ONE WEEK LATER

At the peal of the doorbell, Trish Bailey looked up from the lesson plan she was preparing.

"Matt's here." Her mother adjusted the afghan thrown over her legs.

"Punctual, as usual."

"One of his many virtues."

Here we go again.

Expelling a breath, Trish set her paperwork on the sofa beside her and stood. "Do you want to meet with him in the kitchen?"

"Yes. He's handsome too."

Best to ignore that as well.

She moved toward the door, stopping to rest a hand on her mom's shoulder as she passed the wheelchair. "Can I get you anything while I'm up?"

"No. I'm fine."

Hardly. But Eileen Coulter had never been a complainer — before the car accident two years ago, or since.

She gave her mother's arm a gentle squeeze. "I'll be right back."

"After we finish, nap for me. Matt might stay for cake."

Although the words were stroke-garbled, the meaning was clear. Her mom wanted her to stop mourning and start living again — a message the older woman had been communicating with increasing frequency over the past few weeks.

"We'll see."

"Means no."

"It means maybe." Without giving her mother an opportunity to press the issue, she crossed the living room to the foyer. Her parents' accountant was nice ... and she'd enjoyed the lunch he'd suggested a couple of weeks ago ... but she was in no hurry to dip her toes back into romance.

Besides, much as she liked Matt, there was zero zing. Not like there'd been with John from the first moment they'd met.

But perhaps that kind of instant attraction, that immediate feeling of simpatico, only came along once in a lifetime.

The bell rang again, and she picked up her pace — and propped up her spirits. She wasn't going to sink back into the morass of self-pity she'd languished in for the first few months after the accident. If her mother, who'd suffered far more, could carry on with a cheery spirit, she would too.

Trish straightened her shoulders, tugged the hem of her tunic down over her leggings, and summoned up a smile of welcome.

But as she pulled open the door, her mouth flattened.

Mercy!

The tall, sandy-haired man on the other side had a stitched gash on his temple, a purple-hued bruise on his forehead, and one wrist encased in a removable brace.

"Matt! What on earth happened?"

He grimaced. "Car accident. I skidded on wet pavement last Sunday going around a curve and had a close encounter with a tree. That's why I emailed your mom and asked if we could postpone our meeting until today. Sorry to infringe on your Saturday."

"We didn't have anything else planned. Come in." She ushered him into the foyer. "Are you certain you're up to this?"

"Yes. The cut and sprained wrist are healing, and despite some memory lapses and headaches from the concussion, my ability to count beans is unaffected." He gave her a smile that seemed strained. "To be honest, you look more tired than I do. Everything okay?"

"Fine. Busy."

"You take on too much."

"I have obligations."

"More of them could be delegated. You need some downtime. You've been dealing with a lot of heavy stuff for two years, and long-term stress can take a toll."

No kidding.

But her stress level was private territory, even if their lunch date had introduced a more personal element to their relationship.

"I want to be here for Mom as much as I can." Her reply came out sharper than intended, and she moderated her tone. "Give me a sec to fill her in on your accident. Otherwise it might be too much of a shock. Why don't you meet us in the kitchen?"

To her relief, he let the personal subject matter drop.

After rejoining her mother in the living room and sharing the news, she pushed the chair toward the back of the house.

"Matt." Her mother held out her functional left hand as Trish wheeled her into the kitchen. "So sorry."

He grasped her fingers. "I'll survive. You're looking well."

"Doing fine."

"Glad to hear it. Are you ready to review some numbers?"

"Yes. I read the reports you emailed."

"Any questions?" He pulled his laptop out of the case and booted it up.

"No. Very thorough."

"Then this shouldn't take long. Trish ... are you going to sit in?"

"Yes." Her mother spoke for her. "Like always."

"Right." He touched his forehead gingerly. "This is causing a few memory glitches. I'll ask your pardon in advance if I have any other lapses."

"No worries." Her mother patted his arm.

Resigned, Trish scooted a chair down to the end of the table so she could see the screen. Since the charitable foundation her parents had set up six years ago would be hers to oversee someday, she did need to stay up to speed on the workings.

However ... despite her attempt to pay close attention, ten minutes in, she lost interest as Matt explained the tax implications of a donation to a charity her mother favored. Her mind drifted back to the lesson plan for Monday's fifth-grade art class, the supplies she needed to pick up for Tuesday's mixed media class, the field trip she wanted to arrange to the exhibit at ...

"I think we lost Trish a while back."

She zoned back in, her cheeks warming at Matt's amused comment. "Sorry."

"Numbers and Trish." Her mother shook her head, one side of her mouth curving up indulgently. "No interest. But superb teacher — and daughter."

"Well, you have me to deal with the numbers." Matt winked and closed his computer.

"Providential." Mom slid her a glance and yawned. "Nap time."

When Trish rose, Matt did too.

"I can see myself out." He slid the laptop into its case.

"No. Cake." Her mother motioned toward the two-layer chocolate confection on the counter.

"Um ... I still have to count your medicine for the week, Mom — and finish my lesson plans."

"Cake won't take long."

She waited, hoping Matt would pick up on her lack of enthusiasm and decline to stay.

He didn't.

Drat.

All she could do was wolf down her cake and hustle him out the door fast.

"If you can spare a few minutes, you're welcome to stay and have a piece." The invitation came out more grudging than gracious, and one of her mother's eyebrows rose.

Matt didn't seem to notice.

"Thank you. I'd like that." He retook his seat.

"Coffee." Her mother gestured toward the pot on the counter, ignoring the disgruntled look Trish shot her.

"I'll put some on. It can brew while I take you to your room."

She moved to the counter, paying more attention to the conversation behind her than the rote task. Only once did her mom edge into personal territory, suggesting that if Matt wasn't up to cooking yet after his accident, he might want to join them for one of her daughter's delicious meals some night this week.

Trish rolled her eyes and swung around. She and her mom needed to have a long talk. Soon. "We'll have to see if we can find a night that works. I've got some meetings after school this week, so we'll be having more takeout than usual. Ready, Mom?"

Without waiting for a reply, she pulled her mother's chair back from the table and wheeled her down the hall.

Once in the bedroom, her mom waved away Trish's attempt to introduce the subject of matchmaking, claiming she was too tired for discussion.

Trish let it ride — for now. However, the delay tactic would buy...