The cakes—a buttercream concoction from a local bakery that forms an elaborately decorated 3 and 0—are sitting on the marble counter next to the sink. I fish the two packs of candles out of my bag and start sticking them in the cakes while Noah leans against the fridge.

“Crap. There are only twenty-eight,” I say, shaking the paper container. No more candles magically appear.

Noah shrugs. “No one will count.”

“You know Mom will notice.” There’s a good reason Noah and I both ended up in detail-oriented professions. I squint at the back of one package. “They say they have fifteen each!”

Hinges squeak as the deck door opens again.

Noah straightens. “You bring any candles, man?”

“Oh, yeah. I never leave the house without them.”

I startle at the sound of Gray’s voice, spinning to watch him rinse his hands off in the sink.

“Cake crisis?”

Noah jerks his chin toward me. “She’s missing two.”

I love how our parents’ cakes have suddenly become my problem.

“Sure sounds like a national emergency to me,” Gray drawls.

Inspiration strikes. “Would your mom have any?” I ask Gray.

His mom, Juliet, loves entertaining as much as mine.

“Stranger things have happened,” he replies, drying his hands on the towel draped over the oven handle.

“Can you check?”

Gray blanches at the request. “For candles?” His tone makes it clear there’s nothing stupider one could search for.

I don’t deign that with a response. He knows the answer.

Gray lets out a long-suffering sigh; like this request is by far the most inconvenient one that’s ever been made of him. “I wouldn’t even know where to look.”

Noah groans. “Just let Evie in the house, Phillips. Everyone is going to be wondering what the hell is happening with the cakes.”

“Tell them we’re baking them,” I suggest.

Noah rolls his eyes.

Gray heads for the front door. “Come on, Everleigh.”

I huff as I follow him out onto the front lawn. “You know I hate being called that.”

“You know there are other things I could be doing than searching for candles with you, right?”

I focus on the rocking chairs on the Phillipses’ front porch rather than retorting. Gray types the code into the keypad by the front door, then opens it. I step inside the house next door for the first time in over a year. My gaze roves over the walnut floor, white walls, and neutral furnishings. Timeless and elegant.

“I love this house.”

Instead of the caustic answer I’m expecting, Gray says, “Yeah, me too.”

“Is that why you never moved?”

Despite his distant relationship with his father, Gray has kept this city as his home base instead of moving elsewhere. Although, I guess he did choose a career that requires him to be who knows where for lengthy stretches of time.

“Nah. Just easier not to.”