengo, Neo, and Chike."

Chike, Mac noted, was the black Savannah guarding the stairs. The cat gave him the evil eye.

"The female is Aba." She reached down and scratched the ear on a light-colored tabby. "Care to come in?" she challenged.

He had two options: walk back to the boardwalk or survive her cats. His decision came when Aba fanned her tail. Perhaps there was hope for him yet. He could charm most females.

Mac took a chance. He climbed the steps, keeping one eye on Chike. He didn't want his toes mauled or his calf used as a scratching post. He moved slowly.

Jen held the door for him. He entered, expecting cat paws on his heels. The Savannahs surprised him. One leaped onto the glider. The remaining three sought window boxes.

"No flowers for you," he said to Jen.

"The cats claimed the boxes years ago. Cool spots on a hot day."

"Do they come inside?" he asked.

"There's a cat door in the back," she said. "They come and go, but never leave the yard. They're loyal and territorial."

"You have four." He couldn't get over the number.

"They're my kids."

"No diapers, midnight feedings, or college funds."

"They also don't talk back and are more trustworthy than the men I date." She flipped on the ceiling fan and an overhead light.

He'd expected a cat smell, but the air was clean and fresh. He believed a home fit a person's personality, yet the cottage was in contrast to the woman. He took in her space. The inside shutters on the windows were open. The interior was bright and pleasant. Cozy.

Her furniture was overstuffed and comfortable. Bamboo runners ran throughout. What had he expected, straight-back wooden chairs and sharp-edged tables? Perhaps photos of her with the Wicked Witch of the West and her Flying Monkeys?

There were clusters of pictures, some taken of her family and others of her cats. How she'd gotten all four to pose around the base of a Christmas tree was beyond him, yet they'd stretched out, patient and alert. Mac could never have sat still that long.

His condominium was ten times the size of her cottage. Dune had helped him invest in the beachfront property. Size mattered. His place had entertainment value.

His condo had pitched ceilings, wide glass walls, and an open staircase that led to a loft. His furniture was made for his body. He'd let a designer pick the color scheme. She'd recommended pewter, sand, and sage. Chairs-and-a-half along with ten-foot couches were spread throughout.

He had an open-door policy to friends and fans. Company came and crashed at all hours. The more the merrier.

Jenna rested her hip against an armless chair. "What now?" she asked.

He glanced at her, then over her shoulder. Her backside was reflected in an oval mirror. She stood relaxed, her left hip jutting. The smooth tapering of her spine and sexy curve of her hips gave her body symmetry and flow. She had a sweet ass.

"Stop checking out my butt," she said sharply.

Busted. He met her gaze and smiled. "I thought we'd attend the bazaar, unless you'd rather have sex."

She didn't return his smile. Instead she arched a brow. "Have you seen yourself today?" she asked. "You're a moving mess."

He crossed to the mirror. He'd had better days. He was rough around the edges with his weed-whacker hair, dark circles under his eyes, and heavy stubble.

He'd grabbed the cleanest clothes in his pile of dirty laundry. His hoodie had paw prints near one pocket where Ghost had jumped on him after digging in the sand. He wore a white T-shirt underneath, soiled by a grease stain. He'd been eating french fries and used his shirt as a napkin. His board shorts hung just fine, low on his hips and a little wrinkled, but clean enough to wear a third day. He was barefoot and would need a pair of flip-flops or sandals to get into the Civic Center.

He glanced at Jen's feet. Small. He could wear a pair of her flip-flops if necessary. It didn't matter if his heels hung over the back.

"I've looked better and I've looked worse." He was honest. "Let's hit the bazaar for an hour, then part ways."

"Brush your hair first."

"I'd also like to shave."

Her gaze narrowed. "You want to borrow my brush and razor?"

"Like we were roommates."

"Which we're not." She looked inordinately pale.

"Where's your bathroom?" he asked.

"Down the hall, second door on the left."

He found it easily. He cleaned up the best he could. He shaved with her pink Lady Schick and wet down his hair. He liked her boar-bristle brush. He then added toothpaste to his finger and brushed his teeth. He gargled with a capful of her mouthwash.

He was soon as good as she was going to get.

He shrugged off his hoodie and tugged his shirt over his head on his way back to the living room. Jen stood in the same spot he'd left her. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"You're undressing."

"Just down to my boards. I need something clean. Any chance you have an extra shirt, size large?"

"You're imposing, Mac."

"One shirt, one hour. That's hardly an imposition."

Her sigh was long-suffering. "My nightshirt might fit you."

She slept in an oversized shirt. He liked that. He wondered if she wore panties. "No flowers, baby animals, or rainbows, I hope."

"It's solid black."

He could pull off black. "I need something for my feet" came out of his mouth next.

She pursed her lips. "My uncle left a pair of gardening boots in my garage. You're welcome to those."

She led him to the waterproof boots. They were brown, worn, and snug. His toes curled under. The fleece lining made his feet sweat. It seemed like he was standing in hell.

"You ready to go?" he asked.

She looked down on her belly shirt and shorts. "Quick change," she told him. He followed her from the garage.

"Care to introduce me to your vibrators?"

Her steps faltered. "Wait for me by the door."

He preferred her living room. He checked the bottom of his boots to make sure he wasn't tracking in mud or manure. The rubber bottoms were clean.

He walked around, biding his time. He opened and closed the shutters, sat in her antique rocking chair, and set her wall clock five minutes fast so she'd never be late.

She soon returned in a sundress and sandals. He stared. The light color set off her tan and the gauzy fabric was nearly see-through. He wondered if she wore underwear.

He was so into her, he almost dropped the T-shirt she tossed his way. He made a mad grab. He pulled it on and noticed her nipple imprints. He patted his hands down his chest. The cotton flattened.

He then sniffed his sleeve. "I smell like cake."

"Frosted Cupcake body lotion," she told him. "The scent is vanilla bean and butter cream."

Great, he smelled like dessert. He'd have to skip the main crowd at the Civic Center and walk the perimeters of the exhibits. He hated smelling edible.