Lucas Friar heaved a sigh of relief as the garage door closed behind him. He'd written today's date a hundred times during the past fifteen hours, yet hadn't realized the significance until he drove home from work to find the streets of his neighborhood crowded with Hobbits, Star Wars storm troopers, and Powerpuff girls, firefighters and Special Forces soldiers. Halloween, of course. His newly adopted community — Greenwich Village, New York — appeared to celebrate the holiday with great enthusiasm.

The front doorbell rang as he came into the kitchen, then rang again. Lucas jogged to the entry hall, fished his keys out of his pocket, and turned the big brass lock.

On the porch, upward of ten little goblins stared hopefully at him. "Trick or treat!" A contingent of adults stood on his front lawn, just outside the circle of light.

Lucas wiped his hand over his face. "Uh…I…" He didn't have any candy in the house. No apples or oranges. Handfuls of cereal wouldn't cut it. What the heck could he give these kids?

He held up a hand. "Wait just a second." Back in the kitchen, he surveyed his pantry. A box of Grape Nuts, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter. There was jam in the fridge, but he doubted PBJs would go over well.

The light shining in the laundry room caught his eye. He'd left it on this morning when he was searching for matching socks in the dryer. And on top of the dryer… That's it!

At the front door again, he crouched to kid level and held out the gallon pickle jar in which he saved the change from his pockets.

"One fistful apiece, okay?"

"All right!" They lined up efficiently to take their turns at the jar. "Thanks, mister."

"This is cool!"

"Awesome!"

His impromptu treat appeared to do the trick.

Wincing at his own stupid pun, Lucas straightened to watch the kids flee across the grass to his neighbor's porch, followed by their adult bodyguards. Then he turned to go inside to prepare his nightly gourmet dinner — a couple of PBJs and a glass of milk. What the menu lacked in variety, it made up in predictability.

"Dr. Friar?"

Hearing a woman's voice, he swung back around, automatically offering the jar. "Did I miss somebody?"

She stepped out of the darkness and onto the porch. "Not at all. And I'm betting the handout at Dr. Friar's house will be the talk of John Quincy Adams Elementary School tomorrow morning. But you and I have an appointment." Her smile was wide and bright as she offered a handshake. "Riley Matthews. Surprise Delights, Incorporated."

Lucas stared at her, his mind a total blank. "I'm sorry, it's been a really long day." Belatedly, he closed his palm against her warm one. "Come on in, please."

He led her through the dark family room to the adjoining kitchen, where there was light, a table, and chairs. "Have a seat." Setting the pickle jar on the table, he crossed his arms and leaned his hips back against the counter to take some of the weight off his tired feet. "Now, Ms. Matthews, I hate to admit it, but I don't have a clue as to why you're here. What are we meeting about?"

"Food."

"Food." Lucas scoured his brain. "Dinner?" Yes, he worked hard. Some nights he got home so tired he could hardly spell his own name correctly. But surely he would remember having asked this very attractive woman for a date.

She nodded, her big brown eyes sparkling with laughter. "Thanksgiving dinner."

"Thanksgiv —" He snapped his fingers as the pieces clicked into place. "Right. I remember — I asked my office manager to find somebody to make dinner for my family."

"And she called me. Surprise Delight is a catering firm." She definitely fit the description, with her shiny, cinnamon brown hair, cinnamon sugar freckles sprinkled over her creamy skin, and those deep chocolate brown eyes. "I'm here to discuss the menu with you." She'd pulled her hair back from her face with an orange velvet band and wore purple cats dangling from her earlobes.

The touch of whimsy made him realize he hadn't thought about how much fun Halloween could be for…fifteen years? Twenty? "That's great." He heard his stomach growl and, from the quirk of Riley Matthew's full lips, knew she'd heard, too. "Would you mind if I made a sandwich? I haven't eaten since…" The memory escaped him and he shrugged. "Whenever."

She opened her hands in a generous gesture. "Be my guest. But since I'm in the business of feeding people, I'd be glad to make a sandwich for you, if you'd like."

