“Meg,” Dani interrupts, poking her head in from the kitchen. “I heard from a little birdie that you found a place to stay!”

Meg props a fist on her waist. “I did! Does your birdie happen to be a strapping six-foot-something bearded carpenter sort?”

Dani blushes. “Maybe.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I was a little concerned he was going to change his mind after I asked if he wouldn’t mind me painting the bedroom something ‘not taupe.’”

Dani smirks. “You’ll be good for him, Meg. He can use the shake-up. I’ve known James a long time and consider him to be a very dear friend. I assure you he’s over the moon about having a niece. It’s like he’s been given a new lease on life. Truly.”

“Wait,” I say, catching up. “James James?” I look at Meg, taking in her face. Her blue eyes, her nervous smile. “Holy shit, your uncle is James McArthur? That means—”

“My dad was Andrew.” Meg finishes the sentence, and it sinks in and fills the space between us.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Andrew. The Drew. Drew had a kid.”

Meg flushes, and Dani motions for her to sit down. Maria is back to man the counter, and Meg circles around to sit on a stool next to me.

“Firstly, Dani, thank you for that. I feel the same. I’m looking forward to getting to know James more, and I’m so grateful to stay in his beautiful home.”

“He wouldn’t have it any other way. Trust me,” Dani says. “I have to head back over to relieve Duke.” She grabs a muffin. “Who will love you for this, by the way. I’m going to lose all my employees if you keep baking.” She looks meaningfully at me.

“Hey! It’s my day off!” I grumble.

“Of course, Micah. And you always come here on your days off.”

I open my mouth to respond with, What? “So, your dad,” I start instead. I try to remember what Meg told me that first night. “He met your mom at a youth conference?”

“Youth group conference.”

I groan sympathetically.

“I guess he used to play in a band?” Meg says.

I shrug, but it makes sense. “Probably. James leads the worship band at church.”

“He does?”

“Plays the guitar. Sings, too.”

“Huh. I sing,” she says. “At church. Or I did. My mom can’t carry a tune to save her life. I must get it from my dad.”

“I’d like to hear you sometime,” I say. I don’t know why.

This time, she shrugs. “Maybe. If I go to church.”

“Maybe if I go, too.”

She raises her brows at that. Touché.

“Did your mom ever tell him about you?”