He propped himself up on her desk, his long legs dangling down. She noticed his socks were mismatched. “Everything okay? You seem distracted.”

“What was the tip-off?”

“Maybe it was when you tried to apply a removable tattoo to Mrs. Smith’s hand rather than Ellie’s. I’m not so sure Elsa has the same broad appeal for thirty-somethings as she does for three-year-olds.”

“Guilty as charged.” She smoothed a hand over her red hair. “The Old Red Mill has sold and Essie is looking to lease out spaces. She wants me to open a pie shop there, to be an anchor store of sorts.”

It felt strange to say the words aloud, like she was trying out a foreign language.

He shook his head, so excited he popped off the desk and started pacing. “It’s brilliant.”

“Really?” Renee stood so she could pull on her jacket. They were only a few inches apart, and she imagined she could smell the lemon tang of his soap. “Do you think people would pay for my pies? I know everyone seems to enjoy them, but it’s not as though I’ve ever sold any before.”

“One hundred percent,” he replied, so confidently, Renee felt tingles. He nodded toward her desk. “What was our word of the day? ‘Moxie’? I think it will just take a bunch of that.”

Our word of the day.

Our. Our. Our.

It felt like her smile could light up the eastern seaboard. “Thank you, Dr. Hanlon.”

“Dan, please. And I’m always here, if you ever need an ear,” he said, before quickly adding, “I mean, I know you have Tansy, and your sister, of course I just meant—”

“No, thank you.” Was he flirting? He was, wasn’t he? Absolutely. Or maybe not. Gah, she was out of practice. She settled on, “I appreciate that.”

She just wondered if he knew how much.

* * *

When she got home from work, she heated up a piece of rotisserie chicken and tossed herself a kale salad with hazelnuts and a tart vinaigrette. She ate her dinner with a glass of iced tea while perusing her favorite cooking blogs. But through it all, she daydreamed about the pie shop, the gingham curtains she’d hang in the windows and the mismatched plates she’d use to serve the warm, flaky slices.

What would Tansy say? She reached for her phone, eager to share the idea.

The phone rang four times before her daughter answered, breathless and distracted, as usual.

“Hi honey. Did you have a nice day?”

“Nice as a Monday can be.” Her tone was flat, impatient.

“Right. I get that,” Renee said awkwardly. “What are you up to tonight? Homework and studying?”

Tansy had always been a dedicated student, spending hours on her homework each evening, especially by the time her junior and senior years came around. Most weeknights, Renee would set a warm plate of supper on the edge of Tansy’s antique desk and gently close the door behind her.

“I’m wading through this brutal philosophy paper on Nietzsche.”