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“Exactly,” I said.

Laurie bent to kiss my temple before going back toward the kitchen.

The gesture caught me off guard enough that I stared after her.

Ten weeks ago, I had been afraid clients would hear my name and think murder suspect before they thought event planner.

The sheriff’s office had formally cleared me weeks ago after testing tied Justin’s blood to Grant’s mallet and the rest of the evidence supported what he had admitted to me. My attorney had called as soon as the dismissal was filed.

I remembered standing inside my studio afterward, phone still in my hand, waiting for relief to feel dramatic.

Mostly, I had wanted to get back to work.

The work had come.

Some of it because people already knew me. Some because former clients had defended me loudly enough that I wished they had been slightly less creative about it. A few inquiries had undoubtedly come from people who had first heard my name because of Hollowfield, but nobody had hired me out of sympathy. They hired me after meetings, proposals, references, and the same maddening revisions every event planner handled.

Rick had already asked me to come back next October.

I had made him wait three days for my answer purely because I believed in maintaining negotiating leverage.

I was absolutely going back.

Damien leaned closer. “You’ve been quiet for a while.”

I turned in my chair until my knee pressed more firmly against his. “I was thinking. You used to take that very seriously.”

“I still do. I’ve just learned the risks.”

The look in his eyes sent a fresh wave of heat through me.

Before I could answer, Angie reached across the table and snapped her fingers once in front of us.

“Some of us are trying to have a wholesome family evening.”

Frankie had one child tucked against his chest and the other attempting to climb onto his back. “I don’t think we’re the people qualified to enforce wholesome.”

Angie considered that and turned back to me. “Fair point.”

The conversation shifted again, this time to New Year’s resolutions. Laurie refused to make one because she claimed owning a bakery already gave her enough opportunities for guilt. Pamela said she intended to stop pretending she would reorganize the upstairs linen closet.

When Angie asked me, I thought about the year behind us, then shook my head.

“I’m not making one.”

Angie’s eyebrows rose. “You love lists.”

“I love useful lists. Promising myself a new personality because the calendar changes sounds inefficient.”

Damien’s thumb moved slowly against my thigh. “Good. I like your current personality.”

The simple way he said it sent warmth through me that had nothing to do with the bakery.

I leaned closer. “Even the difficult parts?”

“Especially those.”

He said it quietly enough that the words belonged to me.