All right, that was adorable. The thought of torturing Hank was strangely enticing. “So I shouldn’t tell her that I have F-R-O-Z-E-N on DVD—” She cut off, breaking into laughter at the sharp look Hank cast her way. “Okay, okay.” She laughed.

He leaned in close to her. “It’s all fun and games until you hear ‘Let It Go’ sixty times a day from a four-year-old who only knows one line.”

She burst into giggles. Why was this the most charming, most heartwarming thing ever? Why did it make her ache with affection for both of them?

“You’re stalling,” Hank told her after a moment, pushing a pat of butter around in the skillet. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to.”

Was she stalling? She probably was. Becca took a deep sigh, bracing herself.

“Painful?” he asked.

She nodded. It still felt like an aching, open wound sometimes. There were a lot of feelings packed into her relationship with Greg, but a lot of what was left was shame. Shame that she’d been led on and betrayed by the person she’d loved the most in the world. Shame that everyone knew about it. Shame that she hadn’t been enough for him, and it was somehow her fault.

“Want to take a shot?”

A shot? “I don’t have alcohol.”

He nodded and pulled a small glass flask of amber liquid from a back pocket. “Brought you something.” He took out a glass from her cabinet and then poured a half inch or so into the bottom. The liquid was thick and rich and looked strong as hell.

“Drink up,” he told her, holding it out.

Okay, maybe she did need a shot. Becca took the glass and took a hefty swig—and choked. “Is this maple syrup?”

“Well . . . yeah.” Hank gave her a sly grin. “You needed a distraction.”

She sputtered, coughing. She’d just taken a shot of liquid sugar, and her mouth felt like it was utterly coated. He just grinned at her, delighted, and her coughing turned into laughter. This really was the most ridiculous situation.

Shots. Maple syrup shots.

“Something tells me there’s no alcohol in that,” she managed, wheezing.

“Of course not. I’m driving my daughter home later.” He pointed at her fridge. “And you have nothing but heavily processed syrup. That stuff’s terrible. I thought I’d bring you some real stuff.”

Becca chuckled again and set down her glass. “You’re a strange man.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes you get bored in the long winters up north. You learn to amuse yourself.” He glanced over at her again. “You feeling better?”