“Touché.” She pulled herself upright and swung open the door. But a niggling sense of regret tickled at her conscience. One foot in the car, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. “Look, I don’t want to argue in a parking lot—especially not on a surprise lunch date. Besides, you need to get that pie to Claire before it self-destructs. Let’s not sabotage your mission.” She hummed a few notes of the theme song again, hoping to lighten the mood.

He didn’t laugh.

Is it just a gazebo?

During the very direct drive to her house, neither spoke a word.

He pulled into the driveway and dropped his chin. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue either.”

His apology eased her mind, but her stomach still felt unsettled. “It’s okay.”

“Or be a possessive boor.”

“I know.” She offered a half smile.

“How are your bee stings?”

“They’re better. Thanks.” At the return of his bedside manner, her heavy mood lightened.

Resting an elbow on the center console, he turned. “I’d like to finish our dancing lessons this weekend. If it’s okay by you?”

She gazed at him sidelong. “Just dancing. No self-defense.”

He held up a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

Leaning across the seat, he brought his face within inches of hers and raised a brow.

She lifted her cheeks and tilted her mouth toward his. Without her noticing, he’d popped a mint, and his kiss was cool and full of promise.

Pulling away, he reached for his wallet. “Do me a favor and take this.” He plucked out a card. “My office and pager numbers. You have my cell”—he scribbled on the back—“and here’s my landline. Just in case.”

“You forgot the carrier pigeon.”

“He’ll arrive at two.”

“Wonderful. He can live in my potting shed.” She squeezed his hand. “Thank you.” She zipped across the lawn and climbed the steps to the front porch.

The tinted window whooshed down, and his head emerged from the opening. “I don’t give that number to just anyone, you know.”

With a smile, she shooed him away. “Get back to doctoring.” Safely inside, she tossed the card on the kitchen counter. It flipped over, revealing a handwritten phone number next to a single word: home. So few letters for such a big idea. “You can’t go home again,” Thomas Wolfe wrote. Well, Tessa Meadows was doing her darnedest to prove him wrong. On second thought, she picked up the card and tucked it into the zipper pocket of her backpack.

Her sun-flooded bedroom welcomed her with a warm embrace of antique quilts and rainbow sheets. Slipping out of her sweaty sundress, she tossed it in the hamper. Downstairs, six guides to New York City and a travel show beckoned. Was she ready to answer their call?