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“You can bring her along,” Mrs. Clark said, undeterred. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy the bazaar too.”

And now Marlowe would have to convince Grandma to go to some kitschy flea market thing. It was really too bad that Marlowe had released her fictional friends from prison already and could no longer use them as excuses to skip out on activities.

“We’ll have lots of booths,” Mrs. Clark added, “and part of the proceeds go to help the homeless shelter.” She went on cheerfully discussing the bazaar through the rest of dessert.

After everyone had finished their pie, Jace announced that Marlowe had to get back to her grandmother, and the two excused themselves from the table. Mrs. Clark gave Marlowe a much more enthusiastic goodbye than her hello had been, although Marlowe wasn’t sure whether this was because Jace’s mother was beginning to like her or whether she was glad Marlowe was leaving.

Once Jace and she were in his car, he turned and pinned her with a look. “That was your attempt to un-impress my family? You literally quoted scripture during dinner.”

Marlowe shrugged off his words. “I was trying to be pretentious. That’s one of the things your family doesn’t like about Jennifer, right—how she’s so pretentious.”

Jace pushed the car’s start button with more force than it needed. “Pretentious people don’t quote scripture. They quote Shakespeare, Freud, and themselves.”

“Bad girls wouldn’t know Shakespeare or Freud, but they do have The Good Book in prison, a place, according to you, I’m well-acquainted with.”

He sighed as he guided the car down the road. “I don’t think you’re clear about the difference between being a bad-girl girlfriend and just being a bad girlfriend. Making me take a day off so I can set up tents and haul boxes around was more of a bad girlfriend thing to do.”

She folded her arms, refusing to feel guilty about that. “Hey, at least you don’t have to make four pies.”

His gaze darted to her. “Have you ever actually baked a pie?”

“No.”

He let out a short laugh. “Good luck with that.”

“You just follow a recipe, right?”

“Sure, go ahead and tell yourself that. It will help you sleep better for the next two weeks and five days. After that…” He shook his head.

He was just trying to spook her because she’d gotten him stuck working at the event. “People have been making pies since the Middle Ages. If women could bake them in ovens that were basically holes in a hearth, I’m sure I’ll be able to manage it with modern equipment.”

“Whatever helps you sleep,” he said.

He was way too amused by this. “I’m looking up some pie recipes right now.”

He laughed again, but didn’t say more about her performance at dinner, or rather her lack of bad-girlness around his family.

While she was reading a recipe, Jace asked, “Should I bring anything with me when I come over on Wednesday night?”

“Courage and determination.” She squinted at the recipe. “What does cutting in the butter mean?”

“I just hang out with her? No particular advice or instructions?”

“Don’t let her talk you into donut runs, allow her near firearms, or play poker with her. She and her friends at the senior center are positively card sharks. That’s what comes from dropping off your grandmother every day with people who have too much time on their hands.” Pie dough had to be put in the fridge for four hours before rolling it out. Marlowe would have to remind herself to do that in the morning and then finish the pies in the evening. No wonder nobody wanted to make pies. They were the prima donnas of dessert.

Jace shot her a look. “You’re joking about the firearms, right?”

“Sadly, no. Grandma has a grudge match against the deer who are trying to eat her fruit trees.”

“Okay. No firearms then.”

“How did women in the Middle Ages make piecrust without refrigerators?”

“They probably used flour,” Jace said.

Smart aleck. “You’re no help at all.”

“Well, that was my plan until you volunteered me for manual labor.”