T TURNS OUT she’s a little bit right.

That night, I’m at home as usual, already dressed in my pjs at eight-thirty, a huge basket of laundry on my coffee table. Ever since my Skip days, I’ve been a baseball fan, and, because it’s a Maine state law, I am a devotee of the Boston Red Sox. I watch with smug satisfaction as the designated hitter clips a double into right field, then decide I deserve that Ben & Jerry’s. While I rummage in the freezer, there’s a knock on my door.

“Sissy, it’s me, your favorite brother,” Jonah calls.

“Dmitri?” I call.

“Wicked funny,” he says.

“Come on in,” I say.

“TV’s out at the firehouse. Can we watch the Sox game with you?”

“Sure. It’s already on.” The freezer is crammed with foil-wrapped leftovers from the diner and I can’t find the damn ice cream. Shoot. “Um, who’s we?”

Jonah sticks his head in the kitchen door. “Just me and Stevie. Malone, too.”

I jerk my head out of the freezer. “Malone?”

“Ayuh,” Jonah says, turning his head to see the TV. “Saw him at the dock, asked him if he wanted to come.” He seems unaware of the import of his actions, but then again, Jonah is unaware of much in life. He blinks owlishly at me.

“Right, Malone,” I say. “Okay. Sure. Yeah. That’s fine.”

A sudden image of my laundry causes me to lunge into the living room. I’m too late. Underwear of varying ages litters the coffee table. “You need some new stuff, Mags,” Stevie says, snatching up a pair of once-white panties.

I reach for them, feeling my face go nuclear-hot. “Out on parole, I see, Stevie.”

“Maybe some thongs. I like a woman in a thong,” he says.

“Not that you’ve ever seen one,” I say, snatching the panties back. I stuff them, along with my faded bras and T-shirts, deep into the laundry basket. “Hi, Malone,” I say, hoping my voice sounds casual.

“Maggie,” Malone says.

He makes the boys look like just that—boys. He’s not smiling exactly, but he’s not glaring, either, and he doesn’t look away. It seems very small in my apartment; of course, it is a very small apartment, and three full-grown males make it microscopic.

“Got any beer, Maggie?” Jonah asks. “Maybe a snack?”

I yank a sweatshirt over the tank top I’m wearing. “Sure, hang on. Don’t move him, Stevie, he’s old,” I say as my brother’s friend, who must weigh close to three hundred pounds, tries to wedge himself in next to Colonel. “Sit on the floor.”

“Me or him?” Stevie asks.

“You, dummy. Want a beer?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He bats his eyes at me and lies on my floor, taking up approximately half of it.

I speed back into the kitchen and open the freezer again, letting the frosty air cool my face. Calm down, Maggie, I urge myself. Nothing to worry about. Malone’s here, it’s no big deal. Just think of him as another one of Jonah’s annoying friends.

“Need some help?”

Malone leans in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. His coat is off, and he’s wearing a faded blue work shirt. The color matches that of his eyes, and he’s so attractive, tall and angular and so damn male that I feel slightly dizzy.

“Sorry, what did you say?” I ask, pretending to look in the freezer for something.

“Need any help?”

In the other room, Stevie and Jonah give a yell and high-five each other. “No, I’m fine,” I tell my other guest. “So, Malone, what a surprise. Are you a big Sox fan? I mean, you probably are, I guess we all are, right, living here in Red Sox Nation and all th—”

“Not really,” Malone says, stepping closer to the fridge, where I continue to stare. “Your brother asked if I wanted to come over and watch the game here, and I said yes.”

“Really. Uh-huh. And, um…why is that?” I ask, leaning a little deeper into the freezer.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Oh.” I risk a glance at his face, and the little smile he’s wearing causes a tug of desire to pull at my insides. “I do have a phone, you know,” I whisper. Without thinking, I take an ice cube from the bin and press it against my forehead.

“I don’t like talking on the phone,” Malone says softly, and his voice scrapes a soft place in me.

“Really? What a surprise,” I manage. He reaches out and smoothes the little hairs at the back of my neck, and my knees practically buckle.

“Maggie! How ’bout that beer, hon?” Stevie calls from the living room.

“So is it okay?” Malone asks.

“Is what okay?” I ask, tossing the ice cube in the sink.

“Is it okay if I stay?”

