Later, Charlie had every intention of calling them both out on their cowardice. Right now, she let them run—exchanging a quick kiss with Graham as he passed her on his way to the door. When it was just the two of them, she crossed to sit beside Allie on the sofa, sliding into Katie’s spot because Graham’s wasn’t hers to take.

Half-dismantled wooden train tracks made a figure eight between the overstuffed sofas. Plush animals had been piled high on one of the two matching chairs, folded laundry on the other. Four loaves of zucchini bread cooled on a rack on the kitchen counter and a pile of zucchini still to be dealt with had been stacked on the enormous dining room table. Kitchen, living room, dining room, all one big room with nowhere to hide. Although, in fairness, if Allie were really angry, there was nowhere in Calgary to hide.

Bare feet on the edge of the coffee table, Allie grabbed a throw cushion and clutched it to her stomach. “I’m not mad,” she said, fingers picking at a bit of scorched fabric.

“You threw a piece of apple pie at my head. Sorry, two pieces.”

“I’m not mad anymore.” She flicked a bit of charred fluff out from under her fingernails. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want an explanation.”

“For?”

“Hanging up. Blowing me off to go to a bar. For not being there when I needed you.”

“Allie . . .”

“A better explanation than I’m Wild, Charlie, because that’s not an explanation, that’s an excuse!”

She hadn’t been ready to come home. She hadn’t wanted Allie to talk her into it. If she was to go home, she’d go because it was her choice because she was Wild, damn it. And yes, she had other reasons, but they were her reasons and none of Allie’s business.

Charlie searched for an explanation Allie would accept and found, “I had to banish a shadow from a cemetery.”

Gray eyes narrowed. Well, technically gray eye because Charlie was looking at Allie’s profile, but she assumed they still worked as a pair. “You were already on your way home, then. Go back to hanging up on me and try again.”

“There was bouzouki music.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s like a mandolin on steroids.”

“What is?”

“A bouzouki.”

“I still don’t know what that means, but go on.”

Before Charlie could explain, or even work out what exactly the explanation was beyond I heard bouzouki music and I followed it, her phone rang.

“That’s a classic ring,” Allie pointed out as Charlie ran for the gig bag she’d hung by the door and rummaged in the outer pockets. “No appropriate, ironic, and/or sarcastic music?”