He turned from the pantry with bread and peanut butter in his arms. "No, that's…" Then again, the idea of someone else making him a simple meal seemed close to heaven. "Will you join me? If you get the sandwiches, I could change clothes."

"Sounds like a plan." She came to the counter as he set down the supplies. "I'll find what I need. Come back in ten minutes."

"Right."

Riley watched the dreamy Dr. Friar disappear into the shadows beyond the kitchen. Darby, his new office manager and Riley's middle school classmate, had warned her. Now, she believed — believed in the broad, rangy shoulders, the athletic build, the dark blond hair cut close to his beautifully shaped head. And the deep-set emerald eyes, looking warily out on the world as if he hoped for friendship but didn't expect it.

The house was nearly as magnificent as the man. As a kitchen aficionado, Riley definitely approved of the granite counter tops and professional-grade appliances, although she wasn't sure the room had ever been used for meaningful cooking. A peek inside the spotless double ovens pretty much confirmed that guess.

She put together four neat peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches, moved the pickle jar to the counter and set the glass-topped table with plates and two glasses of milk. Then, since Dr. Friar hadn't yet reappeared, she turned on the one lamp in the family room. Twice as large as the huge kitchen, this space offered a fireplace framed in black marble surrounded by exquisite paneling and built-in bookcases. Two long brown leather couches faced each other across the hearth, complemented by two tapestry armchairs and the lamp table between them.

Otherwise, the room was empty. No curtains or drapes, no pictures on the walls, no rugs on the floor. Not a single accessory, not even a poker with which to stir a fire, should one ever be lit in that pristine space. Altogether, Dr. Friar's house looked like a cold, heartless place.

Riley was still standing in the center of the room when Dr. Friar returned. He stopped short by the fireplace wall. "Something wrong?"

"Not at all. Let's eat." They sat at the table and spent a couple of silent moments inhaling their food. Finally, Riley sighed. "This is good. I haven't had a bite since dawn."

He raised a straight blond eyebrow. "A caterer doesn't get to eat?"

"Too busy cooking." She reached into her purse for her notebook. "Now, do you have an idea of what kind of food you'd like for Thanksgiving dinner?"

"Just the usual — turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rolls, vegetables, pies. Cranberry sauce. My mother likes cranberry sauce."

Making notes, she shook her head. "You don't really need a caterer for this. Every grocery store will have all these dishes prepared and available the day before."

"Yeah, I know." He put a hand on the back of his neck and rolled his head, obviously trying to loosen kinks. "But, see, this is a big deal. I just moved to Greenwich to start my animal hospital. Anyway, my whole family wants to drive over from Texas and celebrate the holiday. They weren't happy about my coming here, so my plan is to demonstrate that I'm doing fine and they don't need to worry anymore. I'd like everything to be really special, including the food. That's where you come in."

"I understand." Riley added a couple of notes to her list. "But I have to tell you, Dr. Friar —"

"Lucas." He finished the last of his milk and looked at her with an endearing white mustache above his firm — and very kissable — mouth. "Call me Lucas."

Riley repressed her smile. "I have to tell you, Lucas, that your grand plan doesn't stand a snowball's chance of working out."

"'A snowball's chance'? What are you talking about?" Frowning, Lucas wiped away his milk mustache with the paper towel Riley had provided as a napkin. "What's wrong with my plan?"

She braced her elbows on the table and shrugged, trying to keep her attention on the subject at hand, rather than on that well-shaped mouth. "You can hire me or any other caterer in town to prepare a terrific Thanksgiving dinner. But you don't have a place for your family to stay."

"Of course, I do — five thousand square feet of house, including four bedrooms, besides mine, and six extra baths. What more do I need?" He'd changed out of his surgical scrubs into a dark blue, long-sleeved T-shirt over soft, comfortable jeans, and socks, but no shoes. Something about the white socks, and those strong shoulders under blue cotton, made thinking a challenge.

Riley pushed back from the table and walked into the family room. With a safe distance between them, she turned to face him, holding out her arms. "Does this look like a home to you? Does this resemble the house where you grew up?"

