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impotent and frustrated at trying to reason with a court system that catered more to moms than dads. Jack did not do helplessness well. And maybe the system should cater more to mothers, most of the time, but not in their case. And aw, hell, letting it all ooze back in his mind was like picking at a sore.
    With the house yawning empty, the smells of stale beer and cigars weren’t quite so appealing as they’d been earlier. He cracked a window, started sweeping dishes into the dishwasher, then found himself stalled at the sink window again.
    She was still up.
    It was just a pinch away from midnight, but now all the lights were on, both upstairs and down. The preposterously pink Christmas tree had a visible mound of wrapped packages under it. In the kitchen, the fridge door was closed, but he could see heaps of stuff on the counters—fruit, bags, bread and what all.
    He could also see the front doors—the double oak doors—gaping open.
    In January. With snow drifting down like confetti, testimony to the temperature.
    Maybe she wanted to chill the inside? Could she really be that flaky?
    When he saw her breeze past another window, he turned off the sink light. Naturally he immediately suffered guilt for spying on her…but he could sure see better without the background light.
    God knew what all the woman was doing, but she was sure doing it fast. Running. From room to room. Carrying things. Then vacuuming. And dusting. And then carrying more things.
    Midnight passed. Then one.
    By that time he’d long finished the cleanup, sanitized the chalk-and-granite kitchen, and was ready to hang it up for the night…but he couldn’t seem to resist one last look. She was still up. Still visible. He wasn’t sure what room she was in, because he didn’t know Charlie’s house that well, but she was still on the first floor—which meant she should have noticed the north wind blowing in her front door. She obviously hadn’t, though, because at some point she’d stripped off the bulky sweater he’d seen her in earlier. Beneath was a body-hugging tee, red as a raspberry, and a headline announcement that her front side was as exquisite as her damn-fine behind.
    The boobs weren’t huge. Just perky. Firm. Not round-round, more…well, when it came down to it, nothing else was exactly like a perfect breast shape, so there was no point in trying to compare it to anything.
    Jack vaguely realized he’d settled in, resting his elbows on the sink—and damn it, he had to work tomorrow!—but at that precise instant he couldn’t possibly move. She was peeling off that raspberry long-sleeved tee. He saw a strip of black bra, but only from the back. Then he lost sight of her—until he picked up her moving around two rooms down, when she turned back into the Vacuum Queen.
    Apparently she wasn’t stripping down to go to bed, like a normal human being past midnight on a weeknight. She was just peeling off clothes because she was hot from all that running.
    He was definitely hot from all that watching.
    With a sigh, he eased away from the sink, knuckled the sore muscles in his back, and grumped around until he located some shoes, then his jacket.
    He hadn’t looked at a woman seriously in the last three and a half years.
    There was a time he’d believed in honor, fidelity, loyalty and all the rest of that crap. There was also a time he thought he was different than his generation—because he really believed in marriage, in the vows, would never have gotten a divorce because of going through a stretch of trouble.
    But that was then.
    These days he took credit for being a commitment-phobic, allergic-to-rings kind of guy. If that made him irresponsible and selfish—well, he now wore those labels with pride. He’d done the honor thing and got kicked in the teeth. It was a “screw or be screwed” world. He had no intention of playing nice ever