Hailey finished cleaning up her lunch mess and made her way into the living room studio to work on her latest sculpture, a mixture of thrown pottery and sculpted figures. She had it sketched out on drawing paper and now tacked the image to her easel, but she would have to see how the piece turned out in reality.

She had spent the morning replacing the thermostat on her big kiln in the back yard--a task that had gone rather smoothly considering the electronic complexity of the contraption. The warm sunshine and fresh spring breeze had invigorated her, giving her a peculiar sense of anticipation, and she looked forward to injecting that sense into the piece she'd hastily sketched.

After retrieving a lump of clay from a bag in the cabinet, she sat down at her potter's wheel and tossed the clay into the center. Then she added water to the reservoir from a jug she kept on the floor at her feet, and turned the wheel on.

In the corner of her vision, she saw Picasso take up his station on the couch, regally arranging himself on a pillow and tucking his misshapen paw beneath his chest.

"I have a good feeling about today," she told the cat. "Nothing like the great outdoors for getting the creative juices flowing, don't you agree, Picasso?"

One feline eyebrow rose noncommittally.

She sighed almost wistfully as her hands began their work. The cool slippery clay felt wonderful, and she smiled as inspiration seemed to flow from it as it molded and smoothed under her skillful touch. This was what she loved to do most--create with her hands--and the clay had never failed her. Even when pieces hadn't turned out exactly as she'd envisioned them, they were still skillful masterpieces in their own right, and presumably brought some measure of joy to those who purchased them. The fact that others appreciated her work enough to pay money for it never ceased to amaze her, and she was thankful that she could pay her bills with the fruits of her creativity.

Slowly the clay began to take on recognizable shape--a tall tube, smooth and shiny. Suddenly a loud knock at the door interrupted her concentration.

She exhaled noisily and turned the wheel off, holding the clay steady until it stopped spinning. Her guest was probably her neighbor, Dorothy, who never used the doorbell, returning her hedge clippers. She'd liked Hailey's topiaries so much that she had decided to experiment with her own overgrown bushes. Hailey had tried to warn her about attempting complex animal shapes before mastering the basic circles and ovals, but Dorothy was confident and started snipping away. Now instead of overgrown bushes, Dorothy had a wonderful menagerie of animals as yet unknown to modern science.

Hailey wiped her hands on her clay-caked apron as she padded barefoot to the front door, Picasso close on her heels.

When she swung the door open, it was not Dorothy who stood on her top step, but a tall man with nearly-black hair and arresting cobalt blue eyes. Immediately her heart began to thunder in her chest, goose bumps cropped up on her arms, and Hailey felt an odd sense of recognition, as though something deep inside her recognized something deep inside him.

"Can I uh--Can I help you?" she asked, shaking off the unsettling sensation.

"Hi, I'm Ryan Matthews. I'm a friend of..." his voice trailed off as he looked at her, a strange expression on his face. His gaze caught hers and after a long moment he asked, "Have we met before?"

Hailey tilted her head at him and smiled. Was that a come-on or did he actually feel the same weird sense or recognition? Either way, she was sure she'd remember having met him before. "No, I don't believe we have."

"Hmm." He furrowed his brow and gave his head a shake, then shrugged. "I'm a friend of Donnie Howard, your newspaper carrier. I'm helping to fill in for him this week while he's on his honeymoon."

"Oh, Donnie got married? That's wonderful!" Donnie was the sweetest man she knew, though she only actually saw him two or three times a year when he came to collect subscription fees. He was a jovial guy in his mid sixties who did the paper route to keep himself busy.

"Nah. He and my mom were married fifteen years ago. Never had a honeymoon, so I sent them to Cancun for their anniversary."

"How very thoughtful of you." Hailey was impressed.

He blushed and looked down. "You're Hailey, right?"

She nodded, surprised. Perhaps they had met before. Otherwise how would he know her name? Then she followed his gaze and saw her name and address printed on the top sheet of paper on the clipboard in his hand. Duh. "I guess it's collection time again, huh?" She glanced down to see Picasso rubbing himself lovingly around Ryan's legs.

What in the world?

Ryan peered around his clipboard, too, and chuckled softly. The sound sent a warm giddy feeling bubbling through her. "Friendly cat," he said and returned his smiling gaze to her face.

Hailey shook her head, somewhat dazed by the oddity of the situation. "He's not usually. He normally runs and hides under the bed when anyone so much as sets foot on the porch."

Now Ryan tilted his head at her. "Are you sure we've never met?"

"I don't think so, but you do seem familiar..." she conceded.

"I run an Internet and computer consulting firm, maybe I've been in your office."

"Nope. This is my office. I'm an artist and work from home." Which reminded her--clay had hardened on her hands. "Tell you what. Why don't you come in and have a seat while I wash my hands and get my checkbook." She motioned to a barstool by the kitchen counter.

He nodded absently and stepped inside, gently nudging the cat aside. "Maybe we went to school together. I went to Tech."

"I went to State." She flipped on the faucet in the kitchen while he settled onto a stool.

"Okay, how about high school? Where'd you graduate?"

"Belgium. Grew up military."

Suddenly Picasso jumped into Ryan's lap.

"I'm sorry, you can just push him down. I don't know what's gotten into him." Her hands were wet, or she would have done it herself. What in the dickens had possessed her normally shy cat?

"It's okay. I like animals." He turned his attention to the cat and stroked the feline's ear. "Hey buddy. I'll bet you have a cool name like Rembrandt or Donatello. Am I right?"

