Free The Hollow by Nora Roberts

should be able to afford Chinese for dinner, if you’re still up for it.”
    â€œI just need to shut down for the day.”
    â€œGo ahead. I’ll do the same. We can go up through the kitchen.”
    In his office, Fox shut down his computer, shouldered his briefcase, then tried to remember exactly what state his apartment might be in.
    Uh-oh. He realized he’d just hit another area at which he remained twelve.
    Best not to think about it, he decided, since it was too late to do anything about it. Anyway, how bad could it be?
    He walked into the kitchen where Mrs. Hawbaker kept the coffeemaker, the microwave, the dishes she’d deemed appropriate for serving clients. He knew she kept cookies in there, because he raided them routinely. And her vases, boxes of fancy teas.
    Who’d stock cookies when Mrs. H deserted him? Wistfully, he turned when Layla came in.
    â€œShe buys the supplies with the proceeds from the F-word jar in my office. I tend to keep that pretty well funded. I guess she’s told you.”
    â€œA dollar for every F-word, honor system. Since I’ve seen your jar, I’d say you’re pretty free with the F-word, and honorable about it.” He’s so sad, she thought, and it made her want to cuddle him, to stroke the messy, waving hair. “I know you’re going to miss her.”
    â€œMaybe she’ll come back. Either way, life moves.” He opened the door to the stairway. “I might as well tell you since Mrs. H doesn’t deal with my apartment, and in fact, refuses to go up here since an unfortunate incident involving oversleeping and neglected laundry, it’s probably a mess.”
    â€œI’ve seen messes before.”
    But when she stepped up from the tidy office kitchen into Fox’s personal one, Layla understood she’d underestimated the definition of mess.
    There were dishes in the sink, on the counter, and on the small table that was also covered with what appeared to be several days of newspapers. A couple boxes of cereal (did grown men actually eat Cocoa Puffs?), bags of chips, a bottle of red wine, some bottles of condiments, and an empty jug of Gatorade fought for position on the short counter beside a refrigerator all but wallpapered with sticky notes and snapshots.
    There were three pairs of shoes on the floor, a battered jacket slung over one of the two kitchen chairs, and a stack of magazines towered on the other.
    â€œMaybe you want to go away for an hour, or possibly a week, while I deal with this.”
    â€œNo. No. Is the rest this bad?”
    â€œI don’t remember. I can go check before—”
    But she was already stepping over shoes and into the living room.
    It wasn’t as bad, he thought. Not really. Deciding to be proactive, he moved by her and began to grab up the debris. “I live like a pig, I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before.” He stuffed an armload of discarded clothes into the neglected hall closet.
    Sheer bafflement covered her face, coated her voice. “Why don’t you hire a housekeeper, someone to come in once a week and deal with this?”
    â€œBecause they run away and never come back. Look, we’ll go out.” It wasn’t embarrassment—hey, his place—as much as fear of a lecture that had him snatching up an empty beer bottle and a nearly empty bowl of popcorn from the coffee table. “We’ll find a nice, sanitary restaurant.”
    â€œI roomed with two girls in college. I had to call in the Hazmat team at the end of the semester.” She picked up a pair of socks from a chair before he could get there, then handed them to him. “But if there’s a clean glass I could use some of that wine.”
    â€œI’ll put one in an autoclave.”
    He grabbed more on his way back to the kitchen. Curious, Layla looked around the room, tried to see beyond the disarray. The walls were actually a very nice sagey shade of