Josh fried the chicken, set it to dry and reheated the glaze he’d made earlier. Shit. He’d been planning to grill the broccoli on the roof. Nah. Too much effort, and plus he wasn’t sure how clean that grill was . . . the last time he’d used it, he’d burned his clothes. Steaming the broccoli would be fine. Darius came into the kitchen, opened another bottle of wine—everyone was having some except Josh—and went back to the living room.

“It’s funny that you don’t drink at all,” Lauren had said once. “Most people have at least tried alcohol.”

“I don’t see a reason to,” he said. This was on their second date. She stared at him like he was an interesting riddle, her brows drawn, a faint smile on her lips, and he smiled back, his stomach thrumming with attraction and the strangest feeling . . . that he belonged with her. That they were meant to be together. That the flirty college girl cliché he’d first met a few years earlier had grown into something . . . more. Deeper. Wiser.

And maybe he’d gotten out of his own way, finally. He hadn’t allowed himself to have much fun in college, so focused on work, on making a difference, on being someone who mattered despite having a father who had never bothered to even learn his name. He had no room for anything else.

But that night, looking at her face, her pretty eyes the color of cognac or brandy, feeling like he belonged to her already, Josh decided he had plenty of room after all.

A sharp smell pierced his memories.

Fuck. The glaze was burning. He yanked the pan off the burner and flapped a dishtowel in the air so the smoke detector wouldn’t go off. Sarah leaped up from the couch to help, but it went off anyway, bleating his failure. Darius and Ken opened the windows, and Jen opened the door, and Pebbles whirled in circles, barking at the painful noise.

After an eternity, it stopped. Josh’s ears were ringing. The glaze was charred but still liquid.

“It’ll be fine,” Sarah said. “I mean, who doesn’t like a little scorching? Seriously, it smells even better.”

She really was a good person. “Thanks, Sarah.”

She lowered her voice. “Hang in there, buddy. We won’t stay long.”

He looked at her, surprised that she’d read his mind. “That obvious?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry. Ken’s nice, by the way.”

“He is. Very . . . energetic. Not that way. Well, maybe he is. I don’t know. We haven’t . . . I’ll stop talking.”

He nearly smiled. “Why don’t you herd everyone to the table?” he asked, and she did. He put the chicken on the rice, drizzled the blackened sauce over it. He’d made too much, and some slopped over the edge. He added sesame seeds. Lauren had loved this dish.