He held up both palms. “Don’t stab me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” I cut two large wedges and covered them with foil. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He accepted the plate from me. Paused. “Jo—”

“Am I interrupting something?” Amy asked from the doorway.

“No.”

“Yes,” Trey said at the same time.

I scowled at him. “What do you need?” I asked Amy.

“Oh.” She took a step forward, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “I just wanted . . . I came in for . . .”

“More pie?” I asked.

“Whipped cream.”

“In the fridge.”

Trey shifted out of her way. She grabbed the bowl and left.

“Why don’t I swing back later?” Trey said. “Take you out for a drink.”

I raised an eyebrow. “There are actually bars open in Bunyan on Thanksgiving Day?”

“There’s Alleygators.”

A dive bar on the river near the trailer park. “Ha. No, thanks.”

His mouth curved. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Please. I live in New York. I can take care of myself. Which means I’m not hanging out with the drunk and desperate on a holiday weekend.”

“We can go to my house, drink up Granddad’s whiskey.”

I crossed my arms against temptation. “I really should stay home tonight.”

“Tomorrow.”

He was too used to getting his own way. And too old for me to let him get away with it anymore. “I go home tomorrow. Back to New York,” I added, in case it wasn’t clear to both of us that’s where I belonged.

“So soon?”

Not soon enough. “I have to work.”

“I’ll see you at Christmas, then.” Trey moved in. Mr. Smooth. This time I didn’t turn my head fast enough. His kiss landed squarely on my mouth. His warm lips lingered. Whispered. “It’s no good you trying to avoid me, Jo. I’ve got my eye on you.”

I laughed and pushed him away. “You are so full of it. I am not avoiding you. I have things to do, that’s all.”

He continued to smile, his dark eyes somber. “That’s what you always say.”

Boy, did that bring back memories.

Junior year. Trey sprawled on my narrow dorm bed, six feet of lean, frustrated male.

“Come on,” he wheedled. “They’re showing The Half-Blood Prince at the auditorium tonight.”

I hunched over my laptop. “I have to finish this paper.”

He unfolded from the bed to read over my shoulder. “‘Love and gluttony in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.’ Aren’t you acing that class anyway?”

“So?”

“So you can afford to slack off. It’s one paper out of thousands.”

Right. Easy for him to say. Trey had charm, he had his grandfather’s money, he had a job waiting for him when he got out.

I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out how to swing grad school without asking my parents for help. My only hope was to earn a fellowship.

“No, I can’t. This is due tomorrow. Why don’t you ask . . .” I tried to remember the name of his current flavor of the month. “Brittany to go with you?”