“Oh, damn.” She set her tray of appetizers down again, took a breath. “I might as well get this over with. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about dinner, and . . . things. I’m very attracted to you, but I’m not in a place where I can act on my feelings. It’s only fair to tell you that up front. There are good reasons for it, but I’m not willing to get into them. So, if you’d rather just go, no hard feelings.”

He listened soberly, rubbing a finger between the kitten’s silky ears. “I appreciate you spelling that out for me. Seems a shame to waste all this food, though.” He plucked a stuffed olive from the tray, popped it into his mouth. “I’ll just hang around, if it’s all the same to you. Why don’t I take the wine outside?”

He picked up the bottle and, still carrying Diego, bumped the screened door with his hip. “Oh, and in the interest of fair play, I’ll tell you I’ll be nudging you out of that place you’re in.”

With that said, he held the door open. “You want to bring those on out?”

“I’m not as easy a nudge as you might think.”

“Honey, there’s nothing easy about you.”

She picked up the tray, sailed by him. “I take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one. Now, why don’t we have some wine, relax, and you can tell me what Gladys Macey was after.”

When they were seated, she poured the wine, and he settled the kitten in his lap. “I thought, being sheriff, you’d know all there is to know about what’s going on.”

“Well.” He leaned over the tray, selected a gnocchi. “I can deduce, seeing as I’m a trained observer. There’s a file on your counter, marked with Gladys’s handwriting, which leads me to believe she’s planning on an anniversary party. And, as I’m sitting here, heading straight toward heaven with whatever the hell it is I just put in my mouth—and knowing Gladys is a shrewd lady—I’d suppose she’s wanting you to cater it. How’d I do?”

“Dead on.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“I’m going to think about it.”

“You’d do a great job.” He plucked another selection from the tray, examined it suspiciously. “Any mushrooms in this thing? I hate mushrooms.”

“No. We’re fungi-free tonight. Why would I do a good job?”

“I said great job.” He popped it in his mouth. Some creamy cheese and herbs in a thin and flaky pastry. “Because you cook like a magician, you look like an angel, and you’re as organized as a computer. You get things done, and you’ve got style. How come you’re not eating any of this?”