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On Wednesday, Jace refused to play any card games with Mrs. Partridge. “I’m already too far in chore debt,” he said. “We’ll play Scrabble.” He won that game, despite Mrs. Partridge insisting that random “words” really existed since she had used them back in her day and, therefore, they should count. Although he doubted she had ever actually had the words zindle or plimy in her vocabulary.

When Marlowe got home from class, Mrs. Partridge told them, with an air of haughty authority, that she had to zindle off to bed because she was feeling overly plimy.

Marlowe responded by immediately worrying that her grandmother was having a stroke, until Jace assured her that no, she was just trying to cheat at Scrabble.

Mrs. Partridge shuffled down the hallway and called over her shoulder, “If Shakespeare can make up words, so can I.”

Jace called after her, “And that’s why no one wanted to play Scrabble with Shakespeare.” He turned back to Marlowe with a smile. “I’m pretty sure that’s a historical fact.”

She dropped her bag on the couch and sat down. “You’re a saint. Thanks for staying with Grandma.”

He joined her, sitting so close that their legs touched. “Actually, she’s fun. No sainthood required.”

Marlowe took out her worksheets and, without even discussing whether he would stay or not, the two began working on her homework.

She hardly needed much help this time. The extra studying she’d been doing over the weeks was paying off, and she understood most of the terms. Instead of being happy with her improvement, she was beginning to second-guess herself.

“How do business owners find any sort of life-work balance?” she asked while they researched metrics to see if Lark Springs could support one more hair salon. “How can you be anything but burned out if you’re working all the time?”

“Can’t tell you,” he said. “Except for my dedicated breaks from school, I’ve been working all the time for years. Burned out feels normal now.”

She automatically reached out and put a comforting hand on his arm. “That has to be horrible.” Comfort always seemed to be her first instinct, Jace noted. It was no doubt why she had so many loyal hair customers. They would follow her when she started a new hair salon.

Marlowe turned to him, her green eyes serious. “How are you going to cope with being burned out for another four years?”

“I know there’s an end in sight, so I can keep plugging through.”

She dropped her hand from his arm and ran it through her hair in a distracting way—at least it was distracting for Jace.

“But that’s the problem with going into business,” she said. “You don’t know if there’s an end in sight or whether you just have to keep working crazy hours until you finally give up or go bankrupt.”

He patted her hand, letting his fingers linger on hers. “That’s why you’re taking this class. So you know enough that you don’t go bankrupt.”

She nodded, but a frown ghosted her lips for the rest of their homework session.

He ended the night with a pep talk, and when she saw him to the door, he hugged her goodbye. “Don’t worry so much. You can do whatever you set your mind to.”

She sank into his embrace, stayed there in his arms, and he had to fight an almost overwhelming desire to tilt her chin up and kiss her. A hug was offering support. A kiss would’ve been taking advantage of her vulnerability. And a kiss that wasn’t part of their fake relationship would complicate things and make everything harder in July when he left.

He had to remind himself that she was staying in Lark Springs to take care of her grandmother and start a business in this town.

On Thursday after dinner, he went to Marlowe’s house to paint her grandmother’s bathroom. She helped, and the two of them talked and laughed as they painted.

More reminders were needed. Her future was here. His wasn’t.

What were the chances that he could return to Lark Springs in four years and open a practice here? What were the chances that if he did, she would still be single?

Nonexistent. Someone would snatch her up long before then. He couldn’t ask her to wait for four years until he came back.

And yet when he said goodbye to her—this time with her grandmother watching, so he dropped a short kiss on her lips—he found himself considering that slim chance anyway.

CHAPTER 20

On Friday after work, Marlowe faced a pie crisis. According to the recipes for apple pie, they were supposed to take an hour of prep time and another hour to cook.

Recipes, it turned out, were delusional about things like time and normal people’s baking abilities.

Marlowe had figured that with Delancey and her working together—Delancey following a tutorial for the best flaky piecrust, and Marlowe using Mrs. Clark’s fancy apple peeler and corer—they would be able to cut the prep time in half.