Dawn taps away on her phone. “Think about it, woman. You are a food artist.” She flips it around to reveal my Instagram feed and scrolls through all the posts from the last three months with her finger.

I roll my eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“Um, if food tasting good and looking great is artistry, which it is, you are a food artist.”

I flip to yet another recipe. “Dawn, can I ask you a super personal question?”

“You may.”

I look up from the book. “Do you also have an … estranged dad?”

Dawn’s chin tilts downward ever so slightly. “No, he died in a car crash when I was six.”

I open and close my mouth. “Oh my, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.” I frown down at the island.

Dawn pulls out a stool on the opposite side of the granite and sits. I close the recipe book and sit next to her.

“We kind of have that in common,” she continues slowly. “We both lost our dads around the same time, and were raised by strong stubborn women.” She smiles slightly. “They have a way of churning out more strong stubborn women.”

“You are strong.” I smile at her. “You’re so self-assured and on top of things, your mom did a great job.”

“Why, thank ya! I try.” She uses a funny Southern accent and flips her hair.

I laugh. “I don’t think anyone would ever describe me as strong,” I say, looking at the knees of her mint-green overalls. They’re pressed up against my own knees.

“Are you kidding? I feel like you haven’t seen your arms.” Dawn scoots closer, opening her knees so there’s less space between us on our stools. She pushes my hair behind my ear. Her fingers trail down to my shoulder, and she slowly runs her hand down my arm. Shivers race through me.

“I don’t mean physically strong,” I explain quietly. “I mean, I’m like a delicate butterfly, the smallest mishap can send me spiraling into tears or anger.” I take a deep breath. “I kind of left out a thing about Jamie and me and our parents.”

Dawn looks up from my biceps to catch my eyes. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she says softly, searching my gaze. She’s taller, she’s standing, she must have slid off the stool. My knees open to allow her closer.

“All that stuff you said about me being on top of things and self-assured,” she says, “I’ve been working really hard on that. It didn’t come naturally. I was really messed up just last year.” Our faces have gotten unbearably close. “If you want to be, you can be. That’s all it really comes down to.”

I tap my forehead to hers. How did she go from kind to cute to sexy in a half a second?