Jenks snickered and Ivy flicked a glance at him. “We don’t need one for me,” she said.

“Write it out and post it by the phone,” I said casually. “I’ll do the same.” I was halfway kidding, but I wondered if in all her anal-retentive glory she just might do it.

Saying nothing, Ivy, not content to let the glasses and plates drain by themselves, began to dry them. I crunched my gingersnaps, watching her shoulders ease and her motions lose their hair-trigger quickness. “You were right,” I said, thinking I owed her at least that much. “I’ve never had anyone I could count on before.…” I hesitated. “I’m not used to it.”

Ivy turned, surprising me with the relief in her stance. “Hey, don’t sweat it.”

“Oh, save me,” Jenks said from the utensils rack. “I think I’m going to puke.”

Ivy snapped her towel at him, her lips quirked in a wry smile I watched her closely as she went back to drying. Keeping calm and compromising made all the difference. Now that I thought about it, compromising had been how we got through our year working together. It was harder, though, to keep my cool when I was surrounded by all her stuff and none of mine. I had felt vulnerable and on edge.

“You should have seen her, Rachel,” Jenks said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “Sitting day and night at her maps to find a way to get you free from Trent. I told her all we had to do was keep watch and help if we could.”

“Shut up, Jenks.” Ivy’s voice was suddenly thick with warning. I shoved the last cookie in my mouth and rose to throw the bag away.

“She had this grandiose plan,” Jenks said. “She swept it up from the floor when you were showering. She was going to call in all her favors. She even talked to her mother.”

“I’m going to get a cat,” Ivy said tightly. “A big, black cat.”

I pulled the bag of bread from the counter and dug the honey out from the back of the pantry, where I had hidden it from Jenks. Taking it all to the table, I sat and arranged everything.

“Good thing you escaped when you did,” Jenks said, swinging the ladle to send gleams of light about the kitchen. “Ivy was about to throw what little she has left after you—again.”

“I will call my cat Pixy Dust,” Ivy said. “I will keep it in the garden and not feed it.”

My gaze shifted from Jenks’s suddenly closed mouth to Ivy. We had just had a warm and fuzzy discussion without getting bit, vampy, or scared. Why did Jenks have to ruin it? “Jenks,” I said with a sigh. “Don’t you have something to do?”

“No.” He dropped down, extending a hand into the stream of honey I was drizzling on a piece of bread. He sank an inch from the weight, then rose. “So, you gonna keep him?”