Lucas glanced around, his brows drawn together in concentration. "Well, my mother has more furniture. And lots of…of stuff."

"Don't you think she'll expect something like that here?"

He shook his head. "Nope. No way. I had to do the dusting when I was a kid. Spent my Saturday mornings wiping off little china dogs and monkeys and fancy boxes and painted plates on tiny stands when I wanted to be out playing ball. I'm not having that clutter in my house."

Given such a pitiful portrait, Riley held up her hands in surrender. "But there's middle ground between bare and unbearable. Your family — which means who, by the way?"

"Mother, Dad, grandfather, sister and husband and two kids."

She widened her eyes. "That's a boatload of family, all right. And they won't be comfortable if you don't offer more than just the essentials in furniture. You need chairs, tables, lamps, a television for the kids…."

"You sound as if I've got time to do that kind of shopping." He rolled his shoulders, then rubbed the back of his neck again. "I was in surgery at six this morning. Even if I knew what to look for, I can't possibly make time for wandering around town to find it."

"How long have you lived in this house?" Riley clenched her fists against the urge to massage his neck and shoulders, get out those kinks that were driving him crazy.

"Six months."

"And all you've done is work?"

"That's why I'm here. I specialize in animal surgery. Animal surgeons are plentiful in Texas. There was only one overworked guy in New York. I came where the patients needed me."

"So now there are two overworked guys." Riley smiled and stepped close enough to put her hand on his arm. "I'll be glad to prepare a dinner your family can enjoy together. But I really do think you need to soften the house if they're going to be comfortable. And, more important, if they're going to believe you are."

After a silent minute, he nodded decisively. "Okay. You do it."

To Lucas' immense regret, Riley stepped back again, dropping her hand from his arm. "I beg your pardon?"

He persevered. "I'll pay you whatever you ask to make the place look like it should."

Those deep brown eyes had gone round with surprise. "I'm not a decorator."

"I don't want a decorator." This was the right plan. And the right woman to carry it out. He wasn't sure how he knew that. But he did. "I want somebody who understands my aversion to clutter and somebody who understands what needs to be here so my family will stop bugging me about coming back to Texas."

Her gaze focused, intensified. "You don't want to go back?"

"I went to college at Texas A&M University at College Station, in Texas. Did my training there, as well, but I never knew how tied down I was until I finally came up for air and realized I'd never left home." He shook his head. "I was twenty-seven and still a little kid. I decided it was time to grow up."

Riley gazed up at him, and he didn't look away, didn't try to avoid the frank interest in her face. He'd never said any of that to a woman. Somehow, though, he knew he could trust Riley Matthews with his confession.

She took a deep breath. "Well, then, I'll see what I can do about the house. Is there a color you especially hate?"

He thought for a second. "Red. In any form."

"Your mother likes red?"

"Loves it."

She laughed, and he loved the sound of it in his house. "No red. Do you want to show me what I'm up against?"

"Right this way." He led her upstairs and turned on the lights in the guest bedrooms. Each room had a bed, an armchair, and a chest of drawers or a dresser and mirror. The armchairs were identical, upholstered in a green damask he'd seen on a sample at the furniture store, and the four beige bedspreads were all the same, because he'd liked the heavy cotton fabric. Off-white blinds hung at the windows, matching the off-white paint on the walls. The off-white baths were supplied with green towels.

Riley stood in the last room and shook her head. "Dr. Friar, you are seriously color-challenged."

He considered that he'd done pretty well. "I had one free day before I started work. This was all I could manage."

"Now we've got four weeks. Place yourself in my capable hands and I guarantee the results will be breathtaking."

Lucas couldn't help the interpretation his mind chose to put on those words. "Sounds good. I'm game."

The woman across the room looked puzzled, and then horrified. "That's not what I meant!"

"Unfortunately, I know that." He grinned and turned the light off to give her time to recover. Starting down the stairs, he glanced up as she came to the top step. "Do you want to have your way in my bedroom, too?"

