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He set about working in the kitchen, chatting with her as though he wasn’t exhausted. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe that was just her. She’d been struggling with apples all evening. At this point, she was covered in apple splatter and despair. Having him around turned the task into something bearable, enjoyable even.

She peeled, cored, and cut apples again. This time, as he threw things together, she noticed that he let the apples drain in a colander, and when he prepared the apple mixture, he added cornstarch to thicken it. So that was bound to fix the problem of the apples being too juicy.

She eyed the crust warily, though. “It looks just like the other crusts we made earlier. How do we know it’s not going to betray us again?”

He smiled at her. “Experience. Time to do the lattices.”

He rolled out another crust, cut it into slices, and waved a hand at her. “Your turn.”

“You’re going to let the amateur do this when dough weaving is involved?”

“I’ll supervise.”

He stood beside her as she placed the first strip, and when she was hesitant about putting on the second, he took it from her hands to show her how. Their fingers brushed—brief, unremarkable—but it made her more aware of everything: the heat of the kitchen, the smell of apples and sugar, the quiet steadiness he brought with him.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Just lay it down. No pressure.”

“No pressure,” she repeated. “Just your mother’s judgment weighing my value and honesty.”

“You’re doing great,” he said.

“That feels like a fake thing people say.”

“It’s not.”

She placed the strip down. It was slightly crooked. She reached to fix it, but his hand went around hers to stop her. “You don’t have to mess with it. It’s good.”

He kept hold of her hand for one second, two, three—not that she was counting—before letting go.

She and Jace finished weaving the lattices over the pies. They spoke about something. Her mind was hardly on her words because her brain was stuck on the way his hand had felt around hers. That sensation was both old territory and new.

They were alone here. Grandma was in bed. There was no reason for him to be standing close or giving her lingering touches because of their fake dating status. This was real.

They put the apple pies in the oven and went to work on the s’mores pies. These pies only needed to cook for eight minutes with another minute on broil to melt the marshmallows, so she would slip them onto the top rack of the oven when the apple pies were nearly done.

Jace made the graham cracker crust while Marlowe heated and stirred the other ingredients. This pie was so easy, she almost felt competent in her own kitchen again. They poured the mixture into the pie tins and covered the top with mini marshmallows. Done. She set the buzzer to go off eight minutes before the apple pies would be finished.

Jace could have gone home then. The hard work was completed and it was midnight. She didn’t point that out though, and neither did he. They stayed in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, talking.

After a while, he asked, “Have you put anything else on your vision board?”

“I’ve thought about a couple of things.” She’d thought of him. He was a worthy goal. She would’ve liked for those baby-blue eyes to look at her like they once did. She imagined seeing them closing as he leaned forward to kiss her.

“Oh,” he said. “What do you want?”

Must not answer that question. Must not let him see the answer in her expression. She had already kissed him once—a little thank-you kiss—and he’d immediately turned into the It’s late. I should be going guy.

When she didn’t speak, he tilted his head in question. “You’re not going to tell me?”

Definitely not. But there was one goal she could talk to him about. “I keep staring at that beautiful house and expensive car on my vision board and thinking about the long hours I’ll have to work to afford those. I want a family at some point. If I have a business on my vision board, is there room for a baby? Is there room for two or maybe even three—because if my first two are boys, I have to try a third time for a girl.”

“My mother’s first three were boys,” Jace said.

“Exactly. I might need to have four children. How does anyone be a girl boss and have time for a family?”

He remained silent for a moment and shrugged. “I’m not an expert in that area, but some women seem to make it work.”

“Do they? Or do they just turn the job over to nannies? My mother worked forty hours, and sometimes she was too busy to go grocery shopping or do laundry. How would I ever work eighty hours and have a baby?” Marlowe wiped bits of flour off her arms. “You probably think I’m ridiculous, don’t you? I’m worried about whether I can fit a baby into my business-owner schedule, when I don’t own a business and I’m not even in a relationship.”