Going inside, I dumped my load of replacement spices and cookie sheets onto the couch before grabbing the one from the small hardware store I’d impulsively stopped at. I pulled out the paper strips I’d collected.

I wasn’t going to paint. That was a waste of time, money, and energy—none of which I had to spare.

But I could pick paint colors and pass my suggestions on to Alice. Hopefully, that would calm my desire to go all HGTV on the place.

It would be fun to imagine.

To pretend.

Taking the swatches and tape, I moved into the living room and held them up until I found a very light sage. I tapped that one before adding a blue-gray below it. I moved on to the bathroom, adding possible colors there. I had a lot of options.

Anything was better than the teddy bear wallpaper.

I forced myself to do a little more before giving up.

I wanted to say that my genius idea was so effective, it’d squashed out the restlessness that filled me.

But I couldn’t take credit.

The smell of the grill was so distracting, I was restless and starving.

I’d had pregnancy cravings, but they’d been mild. If it was something I could have—like the cucumber slices with everything seasoning I wanted all first trimester—great. If it was something I couldn’t have, it was easy to ignore it.

But not when it came to Ward’s cooking, apparently.

Like the week before, just the scent was enough to drive me insane. My stomach growled, but every item in my kitchen looked like garbage. Even the pizza and grilled romaine from the night before weren’t cutting it.

I’ll get delivery.

I downloaded an app and searched for barbecue restaurants. None of it was right. The food itself looked delicious, but I couldn’t decide what I wanted.

That wasn’t true. I wanted whatever Ward was grilling. I just didn’t know what that was.

But I was going to find out.

“This is your fault, Squish,” I muttered, but there was no scorn in my voice.

If I hadn’t blamed them for the all-day sickness, I sure wasn’t blaming them for making me crave good food.

I went out my back door and listened, but I didn’t hear any voices. No friendly banter or shit-talk. Not even footsteps or movement.

Carefully, I dragged the garden bench over to the fence and climbed up to stand on it. I was barely tall enough to see over into the empty yard. Something was definitely on the grill, the savory scent wafting up in the smoke, but the lid was closed.

Well shit.

Now what?

“The fuck are you doing?”