After a second's pause, Riley chuckled. "Of course," she said, in a voice suddenly gone deep and sexy. "What woman wouldn't?"

x x x

On Monday, Riley got her early morning cooking done, then went to Lucas' house and let herself in with the key he had given her. She walked through the rooms alone and tried to imagine coming home every night to such emptiness. How could the man survive like this?

That was the problem, she decided. He survived, and that was all. He had no ties outside the hospital, nothing and no one to draw him away from his work. Lucas had isolated himself with his studies and his training until his life withered around him. Even his reason for moving to New York had to do with the patients who needed him.

But Riley believed that, somewhere deep inside, he'd known he had to find a place to do more than just exist. A place to live. And her job — her calling — was to show him how. Why she should believe that, after only one meeting, she couldn't say. Love at first sight had never been part of her agenda. Destiny was a concept with which she felt comfortable. Life was work in progress, and she intended to make her work worthwhile. And to share it with Dr. Lucas Friar, for as long as they both should live.

In the following days, every moment she could squeeze from her cooking schedule she spent prowling fabric shops and furniture stores, searching for the right touches that would make Lucas' house a home. She read Consumer Reports in bed at night to choose the best television and sound system. She renewed her close acquaintance with the man at the paint-and-wallpaper outlet.

Her own small apartment accumulated the fruits of her searches — pillows and candlesticks and pottery, fabric samples and paint chips and wallpaper books. Maya Hart, a longtime friend and expert on art, spent several evenings sitting on Riley's living room floor, helping her choose patterns and colors.

"I can't go too bold," Riley warned. "He wants a very quiet, soothing house. After a day at the hospital, I expect he needs peace."

"I'm sure." Maya compared two shades of. "When do I get to meet this Huckleberry?"

"Huckleberry? Really Maya?"

"Fine! When do I get to meet this paragon?"

"Did I say he was a paragon?" She hadn't realized she'd revealed quite so much.

Maya smiled. "You said he was gorgeous, dedicated, intelligent, and…oh, yes, gorgeous. Sounds like a paragon to me."

"No, that's the way you talk about Josh."

"Oh, all right. You're just passionately involved in creating a comfortable home for this man in whom you have no personal interest. Who wouldn't understand something so…illogical?"

But, of course, Riley did have a personal interest. And every time she ran into him, that interest deepened. Just last night, she'd come over late, after work, to measure the upstairs windows. And Lucas had come up to see why his guest room lights had been left on.

"The Decorating Fairy, I presume." He stood at the foot of her ladder. "I'm reminded of the Shoemaker and the Elves. They finished his work for him every night and made him rich."

Riley grinned. "That's right, and at the end his wife sewed them clothes and he cobbled them each a cute little pair of boots."

"So, should I write you a coupon for a free bypass? That's my only skill, I'm afraid."

She turned sideways, leaned an elbow on the top of the ladder and propped her chin in her hand. "Somehow, I doubt that."

He stepped onto the bottom rung, aligning their bodies and bringing their faces very close together. "You doubt what?"

"That surgery is your only skill." Maybe it was their seductive position — or, more likely, the fantasies she'd been having about him as she lay alone in her bed at night — but Riley was feeling bold. "You'd have to be good with your hands to be a successful surgeon. So I'm sure…" At the glint in his eyes, her courage failed her.

"You're sure…?"

"I'm sure you'd be quite dexterous with…with knots and c-carpentry…all sorts of — of manual tasks."

Lucas stared at her for a long moment, his gaze intent, wondering. And then he dropped lightly back to the floor. "That's what you mean, hmm?"

She tried to recover her breath. "What else?"

"I'm wondering," he said, then winked at her and left the room.

x x x

The second week of November was one of the hardest Lucas had yet experienced in his new practice. Emergency surgeries popped up every time he turned around, and the regular surgery schedule was booked solid. Follow-up visits and consultations with other doctors took time. Several nights he simply walked straight through the house from the garage to his bedroom and fell face down on the bed, asleep before he hit the pillow.

On Saturday, he got home early — about seven p.m. - and stepped into a strange new world.