I look him full in the face. It’s a face I’m really starting to like, I realize. “Sure,” I say, smiling. He grins back, and my heart squeezes hard, because his front tooth has the tiniest chip in it, and that imperfect smile makes him suddenly the most delicious, appealing man I’ve ever seen, and without even being fully aware of what I’m doing, I’ve wrapped my arms around his neck and am kissing him greedily, relishing the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow, clutching his hair, practically wrapping my legs around him.

Malone’s hands slide under my shirt, and his hands are so hot after the cold air from the freezer, his mouth hard and soft at the same time—

“Maggot! The beer!” my brother yells. “Come on, you’re missing a great game.”

With a shaky laugh, I untangle myself from Malone. His eyes are smoky. “Listen,” I say, swallowing, glancing toward the living room, “I’d rather that Jonah…um…well, not know about this…you know, this thing of ours. Okay?”

Malone opens the fridge and takes out a couple beers. His face is back in its usual lines. “Sure.”

For the next hour, Stevie and Jonah ignore me, except to ask for snacks, which I bring to them obligingly, glad for the excuse to distract myself from the lust that writhes around in the pit of my stomach. Malone deigns to drink a beer, but he doesn’t eat anything. Stevie takes up most of my floor space, and Jonah has the club chair that I got three years ago at a going-out-of-business sale in Bangor. Malone and Colonel sit on the couch, the dog’s head in Malone’s lap. Malone’s hand rests on the dog’s shoulder, and Colonel sighs contentedly once in a while.

I fold my laundry discreetly, putting my shirts and jeans on top of anything I don’t want the guys to see. I sneak a look at Malone every once in a while, and each time I do, he seems to know. Blushing becomes my permanent facial state. I pretend to watch the game, though the Sox could have all been murdered and left disemboweled on the field for all the attention I truly pay.

It’s Stevie, good old Stevie whom I’ve known since he was in kindergarten, who livens things up.

“Hey, Maggie,” he says idly, eyes fixed on the TV, “I heard you told Father Tim you were in love with him the other night. At the spaghetti supper.”

I choke on the beer I’m nursing, the fizzy burn surging up my nose. Stevie and Jonah roar with laughter. Malone, I note through tearing eyes, does not.

“Yeah, so what’s going on, Mags? You dating Father Tim?” Stevie continues.

“No!” I rasp. “No! Of course not! Jeez! I’m not—God!” Malone isn’t moving, just staring/glaring at me, his eyes like chips of ice.

“That’s not what I heard!” Stevie singsongs. “Have you kissed him yet, Mags? Father Tim and Maggie, up in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”

“Jesus, Stevie, you’re such an ass,” I say, getting better control of my voice. “I wasn’t…there’s nothing…he’s a priest! Come on! Kissing! Jeez.”

“’Cause, Maggie, if you’re that desperate, I could help you out, babe. Show you a good time, if you know what I mean.”

“Jonah! Can you beat him up or something? That’s your sister he’s talking about,” I remind my brother, shooting another nervous glance at Malone.

“Shut up, Stevie,” Jonah says automatically, stuffing a fistful of popcorn into his mouth.

“I’m not dating Father Tim,” I say emphatically, my eyes darting between Malone and Stevie. “He’s a priest! Of course I’m not…you know. Oh, look, another run.” Thank God, I think, as the Red Sox divert Stevie’s tenuous attention.

It doesn’t divert Malone’s. He continues to look at me, the lines that run between his eyebrows and slash alongside his mouth harsher. I shrug as if to say, Stevie, what an ass, but I’m betting my face gives me away. Goddamned fair skin.

At the next commercial break, Malone extricates himself from Colonel and the couch. “Thanks, Maggie. Guys. I’m gonna go.”

“The game’s not over!” Stevie protests.

“Gotta get up early,” Malone says. “See you.” He grabs his coat and opens the door. I start to go after him, then stop.

“Okay, bye, Malone. Nice to see you,” I call out idiotically. He gives a curt nod and walks out, his feet thumping down the stairs.

“There’s an odd one,” Stevie says, glancing at the door.

“He’s not bad,” Jonah says mildly. “Hey, Maggot, got any more beer?”

Because my luck is pretty bad these days, the Devil Rays (the Devil Rays!) somehow catch up with the Red Sox, and the game goes into extra innings. It’s after eleven by the time the boys finally leave, full of popcorn, beer and woe. The minute they’re gone, I throw on my coat, stuff my feet into my wool clogs and call to Colonel. It only takes me a few minutes to get to Malone’s house.

There are no lights on inside, and the house is quiet. I knock softly, then wait. No answer. I knock again, a bit more loudly this time. After a minute, I hear Malone’s footsteps. Colonel wags as he opens the door.

