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He returned to kissing her neck. “Good. Good. Don’t ask why.”

She was totally going to ask why, but not right now. She opened her eyes to see how much time was on the buzzer. And that’s when she saw the fire.

CHAPTER 21

There were many reasons why you shouldn’t kiss a guy you’d fallen in love with when it was past midnight and you were tired. High on that list, Marlowe realized, was that you might be so distracted by the kissing that you pushed the broil button before you meant to and the marshmallows on your s’mores pies spontaneously ignited. They were burning away, a veritable bonfire on the top rack.

“Fire,” she gasped.

“Fire,” Jace agreed.

She pushed him away and sprinted to the oven door. What in the world was in marshmallows that made them so flammable? Weren’t they just sugar and air? She grabbed oven mitts and flung open the door. Heat surged out. The smell hit next, the sting of smoke.

One by one she pulled the burning chocolate pies out, chanting “Oh no, oh no!” while Jace dropped dishcloths on top of them to smother the flames.

The smoke alarms went off. Of course they did. The kitchen smelled like a campfire, which was only a little ironic since she’d made s’mores pies. Jace began opening the windows, letting in the cool night air. Marlowe plucked the apple pies out of the oven. They still looked fine, thank goodness. The crust was a little darker than she would have liked, but at least they weren’t burned.

Grandma’s voice came from down the hallway. “Is the house on fire? Did you already call 911?” She shuffled into the kitchen, waving at the smoke until she spotted Jace. “The firemen are already here? Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Should I be gathering my valuables?”

“We just burned some pies,” Marlowe said. “It’s fine. You can go back to bed.”

Grandma padded over to the smoldering remains on the counter, continuing to wave at the smoke. “You’re still baking pies in the middle of the night? For heaven’s sake, Marlowe, some of the restaurants in town serve pies. Just call them up in the morning and ask to buy a few.”

Marlowe opened the kitchen door to help the smoke dissipate. The alarm finally stopped sounding.

Grandma poked at the burnt marshmallows. “Did you forget to set the buzzer?”

Marlowe’s eyes flicked to Jace. He was opening a window in the family room. Must not blush. “Something like that.” She was blushing anyway. “I’ll go to the store in the morning and buy ingredients to make two more s’mores pies.” She probably wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight.

Grandma jabbed a fork into the s’mores pie. The burnt marshmallows lifted off in one great blob like something that had been glued together. “The pie underneath isn’t burnt. You can just add more marshmallows and put them on broil for a minute.” She went to fetch the bag of marshmallows.

Marlowe watched her, biting her lip. “Can we do that? It feels illegal.”

“It’s baking,” Grandma said. “Not law school.” She haphazardly dumped marshmallows onto the pie. Some rolled off and fell onto the floor.

Marlowe went over to the second s’mores pie, picked up a fork, and removed the marshmallow remains. “I can take care of this. You should go back to bed.”

Grandma did not hand over the bag or the marshmallow sprinkling duties. “Do you think I can sleep after a fire alarm goes off? The entire time I was searching for my glasses and hearing aids, I kept thinking about that hypothetical ethics situation where there’s a fire in a building, and you can only save one item, either an old lady or one of Leonardo da Vinci’s paintings. It never ends well for the old lady.”

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t own a da Vinci,” Marlowe said. Before Grandma could douse the second pie with marshmallows, Marlowe picked it up, tilting it toward the light to see it better. “Are you sure it’s not burnt? How can you tell with a brown pie?”

She had to be certain. Auctioning off a bad pie would be embarrassing. Auctioning off a burned one would be horrifying. Marlowe scraped her fork over the surface. “Tasting this pie also feels illegal, but the marshmallows will cover that part. The buyer won’t ever know.”

She put the fork in her mouth. And that’s when the day, young as it was, got even worse.

She must have pulled a face.

Jace, who had just come back to the kitchen, said, “It’s burnt?”

“Worse,” she said. “It’s not burnt, but it tastes like smoke. And that means…”

Their gazes all turned to the apple pies. Jace got a fork and speared one of the apple slices through the hole in the lattice crust. He brought it to his mouth, chewed, and shut his eyes. Not in a good way. Not in an I’m enjoying a delicious apple pie way. It was in an I don’t want to tell you the truth sort of way.

She grabbed a fork and tried a piece of apple to see for herself.

She nearly cried. Along with the taste of apple and cinnamon, the very distinct taste of smoke sat on her tongue.

Smoke. It was so unfair. This was her third set of pies, and they would’ve been perfect if she hadn’t ruined them by setting her oven on fire.