“I took it out on a wall. Instead of talking it out or burying it down deep like a normal adult,” she argued.

And that was the other part of it, he realized. She was mad and disappointed in herself for being mad. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and give her something else to think about. But that wasn’t what she needed.

“What?” she asked, looking at him.

“Just thinkin’ how cinematic it would be if I kissed you right here. Right out of a damn movie.”

“Yeah, until we lose our balance and fall…” She peered down, gauging the drop. “A hundred feet or so.”

“But what a way to go. Come on, slugger,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders and guiding her onto the path. “I’m going to introduce you to the best finger steaks you’ve ever had.”

She was frowning but didn’t pull away from his touch. “Considering I don’t know what a finger steak is, that probably won’t be difficult.”

Then she slipped her arm around his waist, and Silas decided life was pretty damn perfect.

“Do you put fry sauce on finger steaks?” Maggie asked.

Maggie Nichols: Finger steaks and fry sauce with a lakefront view! Have you tried them?

12

12

It was stupid to be nervous. This wasn’t an actual, real date. Was it?

Maggie surveyed her limited wardrobe and wondered exactly what the hell she was supposed to wear. T-shirts, tank tops, work pants, and gym shorts mocked her. The meager space required to house everything she wore on a regular basis made the bedroom closet seem cavernous.

She used to own date clothes. She used to be a person who went places, did things, saw people. Those clothes were most likely packed away in the storage unit in Seattle along with the furniture from the condo she’d sold…God. Had it really been two years ago already?

After flipping properties in Seattle for a few years, she’d decided to take the show on the road, literally. She’d planned on finding another home base, then forgotten, finding it easier to shorten the time between projects instead. Time spent not working was time spent not bringing in money.

Had she been “homeless” for two years? Just a storage unit and a post office box that one of her—or more accurately, Dean’s—friends checked once a month.

She unearthed a pair of clean jeans and committed on the spot. Remembering the ivory, off-the-shoulder sweater that she hadn’t been able to resist in Portland, she pounced on her suitcase. Behind it was a mangled men’s sneaker, a pink bandanna, and a sandwich wrapper. Kevin the therapy school dropout dog had been foraging again. Yesterday on the third floor, she’d discovered the bottom drawer of a heavy dresser open. Tucked inside was the dog’s new squeaky toy hammer and three pencils.