“Hi,” I say.

“It’s late, Maggie,” he answers, looking over my head.

“Right. I’ll just be a minute. Can I come in? It’s kind of important. Plus, it’s cold. Got really chilly, didn’t it?”

I clamp my mouth shut against the automatic babble that pours out of me when I’m nervous and slip past Malone, who looks wicked sexy, if less than welcoming. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, and his feet are bare. Even so, he’s a good six inches taller than I am.

Colonel is panting after our walk, and without a word, Malone goes into the kitchen, takes a bowl down from the cupboard and fills it with water. He sets it on the floor, kneeling down to scratch Colonel’s ears as my dog drinks. “You’re a good crittah,” Malone says, our Maine designation for anything four-legged. Colonel wags in agreement, then goes under the table to lie down. Malone stands up and leans against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. “So what do you want, Maggie?”

I take a deep breath, distracted by the sight of his thickly muscled arms. How I ever felt Malone was unattractive is a mystery. I remind myself to focus, but before I can, I start talking. “Well, I just…I guess…” I guess I should have planned what to say, that’s what. “I just wanted to say, you know…Stevie, what Stevie said about me telling Father Tim that, um, you know…well, of course I’m not dating Father Tim. Of course. I mean, he’s a priest, right? So of course not.”

Malone purses his lips as if deciding whether to believe me or not, and the words continue to rush out of my mouth.

“We’re friends, Father Tim and I. He’s actually one of my best friends. We hang out sometimes. Well, I mean, he comes into the diner every morning for breakfast. Sometimes we go to a movie. Once in a while. Actually, it was maybe twice. There was a group of us, not just us two, of course…And I do a lot for the church, you know? Committees and stuff like that. But no dating. Obviously. Since he’s a priest.”

Malone looks at the floor, and I force my mouth shut and wait for him to speak. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, Maggie,” he says quietly. “I live in this town, too. I hear things.” He looks back at me.

My nervous energy drains into the floor. “Right.” The clock over the fridge ticks loudly, reminding me that it’s almost midnight and Malone and I both have to get up early. “Well, the thing is, I did have a thing for Father Tim. And I did actually—” I swallow “—I did say that I loved him. While I was under the influence, I might add.”

Malone says nothing.

“So. There you have it.” I fiddle with the zipper of my coat, wondering if I just severed things completely with Mr. Happy here. As the silence stretches on, I feel a stir of irritation. “You know, Malone, I’ve heard things about you, too,” I say, a defensive note creeping into my voice. “And just because that’s the gossip doesn’t mean I believe it.”

His face darkens, but I continue anyway. “There was that thing about your cousin last year, right? I mean, people had a whole lot to say about that. But I didn’t jump to any conclusions or anything.”

Still no reaction from Malone, which I find slightly ominous. But, true to character, I keep going. “Let alone what they say about your wife.”

Oh, shit. Now I’ve gone too far, and even I realize it. My heart starts thumping erratically against my rib cage. Though Malone hasn’t moved or changed expression, I’m suddenly a little afraid.

“And what do they say about my wife?” he asks very, very quietly.

“Oh, well, you know…I don’t know. People talk about all sorts of—”

“What, Maggie?”

I swallow. “That you hit her. That she was scared of you and that’s why she moved across country.”

His face looks so hard now it could be carved from granite. “And do you believe that?” he asks in that scraping, quiet voice.

“I wouldn’t be here if I did, Malone.”

He stares at me and I force myself not to look away. Finally, his gaze flicks somewhere past me. “When?” he growls.

“When what?”

“When did you make your little announcement?”

“Oh! Well, that was a while ago. You know, a couple, three weeks ago? A month, maybe. But before you and I…um…hooked up.” Colonel’s tail starts thumping in his sleep. Malone exhibits no such happiness, just continues glaring at me, the creases between his eyebrows unrelenting.

“Okay, well, I wanted you to know that,” I say, peeved at his lack of reaction to both my confession and my trust. “Whatever. I’m sorry I woke you up, if I woke you up. I just thought you should—I don’t know. I didn’t want you thinking anything—”

“Do you still have a thing for him?” Malone interrupts. There’s a note in his voice I haven’t heard before, and it gives me pause.

For once, I don’t immediately answer. Instead, I stare back at Malone a minute, then decide to take a chance. “No,” I say softly. “It seems like I have a thing for you.”

He looks back at me, not smiling, then covers the space between us, takes my hand and leads me to bed.