“So . . . hobbies?” She puts the leftover salad and the bottle of dressing in the fridge and leans against the counter beside the sink. Close enough to touch.

“Working out, remodeling my house, helping Levi restore a random car here and there. Nothing exciting.”

“I didn’t know you were remodeling your house.”

“I like working with my hands and figured when I bought it I’d be able to add some value with minimal investment and lots of elbow grease. I’ve ripped up the old carpet and refinished the hardwood beneath. Right now, I’m working on replacing the trim. I thought I’d be able to strip off the paint, but it’s a mess, so I pulled it all off and started over. When the trim’s done, I’m going to finish off the attic to add another bedroom.”

“I’d love to see it sometime.”

“Sure. I’d love to show you.” I finish rinsing the dishes and place them into the dish drainer. “What about you? Any hobbies other than trying to keep my sister from being a shut-in?”

“I like to run. Sometimes. And I knit.”

I can’t help it. I gape. “You? Knit?”

“What? Why is that so surprising?”

I try to picture it and can’t. “Isn’t that, like, an old-lady hobby?”

“Carter, you just offended hipsters everywhere by your unironic mocking of one of their favorite pastimes.”

I hold out my palms. “I’d never intentionally offend a hipster, but you . . .” I rake my gaze over her. “You’re no hipster.”

“I’m not, but I do love to knit. Knitting and reading are the only ways I can really relax.”

Right, she was reading when I got here. I come from a family of big readers, so I always take that for granted. I don’t understand people who don’t read. It feels like willful ignorance to never try to experience anything from a different point of view. “What do you like to read?” I ask, drying my hands.

“Anything. Mostly fiction, with a hard preference for books with kissing.” She shrugs. “Actually, my unironic enjoyment of Taylor Swift and romance novels may be my best proof that I’m not a hipster.”

That makes me laugh, but then I think about how much my mom loves romance novels and my smile falls away. “I told Mom about what we’re doing.”

Teagan cringes. “And?”

I scrub a hand over my face as I remember my mom’s folded arms. Her arched brow and tight jaw that made me feel like I was sixteen again and being lectured for staying out past curfew. “She’s not a fan of the lie, and she’d rather we get married and make her some grandbabies than pretend to be together.” With a sigh, I shrug. “So it pretty much went as expected.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“I’m not. I’d rather her be irked at me and know the truth than lie to her.”

She ducks her head, and her shoulders curl in slightly. “Right.”