Minimus, she mentally added. There was no Max Minimus. She threw a sweatshirt over her flannel pajamas—Max had warned her that the cottage was cold, and he had been right—and made her way down the ladder. The kitchen and sitting rooms were empty, but she found the Maxes in bed together.

“Good morning.” She made a kissy-face at the dog, who lifted his head from where he was snuggled into Max’s side and let loose a happy bark of greeting, but instead of bounding over to her as he normally would have, he merely turned, licked Max’s cheek, and tucked himself back in.

Max Maximus lowered the newspaper he was reading and made a kissy-face back at her.

She rolled her eyes. “Are you trying to steal my dog?”

“Yes, Daniela. Our friendship has all been an elaborate long con aimed at stealing your mongrel.” He mock scowled at Max Minimus. “Who, I hasten to add, snores like a dog of significantly larger stature.”

“Did he sleep with you?”

“He arrived around three a.m.” Max Maximus shrugged. “I can’t help how irresistible I am.”

“You better watch yourself, or I’ll sic my lawyer on you. I can have custody papers sent over while you’re lazing about.”

He hopped out of bed, and Max Minimus followed. “I may appear to be lazing about, but I’ve actually been plotting. I have a proposal.”

She followed him into the kitchen and watched as he measured coffee into a French press. He paused and looked at her over his shoulder. “Do you drink coffee? Tea? I find it odd that I don’t know that about you.”

“Coffee. Gallons of it. But why should you know?” When they’d woken up together at the Four Seasons, they’d rushed off to intercept Vince, so there had been no morning beverages.

“I can name all eight of the men you’ve rejected since New Year’s, so it seems odd that I don’t know how you take your coffee.”

“I take it black.”

“Like your heart.”

“Exactly. And I will have you know that I’ve rejected nine men since New Year’s.”

He pointed to a chair, and she sat while he filled the kettle. “Nine? I thought you were letting me know when you were going out. I thought we were up to eight.”

Crap. She’d been teasing him, but she’d blown it. She purposefully hadn’t told him about that one—there hadn’t been any need to, and he got so worked up about the safety aspect of her dates.

He had stopped puttering around the kitchen and was staring at her with an eyebrow raised in a way that communicated that she wasn’t getting any coffee until she talked.

She sighed. “It wasn’t a Tinder thing. It was . . . a reality thing. A barista who works at a coffee shop I sometimes go to.”