Hailey grinned as she dried her hands with a dishtowel. "Picasso."

Ryan touched the abstract-looking black spots on Picasso's otherwise white face. "You look like a Picasso."

When Ryan did not resume stroking the cat's ear, Picasso batted him with his paw to get his attention.

The ploy worked. "What happened to his paw?" Ryan asked as he obediently resumed petting the cat's head.

"I'm not actually sure. He might have been born with it that way, or he might have been injured as a tiny kitten. He was in an abandoned litter my friend Anne found in her shed."

"A cat with a mysterious past, then? What made you choose him?"

"I didn't. I had told Anne I didn't want a kitten, because I'm not generally a cat person. But I accepted her innocuous dinner invitation evening, and this guy sat at my feet and tapped my leg with that paw, mewling until I picked him up."

"And then you couldn't put him down again, huh?"

Hailey shook her head. "That was two years ago."

"I once had a bull mastiff I got the same way." At the mention of a dog, Picasso jumped from Ryan's lap.

"Once?"

"He lives with my brother now."

Hailey noticed a flicker of frustration cross his face, but didn't pry further. It was none of her business.

He tilted his head at her again, as though searching for some answer. "The gym," he said suddenly, blue eyes scanning her trim frame.

"Pardon?"

"Do you belong to a gym? Maybe we've met there."

She shook her head and pointed to the sculling machine and rack of hand weights in one corner.

"Do you go out to clubs? Have you been to the Kamikaze?"

"Not since college." Good Lord, had it really been six years since she'd been out dancing? "My work takes up most of my time so I don't get out much." Okay, it was a small fib. The truth was that she was a veritable recluse who spent most of her time with her cat. Having always been on the shy side, she didn't have many friends, and those she did have were even less outgoing than she was.

Ryan let out a breath of frustration. "I guess we really haven't ever met before. I just can't shake this feeling that--" He rubbed a palm over the back of his neck. "How odd."

She smiled at the genuine distress in his voice as she started to write out a check for her newspaper fees. "I know what you mean."

"Do you feel it too?"

Hailey glanced up in mid-check, unsure how to respond, and found his intent gaze fastened on her. Her heart flip-flopped in her chest and warm desire pooled low in her abdomen. She had the inexplicable urge to tear off her clothes, hop into his lap, and beg him to take her right here and now. She cleared her throat looked quickly away, somewhat horrified by the blatantly wanton direction of her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you--"

Heat crept into her cheeks. "You didn't scare me, exactly." She finished writing out the check and handed it to him. "Do you have this conversation with all the young single ladies on Donnie's route?"

For a split second she sensed his offense, but then bewilderment settled over his features. "No, I've never had this conversation with anyone in my life." He sighed deeply and stood up. "Most unsettling."

They walked to the front door in silence, Hailey wondering how to reassure him without seeming too forward. But he opened the door and turned to her before she could think of anything suitable.

"Well, it was nice to meet you, Hailey Tovar," he held out his hand and gave her a warm smile.

Hailey reflexively took his hand and shivered as his long fingers engulfed her own. "It was nice to meet you, too, Ryan Matthews." She looked into his blue eyes and goose bumps once again cropped up on her arms. She could almost feel the heat of delicious possibility crackle around them as he held her gaze for long moments. Then he reluctantly released her hand, turned and headed down her steps.

She grinned as she got a great view of his cute rear. "Say hi to Donnie for me," she called to his retreating back. He turned his head and smiled with a nod.

Hailey closed her door and leaned against it. What an odd encounter.

What an intriguingly sexy man.

She shook her head and padded back to her wheel where the tube of clay now seemed somehow phallic. When traitorous thoughts again invaded her head, she decided to start over and crumpled the clay into a ball. Critics had described her artwork as fresh and innovative, but certainly they hadn't meant that fresh and innovative.

Picasso resumed to his spot on the couch and watched her with his usual bland interest, his uncharacteristic loviness apparently forgotten.

She shook her head again and switched the wheel on once more, centering the clay with her hands as it gained speed.

Thirty minutes later, Hailey still sat at her wheel, staring blindly at the spinning lump of clay that had now begun to dry, thinking about Ryan Matthews, unable to concentrate on her work. She rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands.

With relief, she heard the mail truck pull away from the curb in front of her house and stood up, switching the wheel off with her foot as she did so. Perhaps checking her mail--an everyday, mundane task--might help her focus again. She untied her apron and folded it across the counter as she walked to the sink to wash the dried clay from her hands again, then slipped on her sandals and headed out the door.

But as she pulled her front door closed behind her, she spotted Ryan across the street, knocking on Mrs. Alverson's door. Her heart thundered anew.

He turned away from the door and started to walk down the steps, but paused when he saw her.

She tried to feign nonchalance and strode to her mailbox, feeling his eyes on her with every step. Her senses vibrated, her pulse thrummed. Undeniable need coiled within her. She wanted him, despite every rational part of her brain screaming that this was not even slightly logical.

At the curb, she smiled at him before retrieving her mail. Then, after a long moment, she brushed her windswept hair out of her face and tried not to sashay up her walk, or as she ascended her three steps. On the porch, she turned and looked at him again, for she knew he still watched her, could feel his gaze. Though neither moved, an unspoken, yet very clear communication passed between them and he started across the street. She opened her front door and stepped inside, leaving it open. Moments later he stood in the doorway.