He was overly confident in a way that Charlie found grating—much like Austin, come to think of it. The “good old boy” sort who always acted like he was performing for a crowd. The sort Charlie had no time for. She was glad Cass had come to her senses; she couldn’t have imagined Brett as her brother-in-law. Not that Charlie was any sort of expert in the romance department: she’d been on a handful of dates in L.A., and had been in a brief relationship with a fellow chef at Souci that had fizzled out before anything got serious. Ultimately she didn’t have the time to juggle work and dating, so mostly she didn’t bother.

Brett engulfed Charlie in a stifling hug and she stiffened, her arms still by her sides.

Brett released her finally, then he pulled back and gave her a curious look. “Did you change your shampoo? You smell different.”

“Uh, yeah. Ran out, so this is a new bottle.” Charlie shrugged. It was becoming clear that swapping identities with her twin might be more complicated than she’d considered.

“Hey, what happened here?” Brett was now holding Charlie’s arm, running his fingers over the bandage on her wrist that covered her tattoo.

“Oh,” Charlie said. “A small burn from earlier.”

“You should have someone take a look at it,” Brett said. Charlie pulled her arm out of his grasp.

“No need. I know how to take care of myself.”

“My poor Cass-baby.” Brett rubbed a hand up and down her back, and Charlie tried not to shudder. It reminded her of the way Austin would rub her shoulders after long days on set—without her permission—when he was trying to disarm her, playing the part of caring, sensitive co-host. “What happened?”

Charlie shrugged, shifting slightly away so he would stop touching her. “Just burned some of the sourdough.”

“That’s not like you,” Brett said. Then, more quietly, “I’m sure you’re upset about last night. But I’m not mad, babe.”

She somehow held back the flurry of things she would have liked to unleash on Brett. “I’m good. Better than good, actually. I’m fantastic.”

Charlie moved behind the bakery counter and away from Brett, opening one of the cardboard boxes. “I need to pack this up for the crew. Hey, Jake?” she called out. He popped his head back through the doorway. “A little of everything?”

Jake nodded, walking back inside. “That would be great.”

Brett seemed oblivious to Charlie’s disdain and made no move to get out of her way. Charlie had strict rules about her workspace, and she knew Cass was the same; they had been well taught by their father. “A chef’s domain should always be free of clutter, mess, and anyone who doesn’t understand the art of the work,” Thomas Goodwin liked to say. Though he had worked in top-ranked Zagat restaurants before they were born, their dad always seemed happy with small-town life, much like Cass.

Now Brett stood behind Charlie, peering into the ovens, then at the blackened loaves in the sink. He whistled. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse than some burned bread.”