“How old is Sy’s brother, Michael?” She hid her smug smile behind one of the breadsticks. It wasn’t half bad.

“How should I know how old he is?” His shrug was careless, but his ears were turning pink again.

“He seemed a little starstruck by you. Of course, I guess we don’t know if he’s gay or straight,” she mused.

“Oh, he’s gay,” he said with authority. “But newly gay. You know I prefer to jump right in instead of playing gay tutor.”

“Huh. That’s a shame. He was cute. Seemed like the monogamous, dog-park-on-a-Saturday kind of guy. But I guess if you’re too chicken—”

“Listen here, missy!”

Maggie stabbed him with the end of a breadstick. “It sucks, doesn’t it, when your mean friend points out when you’re possibly being a chickenshit?”

“Point taken. From now on, we’ll champion each other’s terrible decisions. You stay far away from that sexy landscaper who wants to tear your clothes off.”

“And you should definitely avoid a hookup with his adorable brother who definitely goes to the gym and thinks you’re gorgeous.”

“So glad we agree,” he said, pushing play.

Out of habit, they shoulder-shimmied and couch-danced to the short theme song.

“Your hair is a foot longer than it was when we shot this,” Dean said.

“It was a month ago, not a year,” she reminded him. “I miss your goatee.”

“Facial hair is for fall and winter.”

“How’d it go with Cody today?” she asked, changing the subject.

He chewed up a mouthful of grilled chicken. “Great. Good kid. Picks stuff up fast. Knows a hell of a lot more about photo editing than I do, and he’s got great hookups for royalty-free music.”

“Good.”

“He’s never edited video before, so there’s a learning curve. But he did great with shooting. I cut him loose early today because he’s got a big test in history or something boring tomorrow. It makes me feel ancient when he mentions high school.”

Maggie felt her lips quirk. In many ways, she still felt like a lost twenty-two-year-old looking for answers.

“And get this. I think he’s couch surfing. The kid let it slip that his parents don’t live in town anymore. I asked around, and it sounds like the dad left town a few years ago, and the mom was wanted for some kind of half-assed identity theft scheme and left about a month ago.”

“He’s homeless?”

“And practically orphaned. He’s your people,” he said.

“We’re gonna have to do something about that. Good thing I have a seven-bedroom house.”

“You can’t stay there alone with him.”

“What is this, eighteenth-century London? Is my reputation that fragile?”

“I’m just saying. Word gets out that you’re shacking up with an eighteen-year-old guy, and people are going to say stupid things.”