“I’ve got a weakness for a good piece of cherry pie.” Once he’d set the coffee to brew, he stepped over to her counter, scanned it. “You use actual lemons for the lemon meringue?”

“Well, they were out of mangoes.” She glanced at him as she added ice water. “What else?”

“You know that little box with a picture of a slice of pie.”

She unbent enough to laugh. “Not in my kitchen, friend. Juice and rind from actual lemons.”

“How about that?” He poured the coffee, then poked in a cupboard. “Hey, Pop-Tarts. Is it going to bother you if I watch?”

Stumped, she stopped what she was doing to stare at him. “You want to watch me make pies?”

“I like seeing how things work, but I can take off if I’m in your way.

“Just don’t touch anything.”

“Deal.” He took a seat on a stool on the other side of the counter.

“Do you cook at all?”

He ripped open the Pop-Tart package as he spoke. “When I first took off for L.A., it was learn to put food together or starve. I learned. I make a damn good red sauce. Maybe I’ll put that together tonight, especially if the rain keeps up.”

“Mac claims it’s clearing.”

Mal glanced out at the thin, steady rain. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s what I said.” She picked up the rolling pin—a good marble one she knew Del had bought with her in mind. It made her feel small about jumping down his throat.

A sigh escaped as she flour-dusted her board.

“It’s hard to be rich.”

She looked up, stared again. “What?”

“Harder to be poor,” he said in the same easy tone. “I’ve been both—relatively—and poor’s tougher. But rich has some baggage with it. I was doing okay in L.A. Steady work. I built up a rep, and I had a decent cushion when I got hurt doing that gag. That put the brakes on the work, but they ended up dumping a shitpile of money on me for my trouble.”

“How bad were you hurt?”

“Broke a few things I hadn’t broken before, and a few more I already had.” He shrugged it off as he bit into the Pop-Tart. “Point is, by my standards anyway, I was rolling in it. A lot of other people figured the same, and that they could do some rolling, too. Mice come out of the woodwork looking for a nice bite of the cheese, then they get nasty if you don’t share, or share enough to their way of thinking. Gave me a whole new perspective on who and what mattered, and who and what didn’t.”

“Yeah, I guess it would.”

“Del’s always had the rolling in it, so it’s some different for him.”

She stopped rolling. “You were listening?”