He gazed around. “I don’t know. A few more days like this and we’ll be okay. We made a lot of progress.” He leaned forward and reached out his hand. “You have a—” He swiped at her cheek. “A little something.”

She lifted her hand, accidentally bumping his arm as she tried to wipe her face herself. “Oh, thanks. I got it.”

Ash dropped his hand to his side, berating himself for reaching out and touching her like that. He had no right.

“So,” she said, peeking at the clock on the wall. “You get any writing inspiration with all this thinking time?”

He frowned. The only thing he’d been thinking about the last two hours was how to avoid Kincaid. “Not really. My brain was probably clogged with dust.”

“So you’re not going to write tonight?” she asked, head tilted, something unreadable in her eyes.

The thought made him want to groan. He hadn’t written a word in weeks. He feared he had no good ones left. He was fucking empty. Usually he pulled inspiration from wherever he was setting up shop at the time. His settings were as much a part of the story as the characters. An old bookshop in the town he hated didn’t make for inspiring thriller writing. “Don’t think so. Just going to order a pizza and watch some TV.”

“All by yourself?” She wrinkled her nose.

Kincaid had never quite understood anyone’s need for solitude. Frankly, he was shocked that she was living alone these days. He’d have expected her to be married with a house full of kids by now. Or at least have a few roommates. She’d always craved people, activity, lots of energy around her. Being an only child with her mother gone most of the time had been like sticking a flowering plant in a dark closet without a chance for sun. But he suspected her solo state had a lot less to do with her personality and a lot more to do with her past.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“Nope.” She put her hands on her hips, her on-a-mission face making her chin tip upward. “You should come out with me and my friends. We’re going for drinks and listening to my friend Taryn perform at a little bar.”

He fought back a wince. “Uh, no, that’s okay. I really am exhausted.”

“Ash Isaacs.” She stepped forward, a sparkle in her eye. “You’re still a party pooper after all these years?”

“It’s called introverted, Kincaid. In-tro-ver-ted,” he said patiently. “I like to be alone.”

“This is not about wanting alone time, and you know it. This, what you’re doing”—she waved a hand in front of him—“is called brooding, cupcake. You’re post-breakup. Brooding does no one any good. You’re like half a second away from getting a gallon of ice cream and watching Nora Ephron movies.”

He lifted a brow. “You do realize I’m a guy, right?”

“Fine. A bucket of wings and a Star Wars marathon? A large pizza and porn?”