His phone pinged, and he held up a finger as he pulled it out. Two parallel grooves appeared on his forehead as he scanned the screen. “I need a minute. Do you mind if I step outside?”

“Not at all. I’ll clean up our snack.”

They both rose, and he headed for the front door. Let himself out.

Christi carried their dishes to the sink, pausing to watch Hannah interact with the taciturn pelican. He wasn’t flying away, but he wasn’t getting any chummier either.

A metaphor for Jack.

She wasn’t going anywhere, though—and once they had the masterclass situation resolved, she would do her best to convince him once and for all she was worthy to be his friend.

If not much, much more.

25

Cell in hand, Jack left Christi’s porch behind, strode to his Jeep, and slid behind the wheel—where he’d be less exposed if she decided to check on him.

Because he wasn’t going to respond to the text, despite his implication. It wasn’t urgent. But the timing had been providential, giving him an excuse to get away from a situation he wasn’t ready to address.

Same strategy he’d used to buy himself a few minutes to decide what to do the morning he’d found her trespassing here.

He tightened his grip on his phone and expelled a breath.

Running away was getting to be a bad habit.

If he didn’t want to participate in the festival, he should say so. He didn’t have to explain why, no matter how hard she pushed. He was a cop, for crying out loud. Used to taking control of high-pressure situations. Dealing with this should be a piece of cake.

Too bad it wasn’t going down as easily as Eleanor’s fudge cake had.

He tapped a finger against the steering wheel and watched two seagulls circle over the cottage.

The truth was, he was no more confident of his resolve to say no than he was of his ability to teach paying customers how to write a book.

But he couldn’t hide out here forever—much as he wanted to.

Psyching himself up to deal with whatever recruitment persuasion she employed, he left the Jeep and returned to the house.

Christi was still tidying up in the kitchen, and she offered him a tentative smile. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like a refill?” She indicated his mug on the counter.

“Sure.” Another shot of caffeine couldn’t hurt.

She crossed to the coffeemaker. “I expect Saturday-night calls aren’t all that unusual in a job like yours.”

She’d assumed the call was work-related.

No reason to tell her otherwise.

“More unusual than not in a town the size of Hope Harbor—but they can happen.”