When Danny just stared at her, she shook her head. “I did try to convince my mother that it doesn’t need to be fully stocked all the time, but she said, ‘Caitlin, if I wish to fly to Dunedin on a moment’s notice, I expect the pantry to be stocked for my chef.’ So this is our compromise.”

She held up a finger. “To be clear, I go out and get my own damn fresh stuff—there should be some stuff still in the fridge from the shop I did when I flew in. The supermarket’s just down the road. If the snow lets up, we can walk there for anything else you need.”

“Humph.” With that, Danny began to pull out baking supplies.

“I wonder what would happen if I posted a shot of you baking?” she said, just to rile him up. “All grumpy and moody and with flour on your hands.” His fans would combust.

“What would happen is that you’d never again get those chocolate raisin cookies.”

“Good threat. I fold.” He made really good chocolate raisin cookies. Better than any store-bought or bakery ones.

Another message pinged her phone, this one from Ísa. Catiebug, have you seen the recent speculation? Gabriel’s been in touch to say the media might try to get to the family.

Yup, Catie answered, her heart a big ball of mush for her big sister. Ani and Soraya and Danny’s team are on top of it. They’re fielding all inquiries.

Okay, good. You just call us if you need any help. Love you.

Love you more. She added the heart emoji. Hug my favorite demons for me.

Ísa sent through an image of Emmaline and Connor in response. Both in their pj’s, they were tumbling around on the living room floor with their dad, clearly “wrestling,” their arms and legs every which way while a grinning and outnumbered Sailor tried to keep them from doing bodily harm to themselves.

Never to each other, however, as nine-year-old Emmaline was fiercely protective of her toddler sibling, who, in turn, thought Emmaline hung the moon. Exactly as Catie had done with Ísa. Still did, to be honest.

Catie immediately saved the photo to her folder for the children of the family.

The mixer started up in the kitchen. Danny wore a look of intense concentration as he added whatever it was he was adding to the mixer—it was the same look he wore on the field at times, usually right before he slipped one of his teammates a pass that no one on the opposition had seen coming.

“Why do you never post online about your baking?” she said when the mixer stopped. His close friends knew about his hobby, but that was a small and tight circle.

A scowling glance before he returned to his wizardry. “It’s an image thing, princess. Does your exhausting pixie-bunny of a publicist teach you nothing?”