The house smelled faintly of…cider, he decided. He tracked the scent to the dozen or more gold candles in brass holders of various heights now grouped on the mantel. A low, square table sat between the two leather sofas, with a bowl of green apples — real apples, he discovered with approval — on top. A soft, tapestry-patterned blanket had been draped over the back of one couch, while velvet pillows in gold and green lay against the arm of the other. The space provided in the bookcase now housed a new, state-of-the-art television, and the remote control waited next to the bowl of apples. Firewood had been stacked neatly on the grate, ready for lighting.

Lucas found himself tempted to lie down, put his feet up and look for a ballgame on TV. But he was hungry. More important, he wanted to see what other changes Riley had brought to his house.

A tour upstairs yielded…nothing. That seemed strange, when she'd been so appalled by the lack of color. His bedroom hadn't been touched, either.

Or had it? He couldn't remember making the bed this morning — he'd been called in at five a.m. for a trauma case. But now the sheets were smooth, the pillows plump. And did he imagine that hint of spiced peaches in the air?

His stomach did the proverbial growling routine, and he decided he had to get sustenance or he would keel over. The refrigerator was his usual destination, so he went there first, wishing for something besides strawberry jelly. Grape would be a nice change. Maybe tomorrow he'd get to the grocery store.

But the fridge yielded those surprises he hadn't found upstairs — a foil container with a paper top marked "chicken and rice, heat in microwave four minutes on high." A big bowl of green salad. A whole apple pie and a pitcher of iced tea. Plus orange juice, fresh milk, bagels, butter, and cream cheese.

Lucas stood and stared for a long time. The pillows and blankets and candles — part of their agreement, and he expected to see a bill. Food, though…what did food mean?

Maybe Riley Matthews, caterer, couldn't stand to see anyone go hungry.

Or maybe — just maybe — Riley Matthews, an attractive and generous woman, cared enough about Lucas Friar to be sure he got fed on Saturday night. And if that was the case…

What should be his next move?

His next move turned out to be far easier than Lucas had imagined. Maybe even predestined. He woke up Sunday morning to find chilly November rain pouring down outside the windows. For some reason, the idea of going to a worship service occurred to him.

And the first person he saw, as he shut the church door on a wet gust of wind, was Riley Matthews.

"Lucas!" Her lovely face shone with pleasure as she came toward him. "Welcome to St. Peter's. Is this your first visit?"

He shook the hand she extended, then discovered he was reluctant to release her. So he didn't. "I thought I should get back in the habit of showing up on Sundays." Impulsively, he added, "That was even before I knew you were here."

She made no attempt to take her hand back. At his words, her gaze warmed like a goblet of fine liqueur held over a flame. "I'm glad you chose our church this morning. Let me find you a seat." Even as she turned away, her fingers clung to his for a few seconds. Lucas missed her touch as soon as it was gone.

Their progress to a suitable pew was delayed by introductions. Riley, it would seem, knew everyone in the congregation, from the grandparents to the youngest of babies. Lucas suspected he would have met them all, if the service hadn't started.

"I'm ushering today," she whispered, as she seated him. "But I'll find you later."

Her introductions continued after the service, in addition to several encounters with doctors and nurses Lucas knew from work. He was feeling quite comfortable as they reached the front door and the minister who stood there to greet each member of the departing flock.

But then Riley stepped up ahead of him and hugged an older man around the neck. "Daddy, I want you to meet somebody." Before Lucas could assimilate what he'd just heard, she caught his hand and drew him forward. "This is Dr. Lucas Friar, the client I've been telling you and Mom about. Lucas, this is my dad, Cory Matthews."

Lucas put his arm out for a handshake, though he wasn't sure a word could get past the lump in his throat. "I — I'm glad t-to m-meet you, sir." There didn't seem to be much more he could offer, especially since his brain had frozen solid. And the idea he'd come up with about asking Riley to lunch — which was why he hadn't paid attention to who was preaching — seemed completely hopeless.

The older woman who appeared beside Cory turned to Riley. "Honey, maybe Dr. Friar would like to join us at home for dinner."

