Greek meant butter, butter, butter, and lots of nuts. She’d have to make phyllo sheets—a pain in the ass, but the job was the job. Honey, almonds, pistachios, walnuts, bread flour.

While she was at it, it wouldn’t hurt to list her staple bulk items, then the supplies she’d need to order soon from her wholesaler.

“Now this is the kind of work I want.”

She glanced up to see Del in the doorway. Full lawyer mode, she thought, with the tailored suit—charcoal with subtle pinstripes—the elegant tie in a precise Windsor knot, the serious leather briefcase.

“You can have it after you’ve been on your feet for ten hours.”

“Might be worth it. Is that coffee fresh?”

“Enough.”

He helped himself. “Parker said you should think sexy, weepy, or silly. Whatever that means.”

Movie night, Laurel concluded. “Okay. You want your cake?”

“No rush.” He stepped over, used her knife to spread some Camembert on a rosemary cracker. “Good. What’s for dinner?”

“You’re eating it.”

The faintest of disapproving frowns clouded his eyes. “You have to do better than this, especially after a ten-hour day.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Impervious to the sarcasm, he tried a slice of apple. “I could’ve brought you something since part of the ten’s on me.”

“It’s not a big deal, and if I wanted something, I could make it, or tug on Mrs. G.”

Just one of his girls, she thought as frustration simmered. “Somehow we grown women get through the day without you fussing over our nutritional choices.”

“Champagne ought to put you in a better mood.” He cocked his head to scan her lists. “Why don’t you do that on the computer?”

“Because I’m doing it by hand, because I don’t have a printer down here, and because I didn’t feel like it. What’s it to you?”

Obviously amused, he leaned on the counter, bracing on his forearms. “You need a nap.”

“You need a dog.”

“I need a dog?”

“Yes, so you’d have someone to worry about, fuss over, and order around.”

“I like dogs, but I have you.” He stopped, laughed. “And that really came out wrong. Besides, ‘fuss over’ is what grandmothers do, so it’s an inaccurate term. Worrying about you is my job, not only as your lawyer and a silent partner in your business, but because you’re my girls. As for ordering you around, that only works about half the time, but five hundred’s a damn good batting average.”

“You’re a smug bastard, Delaney.”

“Can be,” he agreed and tried the Gouda. “You’re a moody woman, Laurel, but I don’t hold it against you.”

“You know your problem?”

“No.”

“Exactly.” She jabbed a finger at him as she hopped off the stool. “I’ll get your cake.”

“Why are you mad at me?” he demanded and trailed behind her to the walk-in refrigerator.