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“He’s hot.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Not as hot as you,” he whispered before turning his face upward to press his lips to mine.

We lost the flow of the movie for a while as we kissed languidly. The kisses were sweet, much sweeter than anything I’d tasted in a very long time. I hated to have to say goodnight at the back door, but Jari had to be up early for a flight to LA for a short western road trip, so I handed him a dish of leftovers and then watched like a mama hen as he walked fifty-five feet to the pool house. When he was inside, I closed the door, smiling like a damn loon. Who knew a few kisses and an old movie could create the perfect night?

A week later, the kitchen counter was covered with the makings of a pineapple upside-down cake. I’d tried to find bilberries, but that was a no-go, so I went with pineapple. That was much easier to score in Pennsylvania.

Kirby, who had come over to clear his karma—aka get a break from his manuscript, which had hit a bump—was seated at the island watching me as he drank coffee. His ginger eyebrows were knitted as I tied an apron around my waist.

“Not to be that guy…” he said into his cup of fresh-brewed goodness. Probably the tenth he had knocked back so far. Authors do love their coffee.

I looked up from the recipe on my tablet. “No, I am not going to play the role of a terrified sommelier who is being stabbed to death with a corkscrew by a demented French marionette. The last time I pretended to die at the hand of one of your murderous puppets, I had nightmares for a week. To this day, I can’t watch Sesame Street with the twins without flashbacks.”

“I’m really stuck on how to off someone in a creative way. That and I’m struggling with the romance.” I glanced up questioningly. “Between two of the puppets.”

“I didn’t realize that puppets could fall in love,” I replied, then returned my attention to the recipe waiting patiently for me.

“If they can come to life to kill people, why not fall in love?”

“Good point. When they say packed brown sugar do they mean packed in the bag or packed into the measuring cup?”

“I have no idea. I can text Joy; she likes to bake. The last time I tried to make cupcakes with the boys, the BCFD had to be called out.”

“Total exaggeration. Joy said the little fire extinguisher in the corner of the kitchen worked well.”

“Does she tell you everything?” I nodded. He sighed into his coffee. “Okay, well, that kind of leads into this whole thing.” I glanced up from my ingredients to him. He waved his mug at the mess before us. “What are you doing here?”

“For a college-educated man, that seems a silly question to ask,” I replied, then cracked open a jar of cherries to begin removing the stems. “I’m baking a cake.”

“I know that smartass. Why are you making a cake? You don’t cook.”

“Technically, this is baking, not cooking.”

“Aren’t they the same?” I shrugged. “Okay, well, my question stands. Why are you doing this?” I popped a cherry, sans stem, into my mouth.

“Jari said he liked this kind of cake,” I answered around the cherry.

“Right.” That was all he said. I swallowed. “Jari. The new tenant in the pool house. Nice guy?”

Kirby and I had no secrets. Well, mostly none.

“Very nice. Plays hockey for the Railers.” I focused on de-stemming cherries as it seemed to be the only thing I could do with any amount of talent. A long, long, long moment crawled by as the gas range warmed with a soft poof. I chanced a glance at my best friend. He met my look with one I knew all too well. “Don’t,” I warned with a shake of a cherry at him.

“Cam, why is that guy living in your pool house?”

God damn it. I told him don’t. “Because he’s new in town and was staying in a hotel with stiff towels. My towels are soft.”

“Seriously?” He did not look convinced. I wouldn’t have been either if the shoe were on the other foot. But not one to admit my reasoning for doing something was lame, I pushed onward.

“Yeah. They suck. They’re not soft. You know how much I hate stiff towels. So, when he said he was still looking for a place in town but lacked time, I—being a kind and compassionate human being with a house the size of Edinburgh Castle—offered him the use of my pool house. Simple explanation, so you can wipe that look off your face.”

“Cam…”

“Don’t. This is not that.” Gah, that lie tasted bitter. I ate another cherry. It helped, but just for a moment. “He’s a nice guy. Quiet, reserved, new to the city. We’re friends. Can’t I be compassionate without getting that bogey-eyed look from you and Yanni?”

“Yanni knows this guy is living with you?” He seemed hurt.