Paralyzed now, as well as speechless, Lucas felt Riley squeeze his hand. "Thanks, Mom, but we've already made lunch plans. We'll take a rain check, okay?" Still holding on, Riley led Lucas out onto the front porch of the church. She looked up at him with a blush on her cheeks and a shy smile in her brown eyes. "You don't actually have to go to lunch with me. But I knew you weren't prepared for lunch with them."

When her hand started to slip away, Lucas held tight. "But I do want to go to lunch with you. I was thinking about that instead of the sermon." He hung his head in mock shame. "If I'd known I was going to meet your dad, I would have listened better."

Riley stared at him for a second, her soft, wide lips parted in surprise. "That's…" She shook her head, laughing. "That's perfect."

They went down the church steps and Lucas turned her toward his car. "So where should we eat?"

"Don't worry," she said, with another of those smiles he'd become addicted to. "I know just the place."

At Topanga's, Riley introduced Lucas to the manager, Katy Hart, and her daughter, Maya, both of whom stared in shock when he ordered fried chicken.

"It's bad for you, son." Katy shook her head. "You, being a doctor and all, should know that."

Lucas nodded. "Oh, I do. I see enough clogged arteries in a week to make you plan your meals around celery, carrots, and lettuce." Then he shrugged and grinned. "But what's the point of living a long life if you don't enjoy it? A little fried chicken now and then won't hurt."

Katy went back to the kitchen, nodding to herself, obviously pleased. But Maya frowned. "Now see what you've done? She's gonna feed me that line every time I remind her that we should start eating healthier. Thanks a lot, Huckleberry. Thanks a whole lot." She stomped off, pretending to be mad until she got behind the counter, then gave them both a smile and a wave.

Chuckling, Riley turned to face Lucas across the table. "If they only knew how you eat most of the time, my mom and Katy would probably come hog-tie you and drag you down here every night for a decent dinner."

"Speaking of which," he said, fixing her with that deep green gaze, "I really appreciate the food you left yesterday. I got home early enough to enjoy the chicken and two pieces of pie and a ballgame on TV. I don't know when I've had such a normal Saturday night."

She could feel a blush climbing to her face. "I'm glad. As long as I was there, I thought…" Taking a deep breath, she looked up from the napkin she'd been pleating. "What did you think of the candles and the table? Are the pillows too much?"

Lucas reached over and covered her right hand with his left. "Everything looked really good. I knew I could trust you." He tightened his hold for a second, then sat back and drew his hand away as Maya approached. "With everything."

His voice was so low, Riley wasn't sure she hadn't imagined that last part. Could he possibly mean…?

But then she got busy making more introductions, as friends she'd known since childhood arrived for Sunday dinner. Farkle Minkus came over to say hello.

"Farkle, Maya and I were friends since grade school," Riley explained as they drove back to the church, where she'd left her car. "Maya, has been helping me on your house, she's a very talented artist. She works for the museum but likes to help out at Topanga's on Sundays. She and I both worked there during our college days."

They reached the church parking lot, where her SUV sat alone in the rain. Lucas turned to face her. "Do you have plans for the rest of the afternoon?"

Riley wished fiercely that she could say no. "I have to go to work," she said, instead. "We're serving lunch to the Women's Club tomorrow. Sixty plates of chicken Florentine with wild rice pilaf, cranberry-pecan salad, and pumpkin mousse for dessert. I'm making the mousse today."

"Alone?" There was no mistaking the hope in his mellow voice.

A hope she had to destroy. "Two other people will be at Topanga's at three o'clock." She glanced at her watch. "Which gives me a whole five minutes. Good thing it's a small town."

Before Lucas could stir, she opened her door and stepped out into the rain. But when she got to the driver's side of her own car, he was there beside her.

"Okay, I give up." He heaved a mock sigh. "But it'll only take you three minutes to drive back to Topanga's. So you've got two minutes to spare."

She stared at him, confused. "For what?"

He cupped her face in his warm hands, took the one step that separated their bodies. Then he bent his head until their lips were a mere whisper apart.

"For this."